Tag Archives: 1984-1985

Tales From The Group Of Death

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Chelsea vs. Shakhtar Donetsk : 7 November 2012.

This game was my fifty-sixth Champions League game at Stamford Bridge and there have been few which have turned out to be more dramatic. In fact, this one turned out to be one of the most dramatic home games that I have ever seen.

Well, since last Wednesday, anyway.

Parky was back in the fold again and he accompanied me on my Wednesday evening drive to the city. As part payment, he plied me with a Cornish pasty and a Coke. In return, I made sure we were safely was parked up at 6.30pm.

I have mentioned before that my mate Simon is heavily involved in the shooting of a film and he had been in touch during the week in the search for a specific prop. He was in need of an old style, pre-modern badge Chelsea pennant to hang in the front of a car. He asked a few of us if we could come up with anything. I had a rummage around. I was successful.

The pennant race was over. Inside The Goose, I handed over a rather tattered plastic pennant with wonky lettering from around 1970. I said I wanted a mention in the film credits. The filming starts on Saturday and Simon is in for a very intense four week period. The game against Shakhtar will be his last for a while. I’m not too sure what the film’s plot entails, but it stars Aiden Gillen from “The Wire.” There will be one scene to be shot inside a boozer and all of us were hoping to be involved in that, but Simon told us that the date for that particular scene was a Wednesday. The Wednesday, in fact, of the last Champions League group phase game, when we play the team from Denmark with the unpronounceable name.

So, we will miss out on being involved in the film. A shame. We’re good in pubs.

I endeavoured to make it inside for the kick-off. It was a close-run thing. A large line at the MHU turnstiles meant that I missed the teams coming out onto the pitch, but thankfully I made the start. I ran through the team and there were a few changes from our trip to Swansea. The biggest surprise was the omission of John Terry. There were only a few empty seats in the away section. It held around 1,300 Ukrainians. This far surpassed our following in Donetsk which was in the 150-250 range. I have no doubt that the 1,300 in the south-east corner were bolstered by many Ukrainians who now call London home. It is, after all, the most cosmopolitan of all European cities.

I had a quick scan of the match programme. There was a little preview of our game on November 20th in Turin when we play Juventus. Unbeknown to me, the Piedmont capital is twinned with the city of Detroit, due mainly to both cities’ links to the motor industry. Soon into the game, I received a text message from my mate Tullio in Turin to say that he had managed to secure a ticket for the match. Just as in 2009, we will be watching our two teams play against each other. I have known Tullio since 1981. More of that later.

We began like a team possessed. After only a few minutes, Oscar sent over an absolutely fantastic cross from wide on the right wing. Not only was it played with perfect depth and precision, but it even dropped right on the six yard box, making the goalkeeper Pyatov have to judge the immediate bounce of the ball. An onrushing Fernando Torres was only inches away from connecting. The keeper then failed to read a back pass and Torres charged down his poor attempted clearance. By the time the ball had crossed the line, the Stamford Bridge crowd were roaring and Fernando Torres was running down to Parkyville in wild celebration.

Get in!

It was Fernando Torres’ nineteenth Chelsea goal and – yes, here we go again – I have seen every one of them.

Alan – in a generic Slavic accent:

“They will have to come at us now.”

Chris – similarly:

“Come on my little diamonds.”

Almost immediately after, Torres broke free and almost scored a second, but his shot was parried. Crazily, Shakhtar equalised in the very next move. Fernandinho – possibly some lost relative of the gruesome twosome from Peckham – was allowed to cross from the right and a virtually unmarked Willian easily prodded home.

Game on.

There was no denying it; our visitors – wearing a bright orange and black kit – played some superb football in the first-half. Their play reminded me of our home game with Manchester City last December, when they made us look like fools in the first half. Their passing and movement was excellent. But, equally so, our defending was shocking. We gifted their playmakers far too much room and continually failed to close down the man with the ball. That’s a cardinal sin in my book. In particular, though I hate to single him out, Ryan Bertrand was continually out of position. Mistakes were being made all over the pitch though. We seemed to be half-asleep. We were sloppy.

