Tales From My Chelsea Family Tree

Posted on December 15, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 14 December 2013.

As strange as it seems for me to write these words, this was only my sixth sighting of Crystal Palace as a Chelsea supporter. During my teens and ‘twenties when my ability to attend matches was hampered by lack of money, there were some teams that I wittingly or unwittingly avoided. Admittedly our paths didn’t cross every season, but given the choice of travelling up from Somerset to see the boys play Tottenham or Palace, there would have been only one winner. My first-ever game was an away encounter at Selhurst Park in the autumn of 1991; a dull 0-0. There has only ever been one other visit to Selhurst Park for me to see us play Palace; a pre-season friendly in 2003 when the Arthur Waite Stand was overrun with a huge Chelsea army excited at seeing one of the first games of the Roman Abramovich reign. In fact, another odd statistic; I’ve visited Selhurst Park on five occasions, but only two games have involved Palace. The other three games were against their tenants Charlton Athletic (1989) and then Wimbledon (1996 and 1999).

So, this would only be my fourth Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game at Stamford Bridge. I can remember the game in November 1992 when I watched on the Shed, uncovered, in spitting rain, with my mate Daryl. Our respective paths had crossed a year or so earlier as fans of baseball – the Yankees in particular, Daryl produced a Yankee fanzine and I contributed on occasion – but it only became apparent a year or so into our limited communication that we were both Chelsea fanatics. We arranged to meet up for a pint in The Black Bull before that game over twenty-one years ago and we have become the very best of friends since. I met Daryl’s brother Neil a month or so later for another game. It’s fascinating to me how these Chelsea friendships are forged. Daryl, Neil and I hope to celebrate our fiftieth birthdays watching baseball in New York in 2015. Meeting new fellow fans in that era was rare; at the time I usually travelled up from Frome by myself, meeting only Alan on occasion, and most commonly in the Black Bull. In those days, Gary used to call by occasionally. There were other acquaintances, but many have fallen by the wayside.

I remember introducing Daryl to Glenn at the Makita at White Hart Lane in 1993, then Alan a year or so later. For the 1994 F.A. Cup Final, Daryl and I watched the game together. The following season, we travelled to Prague and Zaragoza together. In Prague, we bumped into long-time Chelsea stalwart Andy from Nuneaton and friendships blossomed.

With each passing game, my number of match-going Chelsea mates grew one by one. One day I might sit down and type out a chronological chart of when friendships began.

A Chelsea Family Tree, if you will.

Glenn 1983.

Alan, Walnuts, Leggo, Mark and Simon 1984.

Gary 1988.

Daryl and Neil 1992

Andy and Neil 1994.

Jonesy and The Youth 1995.

Ironically, Daryl and Neil would not be in attendance for this one; instead, they were back in Guernsey to celebrate their father’s 70^th. birthday.

I collected Glenn (from 1983, though we first met in 1977) at 8.45am and soon picked-up Parky (2000) too. Glenn always berates me for not wanting to talk too much about the football on the drive to Chelsea, but on this occasion there was lots to talk about. Players were discussed, performances analysed, games examined. There was hope that we could despatch Crystal Palace and stack up three points ahead of the pre-Christmas showdown with Arsenal.

Before the usual pre-match in The Goose (a friend since 1999), all three of us made a quick pilgrimage to the “CFCUK” stall to purchase Mark Worrall’s new Chelsea book. Detailing the first ten years of “The Roman Years”, it contains many anecdotes from Chelsea regulars, a selection of photographs and a forward by Sir Frank Lampard. My small contribution details the day of Frank’s 202^nd and 203^rd goals at Villa Park.

“Only £16.99, HURRY UP.”

It was a lovely pre-match in The Goose. The Manchester City vs. Arsenal game was garnering a fair bit of attention and yelps of approval greeted the City goals. Some may say that a draw would be the best result, but I just wanted a heavy Arsenal defeat so that their season could start its inevitable implosion in December 2013 rather than March 2014. I personally think that the league is City’s to lose. Being brutally honest, if we are not to win it – a tough ask, let’s admit it now – I would rather the title ended up at City rather than Arsenal.

There was chat with Rob (2005), Sophie (2000), Barbara (2011) and Eva (2012). Tim (2009) and the Bristol Boys were nearby.

As the goals rattled in at Eastlands, the laughter increased. A great time.

Rob warned that although the Crystal Palace “ultras” come in for a lot of stick, they would make a lot of noise.

And fair play to them. This would be their first visit since they were gubbed 4-1 in the 2004-2005 Championship season – WHEN EVEN MATEJA KEZMAN SCORED TWICE – and I was sure they would enjoy their visit regardless of the result. I’ve lost count of the number of games I have seen this season when Selhurst Park appears to be rocking, yet the only fans seemingly involved are the little knot of 200 “ultras” in the bottom corner of the Holmesdale Road End. They appear to be “miked” too.

I mentioned this to Alan.

“Of course” he replied. “The TV love that, miking the fans that make a racket, making out the atmosphere is loud throughout the stadium.”

On ascending the steps to the upper tier, confirmation that two very late goals had been exchanged in Manchester.

City 6 Arsenal 3.

Let the implosion commence.

As we entered the seats, I was given a Christmas card from Joe (1997) who sits nearby with his son Gary. Joe is now eighty-five. We love him to bits.

There have been few Chelsea versus Crystal Palace “classics” but the one game that always seems to grab the attention of my generation came in 1976 during our F.A. Cup campaign. As a struggling Second Division team, we were drawn at home with Malcolm Allison’s Third Division Crystal Palace in the fifth round of the cup. This fixture really captured the imagination of the London public and, with Stamford Bridge’s vast terraces able to withstand the demand, over 54,000 attended. Sadly, we lost 3-2 but it is an afternoon that I can easily recount some 37 years later.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7M6pRs5PHF4

Just after the first two Palace goals, thousands of Chelsea teenagers can be heard singing “Chelsea aggro, Chelsea aggro, ‘ello, ‘ello.”

With Chelsea chasing the game, the atmosphere is clearly electric. The old Stamford Bridge, full to bursting, was a grand old stadium in its time. The sight of The Shed holding almost twenty thousand spectators is just gorgeous.

Peter Taylor went on to play for Tottenham. I never liked him.

I had a quick run through the team and two players stood out; Michael Essien, despite having a nightmare two weeks ago, was back alongside Ramires and David Luiz was partnering John Terry. Further forward, Juan Mata, Willian and Eden Hazard were asked to provide ammunition for the recalled Fernando Torres.

Very soon into the game, the three thousand Palace fans were working their way through their own very distinctive repertoire of songs. They were bellowing them out. It was pretty impressive stuff. Maybe I was wrong; maybe Selhurst is rocked by more than those two hundred self-styled “ultras” in that bottom left corner of their home end.

They taunted us : “Is this a library?” and then “Here for the Palace, you’re only here for the Palace.”

We replied : “Here for the season, you’re only here for the season.”

The away team were fighting for every ball under new boss Tony Pulis. However, after only a quarter of an hour, Willian sensed an opportunity to run at goal. His positive dribble took him close and he sent a low shot towards Speroni. The Palace ‘keeper’s dive turned the ball onto the post only for Fernando Torres to pounce on the rebound.

1-0 Chelsea

Alan and I did our usual routine.

You know the score.

Immediately after, the Palace fans ignored the deficit and rallied behind their team. Well done them. It reminded of us when we were…er…shit.

We then hit a little purple patch with some lovely play from a strong Torres run and then a Mata touch enabling Ivanovic to strike at goal. His shot scraped the far post. This was good stuff. Maybe more goals would follow. Even the home crowd were getting involved.

A London derby with noise. Just like 1976. Luvverly jubberly.

Until then, Palace had only enjoyed rare opportunities to attack. Sadly, just before the half-hour mark, a Palace move down our right resulted in a ball being whipped in for an unmarked Chamakh to volley home.

We fell silent and the Palace fans bounced in unison. It was a celebration typical of fans from Istanbul, not Croydon.

I turned to Alan : “I don’t care what anyone says. That’s impressive.”

Thankfully, we regained the lead soon after.

Eden Hazard, relatively subdued until then, glided past his marker and passed to an unmarked Ramires. Our little midfield dynamo looked up, aimed and fired a curler into Speroni’s goal.

2-1 Chelsea. Phew.

At the break, Danny Granville – Stockholm 1998 and all that – was on the pitch with Neil Barnett. Thousands upon thousands of new Chelsea fans in the West Upper scratched their heads.

In the second-half, Crystal Palace were clearly more aggressive than in the opening forty-five minutes. Our midfield were left chasing shadows and the frustration among the home support grew with each passing minute. Palace raided our goal, but thankfully neither Nicky Chatterton nor Peter Bloody Taylor was on hand to score. Petr Cech was able to smother and repel all of the efforts on his goal. Still the Palace fans sang.

Essien, though clearly not at his best, stayed on as Juan Mata was replaced by Oscar. Our chances had dried up and we were hanging on. Palace were surprising us all. There was a ridiculous scramble at The Shed End on seventy-five minutes, but continued shots at goal were thwarted by desperate defending by the Chelsea rear-guard. A header then flashed past the post. Cech’s goal was leading a charmed life.

And all around me, instead of generous support for Chelsea in our twenty minutes of need, there was little singing and little encouragement.

At one point, after a welcome period of positive Chelsea play, out of over one hundred spectators in our little section, Alan noted only Big John, Alan and myself clapped.

Welcome to Stamford Bridge 2013.

In the last ten minutes, Andre Schurrle replaced Willian and then Demba Ba replaced Torres. This really surprised me. Although there was little defensive options on the bench available to him, Mourinho chose to make offensive rather than defensive changes. Rather than bring on Lamps as extra cover, Jose chose other options. I quickly remembered an infamous game from only last season.

At Reading with us winning 2-1, Rafa Benitez replaced Torres with Ba rather than shore up the defence. We let in an equaliser.

At home to Palace in 2014, with us winning 2-1, Jose Mourinho replaced Torres with Ba rather than shore up the defence. I hoped there would be no equaliser.

Our nerves were jangling. We were still hanging on. There was still no noticeable show of support for the boys.

There were two late Chelsea chances at the Matthew Harding. The ball was played through towards Ramires but, with only Speroni to beat, the little Brazilian fluffed his kick. Whereas I sighed in silent frustration, I looked quickly to my left where there were howls of indignation and anger being aimed at Ramires by many in the MH Upper.

These fuckers had hardly sung a note of support for the team all afternoon, yet their faces were contorted with rage at Ramires’ miss and were heaping abuse towards our own players on the pitch below.

Soon after, another Chelsea chance came and went. There was an almighty scramble after substitute Schurrle played a lovely wall pass with Ba, but shot right at the Palace custodian. The rebound came to Ba, but Speroni again saved. A further rebound was sliced wide by the suddenly hapless Rami.

I grimaced as fellow supporters in the MHU spewed vitriol once more.

With four minutes of extra time signalled, I commented to Alan that we were still looking to attack. This was a very different approach to the Mourinho team of ten seasons ago when a tight, nervy game would be notable for ball retention among the back four rather than forward passes.

Despite one more Palace chance, we survived.

However, such was the dreadful atmosphere during the last ten minutes, it honestly felt like we had lost.

Tales From The Group Phase

Posted on December 14, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Steaua Bucharest : 11 December 2013.

When the European Cup became the Champions League over twenty years ago, Chelsea Football Club looked on from afar. Until that point, European football was a rare treat. However, within the football fan community, there was immediate disdain of the participation within it of league runners-up. The “Champions League” suddenly became a misnomer. Then, the cut-throat knock-out nature of the old competition was thrown away in favour of a mini-league format. Football fans, showing considerable unity throughout the continent of Europe, were again dismayed. Most saw its formation as UEFA appeasing the fat cats at the top table, virtually guaranteeing them all top level competition on an annual basis and staving off threats of a breakaway pan-European league. Since those days, Chelsea’s participation within the competition has been a regular event. This would be our eleventh season in a row. For us supporters, the real advantage of the Champions League group phase, played under lights in various degrees of midweek darkness every autumn, has been to pick and choose which of the three away games we are able to attend. Very often, the home games – especially on match day five or six – offer little distraction.

The Chelsea vs. Steaua Bucharest game, in itself our fourth match-up with the Romanians in nine months, was therefore hardly filling me with enthusiasm during the day. In fact, if truth be known, as the day progressed, I kept questioning myself as to why I was bothering to attend. Our passage into the last sixteen was already assured, there would be a tiring drive into London, probably a poor atmosphere, little drinking time before the game and a late finish in the small hours of Thursday morning.

I came to the conclusion that the main reason, on a personal level, was for me to witness – let’s hope – the immediate and entertaining upturn in our play since the Stoke City defeat on Saturday. I simply hoped for goals, attacking football and a reaffirmation of our collective love of Jose Mourinho.

A hope for better things.

A just reward for my Wednesday evening sortie into town.