Alan and I gave a running commentary throughout.

“Come on Ramires, that’s poor…Ivanovic, what are you doing…come on Cech, talk to your defenders…oh God, Luiz, just clear it…Ryan, watch your marker…come on boys…get in the game, Oscar…get stuck in Torres…Mata looks knackered.”

We agreed that Mikel was the one player holding firm and doing his job well.

Cech scrambled away a quickly-taken corner which caught everyone unawares. Eden Hazard found Torres, who nimbly turned on a sixpence but hit the side-netting. Teixera was narrowly wide with a low drive which zipped low past Cech’s right hand post. There was no denying it, Shakhtar were mustard.

Before the game, it was obvious that this would be a tough one. In theory, we had to win it. Of course, a lot depended on the Juventus game. If they dropped points, could we –just – afford to also? The news came through that Juve were ahead.

Porca Dio.

Oh boy. Anyone who thought that this would be an easy qualification group was wrong. This was as tough a group that I have known.

Italian Champions, Ukrainian Champions, European Champions.

Forget faltering Manchester City’s group. Here was 2012’s Group of Death.

This was a quiet and definitely nervy Stamford Bridge. We were too edgy to sing many songs. The MHL were all standing – a good sign – but there was hardly any noise. I watched with gritted teeth. I sensed that my face must’ve been a picture.

“Look at that miserable bastard.”

My face changed on forty minutes. A Mata ball was headed away by the Donetsk ‘keeper, who was under pressure from Ivanovic, of all people. The ball fell right at Oscar, but he chose not to take a touch and control the ball. He knew that the ‘keeper was stranded on the edge of his box, so he decided to act quickly. He side-swiped a volley back over the doomed ‘keeper and we all watched, amazed, as the ball flew into the net.

YES!

We could hardly believe it. It was a magnificent strike and the crowd thundered. Oscar ran towards The Shed and his delirious team mates soon joined him. I remember a similar lob from distance from the late David Rocastle in the Viktoria Zizkov game in 1994.

At the break, we knew that we were extremely lucky to be ahead. Tore Andre Flo was on the pitch at the break. We all loved him down at Chelsea, though at first he looked gangly and was unconvincing. His two goals at Real Betis in 1998 turned him into an instant Chelsea folk hero.

Well, lamentably, we were still asleep at the start of the second. A quick move by the visitors and the ball was crashed low into the box by Srna. That man Willian was there again to pounce.

2-2.

Bollocks.

With Juventus wining easily, things were looking desperate and my face mirrored the situation. Frown lines appeared and my hair grew even greyer.

For the next forty minutes, Chelsea fought to get a grip on the game. Chances were created, but the tension grew as each minute passed with no goal. Jon Obi Mikel shot over and then Shaktar countered with a long shot from distance with thudded against the base of Cech’s post. Mikel then scored, but the linesman had flagged early for offside. Ramires, after a poor first period, was back to his old self, tackling with perfect timing and balance, charging forward with gusto.

On 73 minutes, Eden Hazard – who was becoming more and more involved – sent a ball through for Ramires. His run was perfectly timed and he looked confident and strong. Just as he was about to pull the trigger he fell to the floor and we all expected the Spanish referee to blow. To our consternation, he waved play on.

I was so angry, I couldn’t speak.

I sat down and put my head in my hands.

Had I miss-read what I had just seen? Am I so blindly partisan that I immediately think that any challenge against a Chelsea player is a foul? Am I that far out-of-touch?

No. It was a penalty.

The home crowd erupted in displeasure.

Here we go again.

The game continued on and I spent a lot of my time clock-watching. It’s always the same when we are chasing the game.

“I’m surprised there’s been no subs, Al.”

We tried to engineer our way through the orange and black rear guard. The Shakhtar defence were giants. Oscar was replaced by Moses.

The quote of the night came from Alan alongside me after a Shakhtar player had stayed down too long after a Chelsea challenge.

“Get up you radioactive cnut.”

We had a lot of corners. Obi wide with a volley. Cahill over from a corner. The tension mounted. In truth, the visitors had not been so much of a threat in the second period. They were obviously happy with a share in the spoils. And yet, they had a flurry of half-chances in the very last minute as the game was agonisingly stretched. I was aging by the minute.

The referee signalled three extra minutes. I sighed once again. We would have to go Turin and win.

We were mired in third position with only five points from twelve.

Sorry, Tullio. Sorry, Mario. Needs must.

On 93 minutes, Alan rose and said “well, in light of what happened last week, I’m off. See you Sunday.”

“See you Sunday, Al.”

A few seconds later, we won a corner and the crowd roared our support. Juan Mata walked over to take it. I held my camera and centered on the action. I focussed. I saw Mata strike the ball well.

Bloody hell, that’s a great corner – that’s right on the money.

Click.

I caught the leap of Victor Moses. My photograph caught that moment in time of when the ball is but a foot away from his forehead and is on its way.

I watched as the ball crashed into the goal and the net bulged.

The net bulged.

Anyone who is into football will know that feeling.

The net bulged.

YEEEEEEEEEES! GET IN!

I was bubbling over again, but captured the resultant race of the players alongside and behind Moses as he ran towards the NE corner. One photo has Pyatov hacking the ball away disconsolately. I immediately turned back to my right and saw Alan racing back towards me, his face an absolute picture, his fist clenched.

YES!

There was a massive celebration taking place on the far side. Moses was engulfed by fellow team mates and the moment seemed to last forever.

Within seconds of the restart, the Spanish referee blew for time.

We had done it again. Bloody hell.

There was a predictable mood of euphoria as the teams left the pitch, but also one of bewilderment. Two consecutive Wednesdays, two consecutive nights of high drama, two games where goals were scored in the 94th minute.

Oh boy.

There are no doubts that the visitors were desperately unlucky not to at least draw. Over the two games, they were by far the better team. In fact, had the two games been played in the knockout phase, Chelsea would be out, since the Ukrainians scored more away goals than us.

But we kept battling, we kept going. The Chelsea of old has not been completely dismantled. For once, let’s look on the bright side. Let’s wallow in the positives. We didn’t give up. Full credit to us for that.

Liverpool – be warned.

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Tales From The Home Of The Chelsea Pensioners

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Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 14 November 2010.

Oh boy.

I collected Parky at about 9.45am and our route took us up on to the M4. We entered the motorway at junction 17 and the next exit was for Swindon West and Wotton Bassett, a town that has become famous over the past two years or so. RAF Lyneham is nearby and this old airfield is the one which is always used for the repatriation of the mortally wounded soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan. Every time that a body is brought back, the town of Wotton Bassett comes to a reverential standstill as the cortege moves slowly through the quiet Wiltshire town.

On this Remembrance Sunday, we looked forward to being able to pay our own quiet respects to the fallen at Stamford Bridge later in the day.

Parky was suffering with a heavy cold and I hoped that I wouldn’t succumb to any bugs that might be flying around. As we passed Reading, I put the radio on so we could listen to the bells of Big Ben which signalled the start of the two minute silence at The Cenotaph.

After a quick breakfast, I popped down to the stadium. I picked up a few copies of the new yearbook, just out, for myself and a few absent friends. I quickly got one of the yearbooks – a spare one – signed by Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti and decided to offer it up as a prize in a competition.

Quiz Question – Please provide an “alternative title” for this report. Please PM me the answer.

“Tales From…”

It was a miserable, rainy day in deepest SW6 and I rushed back to The Goose where the clans were gathering from near and far. With Manchester United dropping yet more away points at Villa Park, our game against Steve Bruce’s Sunderland represented a great chance for us to move further ahead of Alex Ferguson’s team. The signs were good. Our last six home league games against the Black Cats all ended in Chelsea wins, with a goal tally of 23-2. Sunderland is one of those clubs in England who, for whatever reason, do not seem to have national appeal, unlike their hated neighbours Newcastle United. I can think of the same scenario with Sheffield Wednesday and Leeds United, two more clubs of similar size, but with vastly differing supporter profiles. For some reason, there has always been a certain cachet about supporting some teams…and Sunderland, like Sheffield Wednesday, doesn’t have it. If you meet a Sunderland fan, it’s likely they come from Wear side. There aren’t legions of Mackems in Dorset, Norfolk, Kent or Worcestershire. Chelsea on the other hand…