It reminded of the days of following the club in the era, much doted upon by Chelsea supporters of a certain vintage, of “the drought” when we didn’t expect entertaining football at Stamford Bridge, or even a win, but we just attended games out of blind devotion and the hope, however small, that our patience would be rewarded with an entertainment-ridden goal fest.

Due to patchy fog in Wiltshire and traffic congestion in London, the drive to Chelsea took three full hours. Parky and I jostled into the boozer just after 7pm. There was a quick “hello goodbye” and then I was off with Alan to The Bridge. There was time to mull over a few talking points.

Within parts of the Chelsea fan base, there had been surprising reactions to the defeat at the Britannia Stadium. There was the call to move Petr Cech on and recall Thibaut Courtois. I found this to be rather harsh. At the Stoke game, he certainly erred for the first goal, but could hardly be held responsible for the others. There was also a desire among some fans for Mourinho to recall David Luiz; his errant behaviour, much-frowned-upon and castigated by many of those same fans, forgotten. There was even frustration with Mourinho himself.

My thoughts?

Chill.

We all know that this team, this squad even, is changing.

I’d rather have Jose in charge than anyone else.

Anyone.

That is not to say we should bow down and follow blindly. There is always room for opinion and debate. Even I have tired of Mourinho’s snipes at our strike force’s lack of goals. However, as always, there is a thin line between quiet and constructive criticism as opposed to loud and knee-jerk negativism.

Regarding the lack of goals from Fernando, Demba and Samuel, Alan wisely noted –

“We can’t win. We should be happy the goals are being spread out among the team. If only Torres or Eto’o was scoring, people would be bemoaning the lack of firepower from elsewhere.”

Football fans are never happy.

We were inside Stamford Bridge as early as 7.25pm and my immediate concern was the vast amount of blue seats clearly visible. By 7.45pm, my fears had subsided. It was yet another near full house for a Champions League night. Our support, often derided, should again be applauded. Steaua brought a full 3,000 in March; tonight it was around 2,000. As the teams entered the pitch, the away end was lit with the many lights from the travelling Romanians’ mobile phones. There were obviously Steaua fans in the East Upper too; lights there also.

Mark Schwarzer was in goal, Ashley Cole was at left-back, David Luiz was partnering JT, Frank was paired with Mikel in the anchor roles, Willian and Oscar recalled alongside Hazard, Ba upfront.

Chelsea began positively and a goal came under just ten minutes. Willian sent over a corner which was flicked on at the near post by Oscar and Demba Ba pounced.

Good start. Nerves settled. Let’s go to town.

Alas, the rest of the first-half offered little to cheer. In fact, Steaua could easily have levelled the score, only for Iancu to shoot wide. On several occasions, they worked the ball into our box but – thankfully – the ball tended to miraculously avoid an away player. Both Oscar and Hazard were quiet. Mikel had started poorly, managed to get himself booked, but then redeemed himself with a few cool pieces of play. At a Chelsea corner, I watched as an unmarked Lampard on the edge of the box signalled for the ball to be played out to him. The resultant volley was spectacular but was hit high of Tatarusanu’s bar.

Lots of huff and puff in the first-half, not much quality.

I noted that the scoreboard above the away fans was showing that Demba Ba had scored for Steaua and we were losing 1-0. I wondered if the work of Nicolae Ceausescu was still being done.

At half-time, a lovely moment.

Our much-loved former right-back / wing back / midfielder Dan Petrescu was given a lovely introduction by Neil Barnett. Dan was the first “foreigner” to play two hundred games for us. How we loved his shuffling style and his incisive passing. He was serenaded by Chelsea fans and Steaua fans alike. He played for Steaua in the 1989 European Cup Final versus the mighty Milan. I love it that he now manages Dynamo Moscow; a club forever linked with the history of Chelsea Football Club. At The Shed, he momentarily picked up a Steaua scarf and the away fans lapped it up.

Superb stuff.

That was probably the highlight of the night.

As the game restarted, a few fans in the Matthew Harding attempted to “get things going” and I, at least, joined in. But generally, it was quiet. There was not one single song from the 12,000 spectators in the West Stand. The Shed were quiet. It was one of those nights. I often wonder what a lost soul from the “drought years” would make of these European Nights at Stamford Bridge these days. What would an exiled Brit, maybe now living in Australia, returning to a revamped Bridge for the first time since 1990 make of it.

“Fackinell, I used to dream of nights like this at Chelsea. The stadium looks brilliant. Everyone close to the pitch. Flags everywhere. Loads of colour. Should be made for nights like this. But why is nobody fackin’ singing?”

There were few highlights in a very low key second period.

Ba had a great chance soon into the second period but blasted high.

Andre Schurrle, who had probably his best game in a CFC shirt in Bucharest, was introduced by Mourinho and soon enjoyed an impressive run at the heart of the Steaua defence. His direct play pleases me. On this occasion, he struck at goal and the rebound was headed over by Hazard.

Ba was played in and volleyed home, but was ruled offside.

As the match continued on, for once I was egging the clock to reach “90.”

Not to signify a Chelsea win, just for the game to end and for me to get home.

This was clearly a mediocre Chelsea performance. I sensed a great feeling of numbed disappointment in the lack of attacking verve rather than euphoria about cementing pole position in our group. There was little there for me to admire.

As I left the stadium, I walked around to touch the Peter Osgood statue; a bit of a superstition on Champions League Nights for me.

A quick touch of his right boot.

And thoughts of Athens, Istanbul, St. Petersburg, Milan and Leverkusen.

Tales From The Top Of The Hill

Posted on December 8, 2013 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 7 December 2013.

The alarm sounding at 6.30am and no need to use the “snooze button.”

The anticipation of one of my favourite away games of the season.

The simple pleasure of planning it all; the tickets, the timings, the travel plans, the pre-match, the buzz.

The fear of the day being memorable for arctic temperatures at the top of that ridge of land in Stoke-on-Trent.

The selection of the right mix of warm winter clothes.

The realisation that the away end at The Brittania Stadium will resemble “Chris Bonington Meets Milan Fashion Week.”

The Timberland boots, the CP pullover, the Victorinox coat.

The grey sky overhead and the surprisingly mild weather.

The smiles from Parky at 8.30am.

The familiar road north.

The memory of an away game at Stoke City during the promotion campaign of 1988-1989 when I managed to stave off tiredness following a night-shift and Chelsea midfielder Peter Nicholas was sent off after just five minutes but we still went on to win 3-0.

The memory of being in The Black Bull at Chelsea much later that same season and “Stoke Away” being cited as one of the best away games of that season.

The sight of Liverpool fans at Frankley Services.

The cloudy sky giving way to clear skies just as we passed through Birmingham and, with it, the likelihood of the temperature dropping.

The Brittania Stadium being spotted away on the hill to our right.

The town centre of Stoke.

The familiarity of my old college town.

The shops.

The pubs.

The accents.

The “Wrights Pies” shop.

The “King’s Arms”, now re-opened since the last time that I called by.

The pleasure of visiting my old local from that memorable first year at college in 1984-1985, which nicely coincided with Chelsea’s first season in the top flight since 1979.

The memory of catching early-morning trains down to The Smoke every few weeks and the rush of adrenaline as the train pulled out of Stoke-on-Trent station.

The excitement of away days to Liverpool, Manchester, Leicester, Glasgow, Sheffield, Birmingham, Coventry and all points north, south, east and west.

The first pint of the day in the “King’s Arms” and a toast to Parky, myself and each and every one of the travelling Chelsea army.

The gaggle of locals, obvious match-goers, and the knowing looks exchanged between Parky and myself.

The memory of match days in Stoke when their lads used to gather outside “Charlie Browns” before heading off for scuffles and fights.

The drive up the hill and a second pint in “The White Lion” amidst memories of a night out with some fellow Chelsea student friends on the eve of the Stoke City vs. Chelsea game in May 1985.

The memory of walking back down the hill, after last orders, and singing, shouting, bellowing, Chelsea songs out into the quiet Stoke night almost thirty years ago.

The sight of Ruud Gullit on TV talking passionately and respectfully about Nelson Mandela.

The first few minutes of the game from Old Trafford on TV.

The short drive to our anointed parking place on the slip road of the A500.

The fastening of coats, the wrapping of scarves, the slow trudge up the hill.

The footbridge over the Trent and Mersey Canal.

The “Oatcake” fanzine.

The sleek modern stands of the Brittania, glinting in the winter sun.

The away turnstiles.

The bag search.

The line for beer.

The wait inside for familiar faces.

The traditional “Stoke Away” habit of throwing beer up in the air amidst songs.

The sad realisation that I might be getting too old for all this.

The tedious “Ten German Bombers.”

The news, via text, that The Geordies were winning at Old Trafford.

The obvious and uncontrollable surge of schadenfreude.

The lack of faces that I know; just who are these people?.

The walk up the steps to the rear of the stand to join up with Alan and Gary.

The confirmation that Manchester United had lost at home again.

The dark clouds to my left.

The camera clicking into action.

The boisterous singing of the Chelsea choir overshadowing the home support.

The gaps in the home seats.

The full three thousand in the Chelsea section.

The recognition that a sore throat would probably hamper my singing throughout the afternoon.

The memory of last season’s game; Jonathan Walters.

The entrance of the teams to my left.

The red and white chequered flags of the local youngsters.

The colour, the noise, the spectacle.

The whistle.

The two teams lined-up in the centre of the pitch.

The minute of applause for Nelson Mandela.

The sight of Cesar Azpilicueta – standing alone – having a moment of quiet prayer.

The team.

The formation.

The defence.

The midfield three.

The recall of Andre Schurrle and Jon Obi Mikel.

The singing.

The packed away stand, everyone standing, everyone involved.

The shouts of encouragement.

The buzz of seeing Eden Hazard after his tantalising display in Sunderland on Wednesday.

The elation of seeing Andrea Schurrle twist one way and then another, teasing his marker into submission, before despatching a perfectly-placed bullet past Begovic in the Stoke goal.

The yelp of pleasure.

The noise from the away end; bollocks to my sore-throat, I’m joining in.

The ease with which Hazard receives the ball and touches it, caressing it, bringing the ball to life.

The piss-taking from the away end; “You’re Going Down With United.”

The movement from our attackers.

The industry of Schurrle.

The aerial battle between Crouch and Walters and Terry and Cahill.

The chances for Ramires, Mata and – almost – Torres.

The ease with which Chelsea dominated the first-half.

The thoughts of another easy win.

The late Stoke rally in the first-half.

The cross.

The Cech error.

The melee.

The scrambled finish from Peter Crouch.

The roar from the home fans.

The triumphant leap from Crouch.

The sense of disbelief in the away end at the break.

The porous nature of our defence at set-plays.

The sight of two middle-aged women – in other words, ten years older than me…at least, honest – in full blue Santa uniforms and those silly player face masks.

The rolling of my eyes.

The comment from Gary: “Did you get their numbers?”

The sight of Walters rampaging down our left and him getting some sort of retribution for his own personal hell last season.

The pass to Stephen Ireland.

The curling shot past Cech.

The phrase “warm knife through butter.”

The roar of the home crowd once more.

The moans in the away end.

The sad sight of Dave getting roasted at left-back.

The lack of cover in front of him.

The continued singing from the away fans.

The click of the camera as Andrea Schurrle despatched a lovely strike into the Stoke goal to level it at 2-2.

The joyous celebration of the goal by player and fans alike.

The image of a rollercoaster.

The industry of Torres and the lay-off for Schurrle and a dipping shot which crashed against Begovic’ bar with the ‘keeper well beaten and begging for mercy.

The substitute Demba Ba for Torres.

The miss of the match so far from Ireland, leaning back, the shot high.

The sight of Mark Hughes – Sparky – moaning at every Chelsea challenge.

The irony.

The home support roaring “Delilah.”

The “Willian Song.”

The black sky.

The double substitution of Eto’o and Lampard.

The passing of time.

The gnawing realisation that the longer it stayed level, the less time we would be able to react to a third Stoke goal.

The awareness that some things are best left unsaid.

The desperation, at times, in our play.

The poor ball retention of Ba.

The continual encouragement for our players.

The nerves torn.

The news that Liverpool had won 4-1.

The free-kick opportunity, with only a few minutes remaining, but the annoyance of it being “too central.”

The week shot by Frank directly at Begovic.

The sense of foreboding as Stoke broke down our left once again.

The sickening sight of Assaidi’s strike bending and zipping past Petr Cech.

The noise once more.

The silence in the away end.

The false hope of five extra minutes.

The final whistle.

The silent walk outside.

The locals happy.

The first Chelsea defeat at Stoke since 1974-1975.

The slow shuffle back across the footbridge over the Manchester to London railway line.

The crescent moon high to my left.

The smoke billowing out of the council incinerator to my right.

The familiarity of a Stoke evening.

The incoming texts.

The drive home.

The sore throat.