The most famous, or infamous to be truthful, Chelsea vs. Sunderland game in my living memory is the Milk Cup semi-final second leg in March 1985. This was the biggest game of that famous season, our first one back in the top flight since 1979. As luck would have it, this was the year that I went to college in Stoke-On-Trent. It was perfect timing for me I have to say. In 1982-1983, I was at school and attended four games. In 1983-1984, I was on the dole and re-taking A Levels but still attended eleven games. In 1984-1985, with a student grant burning a hole in my wallet, plus money saved from a summer job, I went to twenty-two Chelsea games. I was particularly proud of attending 15 out of 21 home league games, most by train from Stoke. It was a breakthrough season really and I loved being able to afford to watch Chelsea every couple of weeks. However, due to a variety of factors, I only watched weekend games and therefore missed all of the early games in the Milk Cup ( League Cup ) run which gathered momentum throughout that season. The highlight of this run ( no – it wasn’t the Pat Nevin penalty miss against Manchester City ), were the three games against Sheffield Wednesday in the quarters. We eventually defeated them and Sunderland were our opponents in the semi-finals. We lost the away leg at Roker Park 2-0 but were confident of turning things round at The Bridge. There had been a particularly bitter winter to endure and the game was postponed once, and then eventually rescheduled for Monday 4th. March 1985.

I’m not sure if I should have attended any lectures that afternoon, but I caught the lunchtime train south, looking forward to not only my first ever Chelsea League Cup game, but also – tantalisingly – my first ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe these days, but this game wasn’t all ticket and so I headed straight down to Stamford Bridge. I can easily remember the sense of anticipation outside the old Bovril Gate, now the little alley which runs up to the megastore, as Chelsea fans queued in the late afternoon light. It seemed doubly odd to be at Stamford Bridge at such a weird time…4.30pm on a Monday afternoon. I seem to remember that the members were told to line up at the Bovril Gate, while the general public massed at the old Shed turnstiles. I was in the old stadium as early as 5.30pm and soon took my place on The Benches. The kick-off was at 7.30.pm. You had to be in early to get a good spot. There is no doubt that I watched the game with Alan, my match day companion to this day. We always sat on the back row of The Benches right on the halfway line.

I remember the north stand being occupied by about 6,000 Sunderland fans and maybe about 3,000 Chelsea fans, kept separate via fenced pens. Three pens for Sunderland, one for Chelsea. Undoubtedly, the Chelsea fans in that section would have been “up for it.” Back in the ‘seventies, I always had the impression that The Shed used to be occupied by mouthy kids, whereas the inhabitants of the infamous Chelsea North Stand were older, wiser, wilder and not to be messed with. They were the ones who regularly attacked the away followers after all. In fact, by 1985, the general consensus was that our top boys used to congregate in the East Lower seats ( the notorious Gate 13 ) and the northern reaches of the West Stand seats…again, to be close to the away fans.