The inevitable moans – thankfully largely unseen and unheard – by Chelsea supporters everywhere.

The shrug of the shoulders.

The game against Steaua on Wednesday.

The story continues.

Tales From Third Gear

Posted on December 3, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 1 December 2013.

December was upon us and our first game in a very busy month involved the visit to SW6 of high-flying Southampton. The team from the south coast caused us huge problems during the two league games of the previous campaign, beating us 2-1 at St. Mary’s and earning a point in a 2-2 draw at Stamford Bridge. This would not be an easy game. After the very poor performance in Basel on Tuesday, another match could not come quickly enough.

However, although the minds of most Chelsea supporters were centred on the game, my build-up was focussed elsewhere. This game would mark the return to the fold of a good friend – one of the Frome Gang of Seven, then Six, then Five, then Four.

Paul – or PD – was back.

I first met Paul, famously – or infamously – on the train on the return trip from a famous – or infamous – away game at Cardiff in March 1984. After we drew 3-3 after being 3-0 down with just six minutes remaining, a couple of the Frome brethren had been arrested and there was talk in the crowded train compartment of the afternoon’s events. There was talk of “Daniels” and I wondered who this was. My Chelsea journey was in its infancy; these older lads had obviously been going to games for a few more years than me. I was all ears. Paul appeared at the door to our compartment wearing old school boots and jeans, maybe a green flight jacket, with cropped hair and a fearsome reputation that went before him. Soon after his appearance, the compartment was singing “Daniels Is Our Leader.” I was predictably impressed. Later that season, I travelled up with him in a car with three others for the decisive game with Leeds United.

Oh what a day that was.

Since then, there have been numerous Chelsea games in his company.

Sadly, in September 2010, Paul was involved in a horrific accident at work; he was working in one of the many tarmac gangs that have made my local town a veritable capital city for road resurfacing. There are many limestone quarries in the area – seen from the air, the local Somerset landscape is pot-marked by vast open areas of grey – and so, as a result, Frome is now home to hundreds of “Boys from the Black Stuff” who hurtle about the English countryside in teams, patching up roads and motorways with limestone. After the accident, Paul almost lost his leg and has not worked since. I have often bumped into him at the local football club, and he has often aired his yearnings to be able to return, one day, to Stamford Bridge.

Sunday 1 December 2013 was that day.

I collected PD at 9.30am and Lord Parky soon after.

The Boys from the Blue Stuff were soon on our way east.

There was a real sense of the Southampton fixture being a “must win” game for Chelsea to keep in touch with Arsenal. With a fixture at the Emirates looming large on the horizon, we needed to keep on their coat tails. And yet it got me thinking; surely this contravened my general, relaxed, thoughts about this being a transitional season where the league title might be beyond us. Was this game important to gain three points or to simply expunge the awful performance in Switzerland from our collective memory? Well, whatever it was, I guess it is human nature to want to win every game. The thought of losing to Southampton, not unfeasible in the current “will the real Chelsea please stand up?” climate, and therefore allowing Arsenal to remain seven points clear, made me anxious.

In fact – and I am sure I am not alone – the thought of Arsenal winning the league, after their much-scorned period of drought, made me feel nauseous. In comparison, a league win for either of the two Manchester teams seemed to be the far more palatable option should Chelsea falter. This wasn’t an exact science though; if questioned, I am sure that I dislike United more than Arsenal.

“Oh boy. Weird this football lark, innit?”

At 12.30pm I deposited PD and Parky in The Goose, where I knew that they were in for a warm welcome. I headed on to Stamford Bridge where, for the first time this season, I popped in to the megastore to buy a few Christmas presents. I was pleased to be able to collect the new, full game DVD of Munich.

Ah, Munich. Just the name, just the name.

By the time I had met up with the boys in the pub, Manchester United had dropped two welcome points at Tottenham. Soon after, the Hull City vs. Liverpool game was on the TV screens. We ignored the game and just chatted. My mate Foxy, who I had last met up with on a trip to Scotland a mere fortnight previously, soon appeared with his son Ricky. But the day was all about PD really; there were hugs a-plenty for him. It was great to see.

By the time we had walked down to the stadium, Liverpool had conceded a third goal at the KC Stadium and things were looking up. With points being dropped by United and Liverpool, a Chelsea win would be a magnificent winter warmer on this cold December afternoon.

PD took his seat next to Alan and me. This was another full house with hardly any empty seats. Southampton had around 1,500 and one paltry flag. I soon spotted Foxy and Ricky in the front row of The Shed. And there was Parky a few yards away.

Everyone in. Everyone ready.

A quick scan of the team; surprisingly a start for Michael Essien, the “three amigos” of Hazard, Oscar and Mata were reunited, no place for Sir Frank and Fernando Torres recalled. Still no Luiz.

Was Southampton’s goal by Jay Rodriguez the fastest-ever goal at Stamford Bridge in 108 years? Surely, there couldn’t have been many that were quicker. A terrible intervention by Michael Essien had spun the ball into the path of the Southampton striker, who slotted the ball past a stranded Petr Cech. The 1,500 away fans boiled over in jumping, leaping ecstasy.

With the Stamford Bridge crowd stunned into an eerie silence, Chelsea encountered a horrible first-half malaise; was it a hangover from Basel, one of the most lack-lustre performances that I can ever remember? We played in a fog of self-doubt and faltering confidence, with little movement, and a dearth of crunching tackles in the midfield and penetration up front. There was, again, a distinct unwillingness by key players to take hold of the game by the horns. Too often players played the ball to a disadvantaged team mate, eschewing responsibility, rather than create with their own skills. Oscar was very quiet and Mata peripheral. Hazard showed willing, but there was little movement off him.

A strong Torres run into the box at least showed willing and desire.

Southampton, to their credit pushed us hard, closing us down, putting pressure on us. As PD commented:

“Just like Mourinho likes us to play.”

However, Cech was largely untroubled despite Southampton’s persnickety persistence. We had no more than a few half-chances as the afternoon grew darker.

It saddens me to report that Michael Essien endured his own personal nightmare. His unfortunate error in the build-up to the Southampton goal aside, his play was strewn with passing errors, poor tackles and – worst of all – he often found himself out-muscled as he tried to retain possession. I felt for him. The biggest ignominy of all? A silly dive – simulation as it is called these days – after he had lost possession. He was rightly booked.

Two late chances in the first-half were the highlights of the entire first period. On forty minutes, Torres did ever so well to retain possession and battle off a defender and dig out a cross for Oscar but his header was right at Boruc. Soon after, there was a superb Boruc one-handed save from a Torres header.

Oscar fell injured and was replaced by Frank Lampard; so much for a day off, eh?

I’m also sad to report that there were – of course! – boos at half-time.

It dawned on me that I have an increasing, festering dislike for many of my fellow fans. To my annoyance and consternation, I have almost given up trying to support the team during those times when The Bridge is silent. Even only five years ago, I would try to rally the troops around me, but what is the point? What is the bloody point?

With every passing season, the atmosphere at home games decreases.

How far have we fallen? Let me give a quick illustration.

Way back in 1992, with Chelsea enjoying a little run of form under Ian Porterfield and in the top six of the table, we met Southampton at home on Boxing Day. In 1992-1993, I largely travelled to games alone and only met up with Alan by chance. I had just recently learned to drive the previous season and so was enjoying my new found freedom; it was, in fact, the first Boxing Day game I had ever seen at Stamford Bridge. I was well aware that there were plans to remodel Stamford Bridge and so I had decided to take my father’s rather large camcorder to the game and capture some of the day’s events on film, aware that The Bridge might soon be changing its appearance. I have rather grainy footage of the old Fulham Broadway station, early-morning risers walking past the old souvenir shops on their trudge to the forlorn entrance to the West Stand, all corrugated iron and ancient turnstiles. The main forecourt is captured, quiet, awaiting the day to unfold.

I managed to smuggle the camcorder inside and capture several moments of the actual game. I was sitting halfway back in the East Stand. Our football that season was rudimentary stuff. We often played with Tony Cascarino and Mick Harford in the team. It was direct and far from pretty. However, most tellingly of all, the video film from almost twenty-one years ago shows repeated evidence of honest and heartfelt clapping, encouragement and applause at every single worthwhile Chelsea attack.

The ball is played up for Graeme Stuart to run on to? Shouts of encouragement.

The ball goes off for a throw-in near the Southampton goal-line? Widespread clapping and applause?

A pleasing period of play involving Dennis Wise and Andy Townsend? More encouragement.

The difference between 1992 and 2013 is galling.

At half-time, I returned to my seat and spotted Neil Barnett on the pitch with an elderly gentleman in a gabardine coat. It was John Payton, apparently our oldest-ever former player at ninety years old. I can’t lie; it is not a name that I am familiar with. In a strong Scottish accent, he encouraged the crowd to get behind the players in the second-half and pleaded for us to make some noise. The response from the docile crowd annoyed him.

“Well, that’s not much of a roar.”

I knew how he felt.

No surprises – Demba Ba replaced the struggling Michael Essien.

I hate using clichés, but this was obviously a case of a “game of two halves.”

The crowd, thank heavens, seemed immediately more energised as we upped our play. A Frank Lampard free-kick was well saved by Boruc.

On fifty-five minutes, a Juan Mata corner was aimed high and Brana leaped to force a header back in towards goal. Demba Ba lunged at the ball and it bounced up and off a post back into the six yard box. Gary Cahill, falling, did ever so well to contort and twist his body to head the ball in.

The Bridge roared. Back level.

Gary raced away and milked the applause down below me.

There was noise – proper noise – at last.

“And it’s super Chelsea – super Chelsea F.C.”

Boruc injured his hand and was replaced by Gazzaniga.

Six minutes later, Juan Mata played a ball into the box. With the camera to my eye, I saw a body rise and loop a header up and over the substitute ‘keeper. I clicked just as the ball was on its rise. The ball nestled in the goal. There was a loud yelp and a jump from myself. I let out a guttural scream.

“YES.”

I soon focussed on the player racing towards me and obviously realised that the scorer was JT. Until that point, it was all a mad blur. This was a very typical John Terry goal and it reminded me instantly of two similar goals at the same end, versus Barcelona in 2005 and versus Manchester United in 2009.

The emotion on our captain’s face was a picture. I photographed the scream, the shout, the slide.

Captain. Leader. Legs First Slider.

This was more like it, Chelsea. Southampton were tiring now and were soon chasing shadows as two sublime slide-rule passes from first Ivanovic and then Mata were played in, dissecting the Southampton defence.

Demba Ba added an extra dimension to our play and his strong run on seventy-one minutes was almost rewarded in a goal, but his shot was dragged wide.

PD kept saying “I’ve missed this.”

Fernando Torres worked tirelessly all afternoon and was replaced by Mikel late on. This was typical Mourinho. I approved. Rather than settling for a 2-1 victory, however, we continued to push forward.

On eighty-nine minutes, we witnessed great perseverance from Ramires as he fended-off tackles from three opponents, retained possession and, with a wicked turn, whipped in a lovely ball for Ba to prod in.

3-1.

At the final whistle, the poor first-half was virtually forgotten as we slowly made our exit out. “Blue is the Colour” was being played, John Terry and Frank Lampard were applauding the Chelsea faithful for our support and everything was well the world.

On the walk back to the car, PD and I quickly reviewed the race at the top of the table.

“I hate to say it, but Arsenal are flying. Can they keep it up, though? City are hot and cold. United too. Liverpool haven’t got enough depth. But we are in second place and yet haven’t even got out of third gear yet.”

“That’s right me zun.”

There is no trip to Sunderland for me on Wednesday but Parky and I have yet another jaunt up to The Potteries next Saturday. Stoke City is one of my favourite away games. However, I might have to rack my brains for new subject matter after five previous “Tales” involving “Stoke away.”

Oh no, wait – I have an idea.

Watch this space.

Tales From The Boleyn Ground

Posted on November 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2013.

As I drove in to London on the elevated section of the M4 motorway, I caught sight of the cluster of skyscrapers in the City, some five or six miles further east. London is neither Chicago nor New York, but I am always excited by the sight of the Nat West Tower, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin and The Shard. Within an hour or so, I would be beyond these monoliths to industry, trade and finance and I would be nestled in an East End hostelry. The journey to the nation’s capital had been quick and easy. The late autumnal gold and orange hues of the journey from Somerset contrasted with the light greys of the London afternoon. I was soon parked-up and quickly disappeared through the large and imposing art deco façade of Acton Town tube station. The District Line took me to Westminster, and from there the Jubilee Line snaked south, east and then north towards West Ham tube station.

A visit to Upton Park has never been an enjoyable trip for me; it is, undoubtedly, my least liked away game. Thirty years ago, the threat of violent acts was reason enough for me to be wary. The aura surrounding the tightly-knit ICF meant that a foray down Green Street was akin to walking the gang plank. Thankfully, those days have passed. Today however, there is still a general tawdriness about the locale which eats away at my enthusiasm on match days. In the violent ‘eighties, the away end was the infamous South Bank, now the site of the Bobby Moore Stand and the home supporters. My first two visits were horrendous affairs; a 5-3 loss in the early months of 1986-1987 and a 4-1 loss in the closing stages of 1987-1988. The latter game effectively saw us relegated. It was gut-wrenching stuff. Since then, my visits have been relatively rare and I’ve only started visiting Upton Park regularly over the past five or six seasons. In the years when I could only afford to go to five or six away games each season, Upton Park remained way down the pecking order. This would be my ninth visit.

Of course, with West Ham United soon to de-camp to the former Olympic Stadium in 2016, there will only be a few more trips to the scruffy, down-at-heel streets around the Boleyn Ground left. I’m not convinced that many West Ham fans are too enamoured with a move away from their spiritual home. It would be trite for me to say that I am not going to waste too much time concerning myself with what West Ham fans think, but we should all be wary about teams moving out of their historic homes into new stadia. I’d imagine that, given the choice, most Hammers would prefer to see Upton Park redeveloped rather than move a few miles north-west to Stratford. However, I am sure that the board members of Chelsea Football Club be watching with interest once West Ham United move in to their new luxurious residence in August 2016. The dream scenario for me would be for The Irons to be opening up in The Championship. In such circumstances, surely gates of 35,000 rattling around inside a sterile new stadium will be a nightmare for West Ham fans who, at times, used to produce an intimidating atmosphere in the tightness of Upton Park.

I’ll watch with interest to see how this stadium move eventually works itself out.

At just after three o’clock, I alighted at Plaistow tube station. In the ticket hall, I looked back west towards those tower blocks and skyscrapers of the City of London, the mid-afternoon sky darkening by the minute but with the slight tint of the first few moments of an eventual sunset. I soon joined up with a few fellow Chelsea mates who were drinking in “The Black Lion.” This was a first-time visit for me. Just inside the long narrow bar, Rob, Gary, Andy, Daryl, Walnuts, Dave, Steve and I spent an enjoyable ninety minutes, supping lager and sharing laughs. It goes without saying that none of us were marked as Chelsea supporters. We were a small Chelsea enclave in a hot bed of West Ham supporters. The boozer was crowded and the bar staff busy. We were in enemy territory. We kept ourselves to ourselves. We blended in well. Contrary to popular belief, the locals were neither happy, smiling Cockneys, prone to singing “Bubbles” nor psychopathic hoodlums. They seemed quite – whisper it – normal.

At just before 5 o’clock, we threw our jackets on and walked the best part of a mile east towards the ground. There was time for the briefest of chats with Gary about how watching England now disinterests both of us. In fact, International breaks tend to bore us all to death these days. I made the point to Gary that, seasoned football follower that I am, I find myself picking and choosing what aspects of the wide world of football I choose to pre-occupy myself with these days. To be blunt, I’d rather watch my local non-league team than the national team. I’d rather read a good book on football than watch a game on TV. I’d rather plan the next away day than bother listening to another Premiership team on the radio.

“Been there, seen that, got the replica shirt with number and player’s name.”

There was a brief “meet and greet” outside the away turnstiles with a few friends and this resulted in me missing the kick-off. By the time I had squeezed my way in to row N behind the goal, I’d missed the entrance of the teams and all of that “Pretty Bubbles In The Air” bollocks. I find that the away end at West Ham – formerly the Centenary Stand, now the Trevor Brooking Stand – is particularly shallow.

The first thing that hit me was how good we looked in the white / blue / blue. Next, I realised that Mikel and Ramires were in the holding positions and so this must mean that Frank Lampard was one of “the three.”

I’ll be honest; Frank has looked a little tired of late and so maybe Jose was risking it a little. Alongside Frank were Oscar and Hazard. At the back, JT was paired with GC again. After a couple of fine performances, Dave retained his place at left-back.

A quick scan of the West Ham team and it soon became obvious that Sam Allardyce was playing with no obvious striker.

The first-half began and it was a scrappy affair. A few Chelsea half-chances and a block from John Terry denied former Blue Joe Cole. Then, a silly and clumsy challenge by Jaaskelainen on Oscar resulted in a penalty to Chelsea.

At moments like that, how I wish I had put £20 on Frank to score first. True enough, with camera poised, up-stepped our leading goal scorer to blast high into the West Ham net. Frank couldn’t resist; he ran towards the spectators in the Bobby Moore, right arm lifted, and no doubt muttered a few personal epithets to the watching thousands.

Alan : “They’ll ‘Ave Ta Cam At Us Nah.”

Chris : “Cam Own Moi Li’ul Dimons.”

I even did a Cockney – arms in braces – victory jig.

To my right, the blue smoke from a flare billowed in and around the celebrating hordes.

Our play became more focussed and our goal scoring chances increased. We moved the ball intelligently and Frank Lampard found himself in acres of space in the middle of the park. He in turn moved the ball on to Eden Hazard, who flicked the ball into the path of a raiding Oscar. The away end were on tip-toes as our little Brazilian dribbled forward, with no West Ham defender able to shackle him, and we watched as he dispatched the ball into the goal, tucking it neatly just inside the left post.

We roared again.

The Chelsea fans around me had been in good voice for all of the first-half and we goaded the home fans further :

“We’re the only team in London with the European Cup.”

How I love that song…it was sung over and over and over.

And then, a song especially for West Ham’s most successful former player :

“Frankie Lampard – he’s won more than you.”

Just before the break, a sad sight. Joe Cole was substituted. I watched as he raced off the pitch. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who remembers Joe being hooked off at Fulham in 2006 after just twenty minutes by Jose.

A few hundred West Ham fans in the East Stand to our left decided to take on the might of the Chelsea away support by initiating a few songs aimed at us. One rather rotund West Ham fan was singled out and taunted :

“Gone for the salad. You should have gone for the salad.”

The first-half had been all Chelsea. There has to be one special mention for a great piece of defensive covering by Cesar Azpilicueta, who raced over from his left-back position to quell a rare West Ham attack. Top marks. The boy is doing well at the moment.

Soon into the second-half, a thunderous Gary Cahill header was hacked off the line by Mark Noble.

Then, a fine flowing move which involved an improving Eto’o, found Oscar unmarked on the far post but he volleyed over.

With the match seemingly safe, the three thousand Chelsea fans – all standing, of course – dipped into the pages of the travelling support songbook and created a roll-call for an assortment of much-loved former players. We began, as so often is the case, with a song – almost seasonal now – for Peter Osgood.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star, scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.”

Then, in a five minute period, the songs continued, praising several other Chelsea legends.

“Oh Jimmy, Jimmy – Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink.”

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Frank Leboeuf, Frank Leboeuf.”

“Eidur Gudjohnsen, Eidur Gudjohnsen.”

“Super, Super Dan – Super Dan Petrescu.”

“Oh Dennis Wise, scored a fackin’ great goal.”

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

Then, a song which brought a smile to my face.

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Joey Cole, Joey Cole.”

Although Joe has completed a full footballing circle now, from West Ham to West Ham, and although he joined Liverpool with a few disparaging comments aimed at Chelsea Football Club, he is still in our hearts. This was, to use the oft-quoted phrase, “Proper Chelsea” – singing the name of a rival player. In light of the abuse that Frank Lampard has received at the hands of the bitter followers of his former team, this made a refreshing change. I sincerely hope that Joe, showered and changed, was sitting within the stadium and was able to hear the words aimed towards him. As if to rub it in further, there was just time for one more.

“Joey Cole – he’s won more than you.”

The game continued on with Chelsea in the ascendency. Eto’o curled one just wide of the post. There was an air of relaxed calm in the away end, but I feared a West Ham goal might change things dramatically. West Ham substitute Maiga fluffed his lines at the far post and steered the ball wide when it looked easier to score. After an Eden Hazard shot was blocked, the ball fell invitingly for Frank to effortlessly guide the ball low and into the West Ham goal.

“YES!”

Frank raced over to celebrate in front of the celebrating three thousand and I hopped up on to my seat.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

In one photo, Frank seems to be looking at me right in the eyes.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Get in.

We quickly walked out into the cold East London night with a bounce in our step. The home fans, some with claret and blue bar scarves wrapped around their necks, were mute. Alan and Gary decided to wait in line at the back of the large queue at Upton Park tube, but I decided to retrace my steps back to Plaistow. The “clip-clop” of a couple of police horses accompanied a few stragglers as we hurriedly walked the mile west. Once at Plaistow, there was a further wait on a crowded platform, but eventually the train took us back to West Ham tube station. I can well remember the journey on this District Line that my friend Gill and I took just under a year ago, our beloved team humiliated 3-1 by West Ham amidst turmoil, unrest and acrimony in the Chelsea end with Benitez at the helm. At the time, we sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t get any worse in 2012-2013.

Actually, it didn’t.

From my perspective, Upton Park 2012 was a recent low-water mark for Chelsea Football Club.

In 2013, Upton Park provided a far rosier picture. I texted Gill and she was able to share the moment.

By 9pm, I was back at Earl’s Court, knee deep in penne arrabiata in my favourite Italian restaurant, watching Benitez’ new team lose 1-0 at home to Parma.

And we were back in the hunt for the title.

Happy days.

Tales From A Lucky Escape

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 9 November 2013.

One of my earliest footballing memories as a small child was being informed by my father that my chosen football team’s nickname was “The Pensioners.” The year was 1970, or maybe 1971, and the club’s link to those famous scarlet-clad residents of the Royal Hospital in Chelsea was explained to me. Of course, in reality, this nickname – our original nickname – was dropped in the ‘fifties by the then manager Ted Drake in favour of the more generic “The Blues.” My father, not really a football fan, was probably unaware of this change. As my support for Chelsea grew with each passing season in the early ‘seventies, I seem to remember that I soon adopted the newer nickname despite “The Pensioners” being mentioned in various schoolboy football magazines and on bubble gum cards. With each year, though, the usage declined.

There had clearly been, if you will excuse the pun, a changing of the guard since the ‘fifties.

“The Pensioners” were out and “The Blues” were in.

I’ll be honest; in all of my time of going to football at Chelsea, I cannot recall a single instance of a supporter yelling “Come on you Pensioners.”

It’s a shame really. One of football’s more charismatic and romantic nicknames is no more. I can remember writing a letter to Ken Bates c. 1982 asking if “The Pensioners” could be reinstated in place of the bland and ubiquitous “Blues.” It was met with a swift rebuff from the chairman. He cited Ted Drake’s reasoning that “The Pensioners” made the club sound like a music hall joke.

And yet, the link between Chelsea Football Club and the Royal Hospital still exists. At every home game, free tickets are given by the club so that up to eight former soldiers can attend. I always remember – back in the late ‘eighties – a Chelsea Pensioner, “Geordie”, dropping in to our favoured hostelry of the time, The Black Bull, and enjoying a pre-match tipple. I loved seeing him in there. He was a Newcastle fan through birth, but a Chelsea fan through fate. Although our colour is blue, there is something quite beautiful about that rich red tunic. Maybe this is because red is such a rare colour at Stamford Bridge. The contrast always strikes me as quite endearing.

One of my favourite memories of recent years at Stamford Bridge was the perfectly choreographed Championship celebrations after the match against Charlton Athletic, following on from the win at Bolton. The Chelsea Pensioners played an integral role that day. It was magnificent, stirring stuff.

So, although the nickname is consigned to history, the vivid scarlet uniforms and the neat black caps of the Chelsea Pensioners still play a role in the public face of Chelsea Football Club. And long may it continue.

It had been a rather long-winded journey up to Stamford Bridge from Somerset. I had collected Parky and then Bournemouth Steve en route to the capital. An England vs. Argentina rugby game at Twickenham had forced me up on to the M4, where I managed to get embroiled in heavy traffic. Eventually, I was parked-up at 12.30pm.

Parky and I fancied a change and so dipped into “The Rylston” – formerly the Normand Arms – on Lillee Road for an hour. Previously, the pub had looked rather rough and ready in its former guise, but has recently experienced a makeover so typical of many pubs in and around the Fulham area. There was new décor with a classic retro feel, black and white tiles, black and white photos, a food menu and some great brews on tap. Although it was only four hundred yards on from the football-mad “Goose”, there was little evidence of any Chelsea fans inside.

At 1.30pm, we had moved on and the difference in “The Goose” was all too evident.

A packed pub, a boisterous crowd, familiar faces – and cheaper prices.

Outside in the beer garden, it was a pleasure to see Mike from NYC once again, alongside Dave the Hat, both full of beer and bollocks.

The laughter rang out.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, it was a typical scene on a Saturday match day. Although Londoners were going about their usual routines – queuing up at the busy market stalls along the North End Road, dipping in and out of betting shops, catching the tube into central London at Fulham Broadway, dining out along Vanston Place – the area was dominated by the football match soon to commence a few hundred yards away. The hundreds marched towards Stamford Bridge as three o’clock neared. And so shall it always be.

An image from Chelsea’s history once again; a black and white photograph of Stamford Bridge just after World War One, many former soldiers, in wheelchairs, in front of the old East Stand on the old dog track, blinking in the afternoon light, their bodies weakened by the ravages of conflict, but now smiling at the camera, contented to be watching their footballing heroes once more. One wonders what stories those fellows could tell; of brothers no longer able to embrace the gentle caress of the autumn sun, of glorious battles won and the searing pain of loss.

I’m sure I am not the only Chelsea supporter who can’t escape linking the early years of our club, formed just nine years before the outbreak of what was called “The Great War”, with our country’s military history in those tumultuous years. We were, after all, participants in the “Khaki Cup Final” of 1915. I wonder how many Chelsea followers from our first few years only enjoyed the briefest of lives.

Let’s remember them.

The roar of the crowd ushered the end of the perfectly-observed minute’s silence and the four Chelsea Pensioners slowly walked from the Stamford Bridge pitch to take their seats in the East Stand, just like their predecessors throughout the years.

Time to check the team – Frank Lampard and Eden Hazard returning. Time to check the crowd – another full house, and 1,500 away fans. The return of Steve Clarke but no Nicolas Anelka.

The first-half was a hum-drum affair. West Brom were well drilled and made life difficult for us. A few chances were exchanged at either end. The Shed End could be heard singing at various times, but generally the atmosphere was quiet. The away fans were not in the same caliber as the visiting Schalke contingent on Wednesday.

With Mourinho yet again favouring Ramires and Lampard at the base of the midfield, we looked towards the three of Hazard, Oscar and Willian to unravel the Baggies’ well-marshalled defence. Chelsea again relied on the advanced runs of Ivanovic, who was often a full fifteen yards further upfield than Oscar; it didn’t always pay off. There was yet more over-elaboration and a reluctance to hit Eto’o early with intelligent through balls. It was turgid stuff. Willian, though new to the club, looks willing yet at this stage is only a link player – moving the ball on – rather than an impact player. We’ll give him time.

I missed Shane Long’s follow through on John Terry, though the crowd wailed in displeasure.

On the half-hour, Oscar lined up a free-kick from a central location. His wildly dipping shot was easily tipped over by Myhill.

Just before the break, Hazard at last decided to run at pace at the West Brom defence. He cut inside and watched as his low shot was clawed away by the Albion ‘keeper. The ball was not cleared and Samuel Eto’o slammed the ball in from behind the hesitant Ridgewell.

1-0.

This sort of predatory goal from Eto’o seems to be his trademark in his early Chelsea career. More of the same each week please. The goal brought the home support to life, but it didn’t fool anyone; it had been a poor half.

During the break, former midfield stalwart, captain and manager John Hollins was on the pitch with Neil Barnett. It was time for me to quickly scan the match programme. There were lovely words for Steve Clarke from Jose Mourinho –

“I have to publicly say thanks to a great man who gave me all of his support in my first period at Chelsea, a man of values, a family guy, a hard worker and a loyal man.”

A few friends and I were discussing Steve Clarke only recently. I had posed the question as to “who was the last Scot to play for Chelsea?” and, although I initially thought it was Craig Burley, of course the answer – unless I am mistaken – was Steve Clarke, whose last match in royal blue was in Stockholm in 1998. Our history has been littered with Scottish players throughout the years, yet it is over fifteen years since a Scot appeared in a Chelsea shirt.

No pressure, Islam Feruz…

The Scottish players reel off the tongue…Jimmy Croal, Hughie Gallacher, Tommy Walker, Eddie MacCreadie, Charlie Cooke and Ian Britton . Ironically, elsewhere in the programme, Rick Glanvill chose to pick a game from the 1984-1985 season, against West Brom, which highlighted the presence of several Scottish players of that era; the three internationals Pat Nevin, David Speedie and Doug Rougvie, plus the steady Joe McLaughlin.

Elsewhere, a whole article was devoted to one of my favourite Chelsea matches of all; Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, November 1983. Thankfully, the programme mentioned in great detail the one absolute highlight.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle United attack in The Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Ticher, in a great article about the run a few years later, claimed that Pat had nut-megged Kevin Keegan at the start of the move, but I can’t confirm this. However, Pat then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must have left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around thirty seconds…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted a ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, Kerry may have headed it over. Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – he still is my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.

Alongside Bournemouth Steve, Alan and I was Gary’s father Ron, who has been going to Chelsea for decades. He had no recollection of Pat Nevin’s master class against Newcastle in 1983, though he was surely there, but mentioned an equally impressive run by Horatio “Raich” Carter, who played for Derby County against Chelsea in the ‘forties.

So many games, so many memories.

The second-half began. Oscar found Eden Hazard with an absolutely sublime through ball which arched over the West Brom defence and ended up on Hazard’s toes. Sadly, the reinstated Belgian struggled to control the exquisite ball – the best pass of the season thus far – and the ball squirmed away.

West Brom began to exert some pressure on our defence and a fine, firm cross from Amalfitano found the leaping Shane Long, whose header had Cech beaten, but bounced up and away off the post.

Our play was faltering, and I shouted out in frustration –

“Someone take some responsibility.”

Soon after, the visitors – perhaps deservedly – equalised when a header from McAuley was parried high by Cech from close range, only for Shane Long to do “an Eto’o” and squeeze home from a leap between our dithering defenders.

1-1.

The away fans sang “The Lord Is My Shephard.”

Mourinho replaced the poor Lampard with Demba Ba, while Oscar moved back alongside fellow Brazilian Ramires. Sadly, a second away goal soon followed. Ivanovic, forever pressing up field, was caught in possession (illegally to my, no doubt, biased eyes) and West Brom broke. Our defence was now back-peddling and we struggled to pick up the rampaging attackers. It was one of those moments when I sensed fear; I was sadly correct. The ball was worked quickly to the impressive Sessegnon, whose weak shot managed to evade Cech’s rather pathetic attempt to block.

1-2.

Mourinho rolled his dice once more; on came Mikel and the much loved Mata. A shot from Ivanovic was saved by Myhill, a header from Willian flew over, a cross from Cahill was aimed at Ba and he couldn’t connect. The frustration amongst the home fans was now apparent as we struggled to fight our way back. Yet, the noise levels slowly grew, as we pounded the West Brom rear guard. Corner after corner were met with resounding headers from Olsson and the rest of the visiting defenders who seemed able and willing to rebuff all of our attacking notions with vigour.

Then – heart in mouth. A West Brom break and we were staring a third goal in the face. We were outnumbered, but thankfully Brunt chose to shoot himself rather than play others in.

Four extra minutes were signalled and we willed the team on. Big John banged the balcony wall once more.

Thud, thud – thud, thud, thud – thud, thud, thud, thud – “CHELSEA!”

A ball was pushed into the path of Ramires, running alongside Reid. The Brazilian fell and I looked at the referee Andre Marriner. In truth, there wasn’t a great shout for a penalty and I fully expected the referee to book Rami for diving. After a momentary stall, the referee unbelievably pointed to the spot. Everyone around me – we had a perfect view – shook our heads and mouthed “never a penalty.” One chap in front of me clearly couldn’t take the tension and hurriedly clambered over the seats to leave before the penalty was taken.

After what seemed like ages, we watched as Eden Hazard calmly waited and slotted the ball in. There was a guttural roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd and I caught Hazard’s ecstatic leap and spin on camera as he raced away.

2-2.

Phew.

This was clearly a ropey performance from Chelsea, albeit against a pretty reasonable team. One can only hope that the manager, players and supporters react well and move on. This is clearly a season of transition and evolution, rather than whole spread change; a season where Mourinho is trying to identify strengths and weaknesses in his squad, in order to provide a stable future. There will be periods of growth and periods of fallow. So be it.

I’m not going anywhere.

Tales From 05 Versus 04

Posted on November 8, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Schalke 04 : 6 November 2013.

I was inside Stamford Bridge by 7.30pm and my usual routine was followed; as soon as I had a chance to glimpse the upper echelons of the East Stand through the gap of Gate 9 of the Matthew Harding Upper, I did so. Here would be a clue to see if there would be yet another full-house (or as near as damn it) at HQ. My fellow supporters did not disappoint; the very back rows were filling up nicely. Should we ever hit sub-standard attendances – Southampton last season, 38,000 – then those very back rows tend not to be used.

I needn’t have worried. Another 41,000 at Stamford Bridge. Excellent.

It was a surprisingly mild night in London. I soon dispensed of my chunky jacket for a few moments and stood, refreshed, in just my shirtsleeves.

Away in the south-east corner stood three thousand travelling Germans; it was soon evident that they would provide just as much entertainment during the following two hours as the millionaire sportsmen scurrying around on the perfect Stamford Bridge turf below. Champions League nights at Chelsea, especially those in the group phase of autumn, tend to be odd affairs. Our support is augmented by tourists and sightseers and the atmosphere often suffers. These are big nights for the corporate dollar too, of course. The club’s clamour for such a clientele was brought home to me recently when I – for once – bothered to read a Chelsea magazine from cover-to-cover. There were advertisements for corporate hospitality everywhere. It appeared that every spare square yard of free space at Stamford Bridge has now been designated a pre-match venue for a variety of dining options, with supporters – sorry, clients – being then escorted up towards the rarefied atmosphere of the West Upper.

“Spend your £150, buffet lunch, Chelsea gift, ex-player appearance, open bar, off you trot to the West Upper, thanks for the money.”

It is no wonder that vast swathes of Stamford Bridge remain ghostly quiet on many match days.

Alan and Tom, the two stalwarts were alongside me.

Following on from our trip to Tyneside at the weekend, Alan and I spoke in Geordie accents for a large slice of the evening. It was no surprise. We both love an accent.

Wor Ally : “How was the toon Sat’dy neet, but?”

Wor Chrissy : “Ah diven’t knaa. It’s al a bit of a blur, like.”

As the teams entered the stadium, the Chelsea in the Matthew Harding draped a large new flag over the balcony wall at the east end of the stand. It was a clear and simple, stunningly effective, blue flag containing a pristine white image of the sexiest cup of them all, the European Cup. Good work. I hope it appears every game. In the away section, an equally impressive sight; three thousand Germans rhythmically bouncing, as one, in unison, both tiers together. I will be blunt and honest here; it was probably the greatest show I had ever seen performed by an away contingent at Stamford Bridge. It was mesmeric and tantalising to see so many bodies bouncing in time. Linear ripples of movement, bounce, bounce, bounce. Fantastic.

There is no doubt that Schalke 04 are one of the largest German clubs in 2013, but for many years they existed under my radar. I have a distinct feeling that they played second tier football for a few years during my football youth and certainly never rivalled the more well-known teams such as Bayern Munich, SV Hamburg, 1FC Koln, Borrusia Moenchengladbach and the like. It came as some surprise to me, in around 1990, for me to read of the size of their support. They appeared to be an authentic sleeping giant. And yet their home town – city – of Gelsenkirchen was not famous at all; possibly unheard of by people outside Germany and outside football. They appeared to be an enigma, cossetted away in the heart of the Ruhr, unknown and yet with an historic past.

I remembered that their old stadium was used at the 1974 World Cup – its vast terrace was similar to that of the Olympic Stadium in Munich – but for years, Schalke 04 continued their existence in the footballing shadows.

Chelsea played a game against Besiktas at Schalke’s new stadium in the 2003-2004 CL campaign and then met Schalke for the first time in the 2007-2008 group phase. A few friends and I travelled over to Germany for the away leg. We flew into Koln/Bonn airport and stayed two nights in the city of Koln. A heavy night of drinking the local kolsch beer on the first evening was followed by a more subdued match day. We took the local train up to Gelsenkirchen, giving me the first real taste of the Ruhr. Despite having travelled extensively in Germany in my twenties, I had skirted this vast industrial power zone, instead preferring Hamburg, Munich and other more touristy locales. In truth, Gelsenkirchen was bleak. Its city centre was astonishingly small. At the time, I searched for an English equivalent.

Massive club, once successful, hidden away in a small town within a larger metropolitan area.

I know.

Wolverhampton Wanderers.

That was as good a fit as I could come up with.

Just as only football fans have heard of Gelsenkirchen, surely only football fans from elsewhere in the world have heard of Wolverhampton?

On the night, I was impressed with the two-tiered, roofed Arena Auf Schalke – the Veltins Arena – but the game was poor, ending scoreless.

Gelsenkirchen 2007 ranks very poorly in my list of favourite European aways.

The game began and Schalke – in dark jade shirts – began on the front foot. In their first attack, Cesar Azpilicueta – strangely preferred at left-back in place of Ashley Cole – was caught way out of position in the middle of the field. Alan and I groaned, but thankfully Julian Draxler drilled a low shot wide of Petr Cech’s far post. Within a few moments, Szalai produced an almost carbon-copy finish.

We were all over the place. Our play was loose and we lacked structure.

Schalke 04 were causing Chelsea 05 to play at sixes and sevens.

Another few minutes and another Schalke effort; the away team had enjoyed a great start and had peppered our goal with three good efforts in the opening eight minutes. In the far corner, the singing from the away fans was constant. There were capos with loudspeakers, rhythmic clapping, scarves being held aloft and then twirled. They were in fine form.

Chelsea started to get a foothold.

For a few moments it was the Schalke and Schurrle show; our German international had a free-kick well saved by Hildebrand and then followed up with a fine strike on goal.

For once, the Chelsea fans began to rise to the challenge offered by the noisy Germans. The Matthew Harding Lower led the singing and for a few fleeting moments the stadium resembled a football stadium.

Our play had been rather slow, relying on the raiding Ivanovic down the right. Very often the intricate triangles involving Oscar, Ramires and Willian only resulted in the ball being played back, relentlessly, through the back four. We lacked vitality. I longed for an early ball for Samuel Eto’o to run on to. For the most part, all of the play was in front of Schalke.

However, on the half hour, calamity for our visitors.

Hildebrand delayed and delayed his clearance up field. The otherwise quiet Eto’o seized his chance and rushed in to block. In the blink of an eye-lid, the ball had ricocheted off his leg and had rolled beautifully into the empty Shed End goal.

We could hardly believe our eyes.

After the Hart faux-pas against Manchester City and the Eto’o touch against Cardiff City, the Shed End were treated to another “what happened next?” moment. There was a mixture of glee and relief in the Chelsea ranks. We had begun poorly and had hardly warranted a 1-0 lead.

Alan and I cleared our throats.

“Zey vill ‘ave to come at us now.”

“Wir kommen mein klein diamonds.”

The rest of the first-half was devoid of incident, apart from a bizarre moment when a Chelsea attack was called back by the referee because a Schalke player’s boot had come off.

Alan and I were dumbfounded.

Modern football. Pah.

Chris : “Fackin’ell…Bert Trautman played on with a broken neck.”

Alan : “Ref! Ref! Stop the play! My sock has fallen down.”

Paolo Ferriera made a welcome return to the Stamford Bridge pitch as he slowly walked with Neil Barnett. I had last seen him, tearful, after his last ever game in New York in May. It was lovely to see him again.

In the first few minutes of the second-half, probably the best moment of football thus far; a superb spin and shot from Draxler inside our box and it looked like certain equaliser. To our pleasure, Petr Cech threw himself to his right and touched the low shot past the post for a corner.

Thibaut who?

Soon after, a fantastic Chelsea counter-attack (we seem to specialise in these attacking the MH in the second-half of games, don’t we?) and we added to our lead. Willian fed in Eto’o whose run was near perfect. The veteran goal scorer calmly struck the ball past the hapless Schalke ‘keeper with the minimum of fuss and raced over to the far corner to milk the applause of the home support.

I was unconvinced about the signing of Samuel Eto’o over the summer, but if he continues to ply his trade as effectively as that over the next six months, I will be very contented.

With the game seemingly safe, the Chelsea support quietened. Even the ball-achingly dull and tedious “Ten German Bombers” soon faded after a minute. The Schalke fans, meanwhile, kept going.

I remember when our support was like that.

The game appeared to be won. We seemed more than content to pass, pass, pass our way to three more points. Mourinho rung the changes, bringing on Demba Ba, Kevin de Bruyne and Frank Lampard.

The midfield, where Mikel had put in a fine and steady performance, was re-jigged.

Demba Ba shot meekly soon after entering the field, but then made amends on 82 minutes. Frank Lampard lobbed the ball towards Ba – he looked offside to me, and a few others – and he calmly despatched the ball into the far corner.

3-0.

As the game drifted on, the Schalke fans still sang.

At the final whistle, I couldn’t help but feel a slightest twinge of sympathy for the Germans. Over the two games, they had certainly not deserved to be at the end of a 0-6 gubbing. I think that they had missed a cutting edge. Their progress in this year’s competition is not known. At least ours seems more likely.

On the walk back to the car, I was surprisingly underwhelmed. I was obviously happy that Chelsea had triumphed on the night and were now leading the group after that calamitous defeat versus Basel. However, a win against a bland and anonymous team – which, to my eyes, Schalke still were – just left me a bit cold and unfulfilled. I know that UEFA has served up these six group phase games for our gratification and pleasure, but maybe the thrill is starting to wane a little. There certainly isn’t that edge which is present during the knockout games and the muted atmosphere – again – at a Chelsea CL game provides extra evidence of the “hey-ho” nature of these encounters.

Back at the car, Parky’s response summed it up succinctly.

“All a bit boring wasn’t it really?”

On Saturday, it’s back to the cut and thrust of the league campaign.

Steve Clarke. Nicolas Anelka. Bouncy Bouncy. Boing Boing.

See you all there.

Tales From Tyneside

Posted on November 6, 2013 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 2 November 2013.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. There are many occasions when I just wish that the football didn’t get in the way of a football weekend. This was clearly one of those times.

This was only my eighth trip up to St. James’ Park to see Chelsea. There are simple reasons of economy and geography for this; to put it bluntly – too expensive and too far. My last trip to Tyneside was in 2008-2009. When the season’s fixtures were announced way back in June, I quickly decided that a visit was long overdue. No six hour drive up and six hour drive back for me though – for the first time ever, I had decided to fly to a game in England.

A return flight from nearby Bristol to Newcastle was duly booked for £63 and I counted the months and days until it was time to head north to the mad city on the banks of the River Tyne. I was clearly treating this as an equivalent to a European away game.

Excited?

Why, aye pet.

At just after 5.30am, I texted Alan to let him know that I was – once more – on the road.

“Wor Jackie Kerouac.”

The reply?

“Wor Georgie Stephenson.”

As I headed over the Mendip Hills once again towards my most local airport, I was reminded of the special significance of flying to Newcastle – of all places – for a game of football. In the ‘seventies, Chelsea Football Club produced a yearbook and one of its most tantalising features was the listing, towards the back covers, of many miscellaneous facts and figures pertaining to the club. I was a glutton for such items of trivia and often used to devour the contents. There are a few items which still stick in my head to this day.

Chelsea’s youngest ever player was Ian “Chico” Hamilton.
Eddie MacCreadie – at the time – was our most capped player with twenty-three appearances for Scotland.
Our record aggregate score was 21-0 versus Jeunesse Hautcharage in 1971.
Newcastle United’s record gate was 68,000 to see the return of Hughie Gallacher in a Chelsea shirt to St. James’ Park in the ‘thirties.
Chelsea were the first English team to use air travel for a football match; or to be more exact, to travel back from a football match. The venue? Yes, you’ve guessed it – Newcastle.

The flight was over in a flash; just time for a cursory glance through the inflight magazine and a coffee. Within fifty minutes, the plane had dipped its wings – I glimpsed a pristine white lighthouse guarding the Tyne estuary as the plane banked – and the descent into Geordieland had begun. Although there had been a cold shiver down everyone’s spine when the pilot had gleefully announced that the temperature in ‘Castle was “minus one”, in truth the temperature outside was a minor disturbance.

I was soon on my way into town on the city’s metro. A few fellow football fans were on board. The buzz had begun. As I headed into the city, eventually beneath the streets, I felt that Chelsea were impregnable. We had found our feet, we were scoring goals, we were playing some great stuff. I felt an echo to our dominant form of November 2004, when things really started clicking under Jose Mourinho the first time around. And what an away game to revel in our new-found invincibility.

Newcastle away.

Fantastic.

I had a superb time wandering around along the banks of the River Tyne for a few hours. From the area around the central train station, it is a steep descent down to the quayside. There is almost a gorge-like feel to the river. The iconic Tyne Bridge dominates, but the recent addition of the Gateshead Millennium Bridge augments the view rather well. There are three more bridges which cluster together linking Newcastle to the north and Gateshead to the south. It’s all too photogenic to resist. I happily snapped photographs as I walked in the fresh winter morning air. To be honest, there was a dull grey stillness to the early hours, but it seemed to encapsulate the mood of the city perfectly.

I always remember my first-ever trip to St. James’ Park in March 1984; a Chelsea special, my first proper Chelsea away game, a 1-1 draw and the likes of Kerry Dixon, Colin Pates, Mickey Thomas, David Speedie and Pat Nevin playing for a mythical Chelsea team. I remember crossing the Tyne, high on the railway bridge to the west, and spotting the magnificent and striking Tyne Bridge away to my right. What fantastic memories from almost thirty years ago.

I dipped into a hotel and soon devoured a fulfilling breakfast and then continued walking towards the converted Baltic Flour Mill which has been rejuvenated over the past fifteen years and is now renamed the Baltic Art Centre. I ascended to the viewing platform on the fifth floor and what a vista greeted me.

The Tyne River, the bridges, the spires, the layers upon layers of streets, the deep gorge, the city.

And there, right at the top of the hill to my right, the towering stands of St. James’ Park, where I would be positioned in under three hours for the game.

I retraced my steps and sheltered from the rain in The Redhouse pub right under the shadows of the Tyne Bridge. A pint of Erdinger went down well; I toasted absent friends and supped away. The pub was magnificent; it had darkened rooms, dingy alcoves and there were echoes of its historic past at every turn. My mind cascaded back to when the nearby quayside would have been manically busy with ships, traders, sailors, rogues and thieves.

The rain had thankfully subsided as I began a slow walk north towards the stadium at the top of the town. There are several fine Georgian streets in the city centre and none is more elegant than Grey Street which slowly curves up towards the monument to Earl Grey. From here, the stadium is but a few hundred yards away.

Here was Newcastle United’s saving grace; a city-centre location. It’s the real heart of the city.

The rain began falling again as I sidestepped protests against Mike Ashley under the massive steel structure of the Gallowgate Stand, with the famous Strawberry pub nestled underneath, quite out of place, like an historic throwback to a more simple time.

As I headed around towards the away entrance, I spotted the statue in honour of Newcastle United’s most loved son, Sir Bobby Robson, standing proud and looking out into the Tyneside mist. Above was the towering steel of the Milburn Stand; quite astonishing in its scale.

The fourteen flights of stairs at St. James’ Park are always a test; I passed this time, but without flying colours. A plastic bottle of Coors – hardly on the same scale as an Erdinger – was my reward as I waited for Alan and Gary to arrive. We had three thousand tickets for this game and we had sold out. With no Rangers game on the Saturday, our legions were bolstered by many from their royal – and loyal – blue ranks. I spotted a few friendly faces, but many amongst our support did not register.

Eventually, Alan and Gary arrived and we entered the away section. We were in row V, maybe only around six or seven rows from the very top. The view which greeted me was, despite the dull grey weather, quite phenomenal.

Away in the distance, on the horizon, was the high ground of Gateshead. A solitary spire broke the line of where land met sky in a fuzzy grey smudge. Sadly, only a few miles to the west from that high land, in 1957, Hughie Gallacher – the fiery and tormented former Newcastle United, Chelsea and Scotland centre-forward – took his own life by descending from a footbridge and walking out in front of a train. Hughie Gallacher is a Chelsea player that fascinates me. One of these days I will try to hunt down a biography written by Newcastle fan Paul Joannou about this most loved of players.

Down below, way down below, to my left, just visible through the perspex glass screens of the Leazes Stand can be seen the Georgian terraced houses of Leazes Terrace. In the days when St. James’ Park was virtually all standing, these houses overlooked the eastern terrace at the stadium. They were very distinctive. In around 1972, a new concrete stand was constructed on that eastern terrace, thus blocking their view of the stadium. It is their presence today, though, that gives St. James’ Park such a lop-sided feel. That 1972 stand – the most modern aspect of the stadium when I visited in 1984 – can’t be enlarged due to the fact that the houses on Leazes Terrace are listed buildings; some are used for university students, some are in private hands.

They can’t however, be demolished. In the meantime, the monolithic west and north stands at St. James’ tower over all. Their size is truly mesmerizing.

Ahead of me, the home end – the Gallowgate. Once a relatively slight terrace, containing very distinctive concrete crush barriers, this end was dismantled and built anew around 1993. I can always remember a sight from the days when Kevin Keegan reinvigorated the club when he joined them from Southampton in 1982. At the time, this story was unheard of – an England international signing for a struggling team in the second division. I remember a winter’s game, rain lashing down on the open Gallowgate terrace, the stadium packed with Geordies and steam coming up off their boiling bodies, piled high on the crush barriers.

Truly amazing.

In the distance, clearly visible was the curving green iron of the Tyne Bridge. The traffic was heavy, the cars’ lights were on and I wondered if they were tuned in to the match.

The unlucky ones outside. The lucky ones inside.

The teams entered the pitch. There was an impeccably well-observed minute of silence for those who have fallen.

The grey Tyneside air turned darker.

We quickly ran through the Chelsea team and there were few surprises.

Juan Mata was playing. David Luiz was playing.

The Chelsea support, massed high on the upper tier of the Leazes Stand stood the entire game. It is something that we do without even thinking about these days; a subconscious statement of defiance to those who try to sanitise and sterilise our beautiful game.

To the memory of those ten thousand Geordies huddled together in the rain in 1982.

Chelsea certainly had most of the possession in that first-half, but sadly had nothing to show for it all at half-time. Our play at times was slow. There were occasional thrusts from Hazard on the left and Torres on the right, but Krul was hardly tested apart from at a succession of corners midway through the half. A John Terry header crashed against the bar. A deflected Torres effort too.

The home support during the first-half had been dire. We had begun well with the new Moyes & Wenger song getting some airtime along with the Willian effort. Our support, like the form of the team, drifted away as the half continued.

At the break, there were the usual murmurs of discontent, but we knew we were in good hands.

“Just hope Mourinho weaves his magic at the break and we change things in the second-half.”

I wandered down to the toilets at half-time, the concourse absolutely packed with away supporters. In the middle of the crowd, quietly talking to a fellow fan, was Pat Nevin, sporting a blue and white Chelsea scarf. A quick handshake for that most wondrous of Chelsea players. I reminded him that he was my favourite player of all time.

The rain continued to fall as the game continued. Mourinho surprisingly replaced Torres with Eto’o. Although Torres had not enjoyed his best of games, his level of service in the first hour was poor. I was surprised when he was substituted. Additionally, Juan Mata was replaced by Willian. This was another surprising move by Jose. We all thought that Oscar – and maybe Hazard – was more deserving to be replaced. Elsewhere, Lamps struggled to get a foothold. In defence, David Luiz was having one of those games which left even me mouthing expletives at his reckless challenges.

A couple of half-chances for the home team suddenly galvanised the home support and there was a definite change in the sway of the game. This was now getting tougher by the minute. Our play was deteriorating fast.

A header from an unmarked Gouffran on 68 minutes gave the Geordies a deserved lead and the stadium rocked.

Mourinho immediately replaced Frank with Andrea Schurrle, whose initial industry promised an upturn in our fortunes. Half-chances for Willian and Eto’o didn’t convince the away support that our luck would change.

Only the barnstorming Ivanovic and the solid defensive play of Terry provided any comfort.

A late goal from Remy, cracked in off the near post settled the game for sure. With that, hundreds of Chelsea fans decided to head into the bars and pubs of the city centre. Five minutes of extra time was signalled but we all knew that we wouldn’t score if we had played all afternoon.

That was as clear as black and white.

It had undoubtedly been a very poor Chelsea performance. We were lost for words to be honest. Our fine form of the past month – wins, flair, goals – had shrivelled up in the Tyneside rain. We looked for answers. In the warmth of The Union Rooms opposite the train station, a few of us tried to put together an explanation of our failures, but we struggled.

“It’s not as if they’re a great time.”

Alan and Gary then left for London.

“See you Wednesday, boys.”

The night was still young. I chatted away to a couple of locals. There were warm memories again of 1983-1984 and the tantalising forward line of Keegan, Beardsley and Waddle. I mentioned the very memorable hip-shake move that Peter Beardsley used to effectively confuse and befuddle opposing defenders. The locals talked about their loathing of Joe Kinnear and Mike Ashley, the painful wait for silverware on Tyneside, the skill of former midfielder Tony Green and the talk went on and on and on.

And then, alone, out into the craziness of a Newcastle night.

Tales From Kensington And Chelsea

Posted on October 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 27 October 2013.

There was a small but steady flow of fellow match goers walking past the rows of gravestones within the confines of Brompton Cemetery. Most spoke with local accents but there were a few rogue Northerners too. There was the occasional royal blue and white bar scarf of the home team. Just the merest hint that a football match was soon to be taking place nearby. However, the light grey steel of the roof of Stamford Bridge’s East Stand was clearly visible above the western boundary wall and the intrusive sounds of the stadium public address system echoed off the surrounding buildings and disturbed the otherwise quiet calm of a Sunday afternoon in England’s capital city. This approach to the home of Chelsea Football Club was a break from the norm for me; I had only ever walked through this central pathway, flanked by military-like ranks of grey gravestones of various sizes and shapes, on one other occasion. Much to my consternation, I had been unable to locate the gravestone of Chelsea founder Gus Mears when I paid the cemetery a visit on a winter evening in 2006. In 2013, the same stone was proving to be just as elusive. Many of the tombstones had subsided and the script on many had faded. In some ways, the cemetery was frozen in time; apart from a few exceptions – new gravestones with fresh flowers – most were dated from 1875 to 1915. I wondered how many of the resting souls had witnessed football at Stamford Bridge during our inaugural years.

The weather was mild; we had been warned to expect rainstorms and thunderous gales, but the day had not brought forth the expected deluge. The sky was cloudy and grey, but the autumnal air was dry.

Let me explain why my approach to Stamford Bridge involved a slow perambulation past the final resting places of many of West London’s most notable Victorian and Edwardian residents. On Friday and Saturday, I had been laid low with a sudden and searing back pain. I came to the quick conclusion that it would not be beneficial for me to be imprisoned in The Goose before the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game; instead, I wanted to embark on a walk through the streets of London and – hopefully – enable my ailing body to keep supple and to recuperate. The last thing I wanted was for it to seize up, mid-pint, in a packed and claustrophobic pub.

So, I was on my own. I had left Lord Parky, Young Jake and Young Kris to head off to the boozer at 12.45pm, while I slowly walked to Earl’s Court. My travels then took me to Knightsbridge and I dipped into a couple of famous shops. It is a part of London that I know well. Famously, our former chairman Ken Bates often used the tagline that Stamford Bridge was “only one and a half miles from Harrods” in his prolonged fight to keep football at our only home. In short, he meant that Stamford Bridge was London’s most centrally-located football stadium and that this key fact should be cherished and protected. In one of Harrods food halls, I had spotted a young boy wearing a Chelsea shirt and I managed a little chuckle to myself about this particular lad’s pre-match routine compared to the crowded interior of The Goose that I am so familiar with.

I had then left the tourists and the shoppers in my wake as I slowly headed west, my back now healing fast; I had made a wise move, I was improving with every step. I walked past the perfectly maintained town houses of Kensington and Chelsea on my slow march towards Stamford Bridge, located in the adjacent borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. Parts of the two neighbouring boroughs are quite dissimilar.

The North End Road is not Eaton Square.

Finally, on Fulham Road, more spectators appeared and suddenly the buzz was there. This was a match day; a big match day at that. Although results went against us on the Saturday, here was a chance to put ourselves right back into the mix at the very top of the division. On “Match of the Day” the previous evening, I had bristled with excitement when I heard Alan Hansen summarise this season’s championship race.

“Some people say the race is wide open this year. I don’t think it is. I think it’s between Chelsea and Manchester City.”

I had to agree. Although both Arsenal and Liverpool have begun their respective seasons with surprisingly fine results, I simply don’t see their strength of squads being able to withstand a thirty-eight game onslaught for the title. Manchester United, struggling under a new manager, seem uncharacteristically brittle. Tottenham show promise, but there are question marks. Southampton and Everton are fine teams, but way off a title challenge.

Chelsea and Manchester City however, appear to be best set for a sustained title bid.

As I skirted past the programme sellers by the main gates, I knew that City would provide a very stern test for us. They did, after all, have our number in all of the games – all six of them – we played last season. We only had one measly draw (0-0, Benitez’ first game…) to show for our efforts against the light blues of Manchester. Chelsea were treated to nothing but defeats in Birmingham, Manchester, Wembley, St. Louis and New York. Physically strong in midfield, potent in attack, they were formidable opponents. If anything, despite the loss of Tevez, their team has improved since 2012-2013. And yet…and yet…should Chelsea inflict a defeat on Manuel Pelligrini’s team at Stamford Bridge, City would be staring at three defeats out of just nine league games.

I bristled with excitement again.

I was inside the stadium with time to spare. Manchester City had again sold their full allocation of three thousand; it isn’t always the case. As I have said on numerous occasions, I’ve never really had much of a problem with Manchester City. Their old stadium deep in the heart of South Central Manchester, nestled alongside the red brick houses of Moss Side, was a favourite away ground and their supporters, inflatable bananas and all, always seemed to be able to take the piss out of themselves, which is a trait that I admire. It was always Ken Bates’ boast – sorry, him again – for Chelsea to be the Manchester United of the South. However, for many seasons, as Chelsea lunged and lurched from one near-miss to another, I couldn’t help but think that we were more like the Manchester City of the South. Both clubs had massive potential, exuberant fan bases, but limited successes. Both clubs lived in the shadows of others.

In 2013, the two clubs have been twinned once again; new money, an expanding fan base, success.

If I’m honest – brutally honest – I’m finding it hard to develop much of an antipathy for them. Chelsea has obvious long-standing loathing of Tottenham and Leeds, maybe even Arsenal and Manchester United. We have nurtured a relatively new dislike for Liverpool since 2005. Is there room for another club to hate?

“Only if City are successful” I hear the cry.

My usual match day companion Alan was on holiday in Spain and so I chatted to Tom, who was concerned for my safe passage back to Somerset later in the day in light of the threat of gales and rain.

The teams entered the pitch. After Tuesday in Gelsenkirchen, it was no surprise that Fernando Torres got the call. Elsewhere, Juan Mata had missed out in favour of Andre Schurrle. At the back, Gary Cahill continued to partner John Terry. Jose Mourinho again favoured Ramires and Sir Frank. It was reassuring to witness the return of Ashley Cole.

City’s team of superstars included the excellent Toure, Aguero and Silva.

Game on.

We were forced to attack the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

We began well and Gary Cahill squandered a great chance within the first few minutes, but Manchester City soon rose to the challenge. After a while, the youngsters Kris and Jake sidled in next to me.

“Good time in the pub, boys?”

“Oh yes.”

Throughout the match, I was constantly annoyed to see that Toure was afforded yards of space. His was a brooding presence, pacing around the midfield, waiting to pounce like only he can do.

Then, Torres had a couple of chances to strike. Although he looked offside on the second one, he shot wildly over with only Joe Hart to beat. Instead of yells of abuse, the crowd were seemingly sympathetic.

In the far corner, the City fans were quiet, rousing only occasionally.

“We’re Not Really Here.”

I have to be honest, despite a 4pm kick-off (code for “more beers”) and a top-of-the-table clash, the atmosphere was pretty quiet. Then, the game changed. Torres picked up the ball around thirty-five yards out and decided to run at Clichy. On some occasions, Nando appears to be running in quick sand. On others, he glides past players. With his turn of pace catching Clichy on the back foot, he easily outpaced the former Arsenal left-back. He drilled a low ball across the six yard box and the trailing Demechelis was unable to stop the ball reaching the onrushing Andre Schurrle.

1-0 Chelsea and The Bridge awoke in a crescendo of noise. Schurrle pumped his fists towards the MHL and then pointed towards Torres. It had been a superb run. Torres’ earlier miss was soon forgotten.

Next, Torres on fire, down below me, teasing a City defender before striking a rasping shot which curled enticingly on its trajectory toward goal. The ball thundered against the bar. It was a fantastic shot. How unlucky. City issued a warning signal in the dying moments of the half as Aguero shot at Cech from an angle but our ‘keeper fought away the strike with the minimum of effort.

It had been an interesting game of football in the first-half. I sensed that it had been bubbling along nicely and that, as so often is the case, the game would provide more adventure in the second period.

Sadly, Manchester City soon struck in the second-half. Samir Nasri sent through a slide-rule pass to Aguero, with our defence unable to match his movement. With hardly any back lift, the striker unleashed a bullet which beat Cech at his near post.

1-1. Game on, again.

Although I think we edged the first-half, Manchester City now seemed to step up a gear and were on the front foot. Our defence, previously well-marshalled by the excellent Terry in the first-half, appeared vulnerable. In midfield, there was little bite. However, with the indefatigable Ivanovic charging up and down the right flank with all of his old spirit, we managed a foot hold in the game. A header from Torres was aimed straight at Hart and a Terry effort was touched over. Cech saved superbly from Silva. This was brewing up to be quite a game. The mood inside the stadium was of nervous concern though; here was evidence enough that the home supporters viewed City as an accomplished team. The atmosphere again struggled to get going.

Mourinho rang the changes. A clearly tiring Lampard was replaced by the steadying calm of Mikel and Schurrle was replaced by Willian. A few chances were exchanged and then Samuel Eto’o was chosen to replace Hazard. I was still nervously expecting a City goal at any moment. A free-kick from Willian flew past the far post at The Shed End.

The minutes ticked by.

Then, with not long to go before the final whistle, a Willian header was lofted high into the City half. Nastasic was being chased by Torres and headed the ball goalwards, but his touch was heavy and cleared the on-rushing Hart.

The stadium gulped.

We watched, breathlessly, as Torres continued his run and then stabbed the ball in from an angle.

Mayhem. Absolute mayhem.

2-1 Chelsea.

The place was pumping now alright.

Torres raced over to the corner and was soon mobbed by team mates. I was so pleased for him. Please God let him enjoy these moments of salvation. Under the astute man management skills of Mourinho, there is a bright future ahead. I’ve certainly noticed a greater show of strength from Torres this season; he looks more robust, his chest seems more muscular, his body more tuned for the rigours ahead. If his head stays positive, goals will follow.

In the ensuing thirty seconds, I still expected City to score.

We all did, right?

The ball was pumped into the Chelsea box one last time.

It was cleared.

All eyes were on the much maligned Howard Webb. I punched the air as he signalled the end of the game.

Manchester City – one of the title favourites – had now lost three out of nine league games.

Chelsea – on a roll – were up to second place.

The future looks fine.

And back ache? What back ache?

Tales From Home

Posted on October 20, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Cardiff City : 19 October 2013.

The phases of the moon were providing a timetable to this season; another full moon, another home league game. Aston Villa on 21 August, Fulham on 21 September, Cardiff City on 19 October. At this bloody rate, the 2013-2014 season won’t be finished until 2015. It has been an odd first two months of the campaign. There seems to be an odd rhythm to this season and I can’t be the only one who thinks that this one hasn’t really begun yet. Thankfully, the latest – disliked – international break was over and Chelsea, recently competing at four away venues, were now heading home.

Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. 3pm. Saturday.

Just like it always should be.

I didn’t reach the pub until 12.30pm. Parky and I edged our way through the packed bar and eventually ordered two pints of Peroni. There were familiar faces at the bar. After a month’s absence, it was good to be back home. All of my mates were outside in the beer garden; they were eschewing the Newcastle vs. Liverpool game which was being watched half-heartedly by the clientele inside. Within a few minutes of meeting up with Daryl, Alan, Rob and everyone, the rain started. Clearly, there was not room inside for the seventy or so souls in the beer garden, so we stood stoically under the large awnings of the beer garden as the rain sheeted down , nestling pints, shuffling from side to side, maybe like a pack of penguins, keeping warm, on an Antarctic ice field.

“Your turn to stand on the outside, Ed.”

It was a scene which was begging for someone to take a photograph; looking down on the group of Chelsea supporters nestled together as the rain tormented us. For those around the world who mock the miserable weather of England – what? How dare they! – this was a self-deprecating photograph waiting to happen.

“Greetings from England.”

Rob had represented us at the Ian Britton fundraiser in Cheam on the Friday night. If I lived closer, I would have gone. Rob reported back that it was a brilliant night and many of Ian’s team mates attended including Ray Wilkins, Colin Pates, Ray Lewington, Paul Canoville, Tommy Langley, Steve Finnieston and Garry Stanley. After Peter Osgood left Chelsea, Ian Britton was my favourite Chelsea player for years and years. We all loved his energetic style and his cheeky smile. I followed his fortunes after he left us, which included a Scottish Championship medal at Dundee United in 1983, and a goal for Burnley which kept them from relegation out of the Football League in 1987. Meeting him at an old boys’ game at Southampton in 2010 was one of the highlights of recent years. The news that he is battling prostate cancer hit me hard.

We all wish him well.

Talk was of the upcoming away games. Many were heading out to Germany on Monday and Tuesday; the internationalists were buzzing with talk of Dusseldorf, Dortmund, Gelsenkirchen, Cologne and Bochum. I chatted to Andy, boasting a fine new brown Barbour, and Ed about the away game at Newcastle in a few weeks. I am staying overnight in that mythical city on the banks of the Tyne. I have stayed overnight up there for a game on a couple of other occasions – 1997 and 2000 – and am quite giddy with excitement about doing so again in 2013. I’m treating it as a European away.

Andy : “It’s like the wild west, mate. You won’t see anything like it anywhere else in Britain.”

Chris : “Someone punched a police horse after the Sunderland game last season.”

Ed : “A group of us stayed up there a while back. The only town I’ve visited where cab ranks are policed.”

Andy : “Yeah, better get a cab back to your hotel early. You’ll see fights over cabs at 2am.”

Ed : “And the women…”

Chris : “I remember locals wearing black and white kilts up there in 1984.”

Andy : “You know when you look around a bar, late at night, and you see one or two people grimly hanging on to the bar, wavering, clearly pissed out of their heads…in Newcastle, everyone is like that.”

I let my imagination run riot…I pictured a scene, at a Chelsea game in the near future.

“Anyone see much of Chris these days?”

A hushed silence…

“Um…you didn’t hear? Grab yourself a pint mate, have a seat.”

“What happened?”

“Newcastle away.”

“What about it?”

“Well – it’s like this. He was spotted before the game drinking with some locals. Someone said they saw him knocking back some whisky, which he hates. Nobody saw him at the game. Alan reckoned he had a text from him midway through the game saying he was in the directors box…the story goes that he was mixing with Geordies, one thing lead to another…there was a bet…there was a netball team involved…Mike Ashley’s niece, it got messy…seems he ended up in a casino down by the river late on….for ten minutes, he actually owned Newcastle United Football Club, but Ashley bought it back when Chris wanted to change the team colours to blue and white…with the profit, it seems he ended up buying a house up there…no, actually, three houses…and a cab firm. And a nightclub. And a ship. And a zoo. He tucked Ashley right up.”

Andy and I also spoke about the more subdued Mourinho of 2013, compared to the more bombastic Mourinho of 2004. Maybe – deep down – there is less bravado because, simply, Jose believes that silverware is no certainty in this current campaign.

“Why look like a fool?”

Despite the hooliganism which surrounded the Cardiff game in 2010, I saw no evidence of any anti-social behaviour this time. The police in the four vans at Vanston Place were apparently minding their own business. Thankfully, the rain had stopped on the walk to the ground. I quickly scanned the match programme; again, there is an in-depth article from our glorious, fabled, 1983-1984 campaign. On 15 October 1983 – oh God, over thirty years ago – we played Cardiff City on a wet and windswept afternoon. The game was memorable for me in that it was my first sighting of Pat Nevin in a Chelsea shirt. Pat scored the opening goal and Colin Lee, partnering Kerry Dixon upfront for one of the very last times, scored the second. I can remember the feeling of being under The Shed roof, sheltering again like penguins, on that autumnal day three decades ago like it was yesterday. Ah, memories.

Another Chelsea vs. Cardiff City memory was from October 1976…even further away, yet the reminiscences remain strong. I had travelled up to London with my parents and an uncle. For once, Ian Britton didn’t fill the number seven berth – that position was filled by Brian Bason, remember him? Stalwarts Ken Swain and Ray Lewington scored as we won 2-1 in front of a healthy 28,409. Lewi didn’t score many, but his goal was a net buster from 30 yards. In those days, I always seemed to manage to choose Chelsea home games that were marred by football hooliganism. Earlier in 1974, there had been trouble at the Spurs home game. Later in 1976-1977, we witnessed untold agro at the Chelsea vs. Millwall game. Then, more of the same at the Chelsea vs. Spurs game in 1978. I think my parents weren’t fazed by it; it never took place in the new East Stand. I can definitely remember punches being thrown at the Cardiff fans as we walked past the old North Stand entrance after the game. I remember my father telling me –

“Always rough, that Cardiff lot.”

Another strong memory was the presence of TV cameras at the Cardiff game in 1976. Ah, the excitement of spotting a huge TV camera – the ones with the cameraman sitting on the back of it, ready to pivot around and follow the action – behind The Shed goal was magical in those days. It meant that the game – the game that I had seen in person – would be shown on TV, usually “The Big Match”, and much chat at school on the Monday would no doubt follow. On one memorable occasion, I even saw myself on TV. What a thrill.

Inside the ground, I met up with Bournemouth Steve, who was sitting alongside Alan, Tom and I. Although Steve isn’t a Chelsea fan, I was pleased to hear him refer to Chelsea as “we” on a number of occasions.

Unlike in 2010 when 6,000 Cardiff fans attended the game, barely 1,500 were present. There was one solitary Welsh flag. A poor show.

After the initial buzz of seeing the team back on home soil for the first time in a month, the atmosphere was typically muted. At least the rain had headed off to cause misery elsewhere. The sun was out. It was a fine day for football.

In 1976 and 1983 – more strong memories – Cardiff played in all yellow due to the colour clash. Due to the ludicrous decision of Malaysian owner Vincent Tan to change the Bluebirds’ colours to red and black in 2012, a change was not required.

Ryan Bertrand was in for the wounded Ashley Cole and Samuel Eto’o was preferred to Fernando Torres. Frank Lampard and Ramires again paired up in the deep-lying midfield positions. It seems to me that Jose likes this pairing. He also prefers Brana to Dave at right back. Elsewhere in the team, there are still question marks. With JT recalled after being ignored by Benitez, Jose seems unable to choose between partnering him with Luiz or Cahill. Does the midfield of Oscar, Hazard and Mata pick itself? Clearly not. Up front, I think that Mourinho favours Torres, but don’t quote me.

Chelsea’s first chance fell to Juan Mata, but Eto’o’s pass was met with an “air shot” from our little number ten; from the follow-up, Branislav Ivanovic blasted over.

My mind was distracted for the Cardiff goal, thinking about 1983 or 1976 maybe, so I only caught the Luiz / Cech “after you Claude” manoeuvre which resulted in Jordon Mutch – who? – being able to chip an effort into our goal.

In the far corner, the Welsh were buoyant :

“One nil to the sheepshaggers.”

Oh boyo.

We were rusty for most of the first-half. John Terry came close with two headers from corners. At the other end, Peter Cech leapt high to turn a Cardiff free-kick past the far post. Apart from a couple of rare excursions into our half, Cardiff offered little. It was a half to forget, though. I spent an inordinate amount of time watching the airplanes on their approach into Heathrow, just like we all did during those grim days in the ‘eighties.

On 32 minutes, I was watching one of the famous Chelsea pigeons swoop through the sky and settle on the north stand roof; I therefore momentarily missed Marshall lose control as Eto’o pounced. I only saw the ball with Eden Hazard – up to then, quite invisible – and wondered what on earth had happened. Then, the disbelief as Eto’o buggered up his chance, to be quickly displaced with relief as Hazard slammed home the loose ball.

I’d missed the build-up to the first two goals, though; not good enough.

Luiz was booked for a silly block; he had endured a poor first-half.

We all had.

There was a treat at half-time. Pat Nevin, my favourite ever Chelsea player by a ridiculously wide margin, was on the pitch with Neil Barnett.

A nice bit of 1983/2013 symmetry Chelsea. Thank you.

There was one of those lame half-time competitions, this time involving various star struck youngsters dribbling and – mainly – scoring past Stamford at the Matthew Harding end. Neil Barnett then demanded that Pat tried his luck; for a few seconds we were transported back in time as Pat dribbled towards goal. Alas, almost typically, his shot was saved.

Don’t worry Pat; at least it wasn’t as bad as that penalty against Manchester City in 1985.

The second-half began and I relied on my mantra of “we always play better attacking our end in the second period” to see us through. I had been cheered by Liverpool’s dropped points at Newcastle, but this was a “must win” for us. Marshall was booked for time-wasting, which had been noted by the referee and home supporters alike. A shot from Eto’o straight at Marshall but other Chelsea chances were rare. Mourinho replaced the subdued Mata with Oscar. Soon after, Torres entered the pitch, replacing Ryan Bertrand.

Jose was clearly going for it, with just three at the back now.

Mourinho was seemingly sent to the stands for an argument with the fourth official; at the time, the reasons were unsure.

After a Lampard corner had been cleared, a pass from Hazard right down below me found Eto’o inside the Cardiff penalty box. He moved his body to the right, caught the defender off balance, and drilled his shot home, low just inside the near post. I caught his exultant sprint, arm-raised Shearer-like, and his jump into the air over in the far corner. At last, a Chelsea striker had scored a league goal for us. Get in you beauty.

Alan, as Tom Jones : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, as Rob Brydon : “COMLD.”

Tidy.

Typical Mourinho now; with a lead, he reverted back to playing four at the back as Dave replaced Eto’o. Although Cardiff substitute Kim ran at the heart of the Chelsea defence, causing Petr Cech to save on a couple of occasions, we increased our lead in the last quarter of an hour.

Firstly there was a gorgeous goal by Oscar. Our Brazilian picked the ball up and went on a little run before chipping an exquisite dipper that just grazed Marshall’s bar before bouncing down and into the net.

Secondly, Eden Hazard danced into the Cardiff box, shooting low. His shot hit Marshall. Just like at Carrow Road, the goalkeeper took the sting out of the shot, but was helpless to stop the ball roll over the line.

I’ll be honest. The 4-1 score hugely flattered us.

However, our record in the league is now a healthy 5-2-1.

We’re in second place.

And we haven’t even “clicked” yet.

Very tidy.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2013-2014.