The game began and we scored after only six minutes with my hero Pat Nevin setting up fellow Scot David Speedie to volley home. Cue wild celebrations all over the packed stands and terraces. There was a massive 38,440 in the old place that night and the noise cascaded around me as we begged for a second. However, Sunderland scored via a breakaway goal via former Chelsea winger Clive Walker and our world collapsed. We were now 3-1 down on aggregate. Then, a calamitous defensive error allowed Walker to score again. This is when the trouble began. Seats were thrown from the East Lower and the wooden benches from our side were broken up and thrown onto the running track in front of us. A pitch invasion was attempted. This is the era of us being “a right bunch of b – stards when we lose” was very true. Inside, I was in turmoil. I hated seeing us lose our biggest game for ages, but also hated seeing the loons causing mayhem everywhere I looked. The police tried to quell the situation and they were – along with hundreds of press photographers – swarming all over the place. At one stage, I’m sure there was a police horse on the pitch as play continued. Most amazingly of all, when Sunderland scored a third goal, there was a policeman inside our six yard box ( playing the scorer onside if I remember correctly! ) and the scenes on the pitch were truly catastrophic for the name of Chelsea Football Club. Worse was to come when a Chelsea fan, John Leftly, raced on to the pitch from the West Stand and confronted Clive Walker. A punch may even have been thrown. Our reputation was in tatters. Pat Nevin lobbed a second at The Shed End, but nobody cared at that stage. I made my way to the exit, sad and disconsolate. In the final moment, Speedie was sent-off. It was one of those nights. I walked back to South Kensington tube, mainly to avoid West Ham’s ICF, who were playing Wimbledon, since I knew the Chelsea hoolies would be looking to ambush them at Fulham Broadway. I eventually got back to Stoke at about 2am. The Battle Of Stamford Bridge was behind me and our next major semi-final would be some nine years away. There was a paper headline the next day which said “Hell hath no fury like Chelsea in defeat.” For the next couple of games in fact, the FA ordered that the benches be shut and, by the time I attended a game against Tottenham in April, the wooden benches had disappeared forever. We would, from then until 1997, be sitting on solid cold concrete.

Back to 2010 and I found Parky and the others in our usual corner of the pub. There was the usual myriad of conversations flying around. Mike from NYC was over once again and he hot-footed it from the Fans Forum meeting. I chatted to a few people, but wasn’t paying too much attention to the Everton vs. Arsenal game on the TV. My mate Andy had gone to the Rangers vs. Aberdeen game the previous day and was happy to report that the noise levels at Ibrox were constantly high throughout the game. He commented that his faith in football was restored – at Ibrox it had remained a working class game, followed by passionate fans. I wondered, by comparison, how the Chelsea vs. Sunderland game would pan out. Kelly, fresh from his whirlwind tour of London, Liverpool, York and Paris, arrived at about 2.45pm and joined me for a few conversations about a few choice topics. He was with his wife and sister again and they had been out for a meal with Neil Barnett the previous night. I think he said it was a Lesbian restaurant, but it might have been a Lebanese one. I mentioned to Kelly our formidable record against Sunderland – you know, 23 goals for, just 2 against – and then added

“Well, that just means we’ll lose 2-0.”

Down at the ground, we heard that JT wasn’t playing and I noted the centre-back pairing of Ivanovic and Ferreira and was worried. I also wasn’t sure about the same midfield as at Anfield. I looked over at the away quadrant and guessed at only about 400 fans at the very most. Two Chelsea pensioners and two guardsmen in bearskins accompanied the teams onto the pitch. The two minute silence brought a lump to the throat. There were three white remembrance banners this year.

We will remember them.

For the first half an hour, we dominated the possession and seemed to be in control. However, ex-Chelsea winger Bolo Zenden seemed to be up for it. A lovely chipped ball was played by Mikel into the path of Anelka, but Sunderland ‘keeper Craig Gordon palmed the ball away before flattening Anelka. No penalty. A shimmering run by Zhirkov deep into the Sunderland box was not matched by a great finish. He unfortunately blasted wide. Didier had a couple of central runs at the defence, only to be fouled twice. Nothing came of the ensuing free-kicks. At this stage, the atmosphere was dead. It was as bad as I can remember it, especially for a crowd of over 40,000. Yet again, Ramires was unable to get into the game and it concerned us all.

In the last fifteen minutes of the first-half, we went to pieces. Ivanovic was so lucky not to be red-carded for pulling back Welbeck. It was the United-loanee who forced a great sprawling save from Cech on 35 minutes and this was the first effort on goal in a crazy period. Welbeck was clean through soon after, but Cech thwarted him again. Our defence suddenly seemed to be very porous and it was all Sunderland. After a double save from Cech, the ball wasn’t cleared. Onuoha dribbled straight at the heart of our once impregnable defence and appeared to miskick his finish. We groaned as it crawled over the line.

Blimey – where did all that come from? If it wasn’t for Petr Cech, we would’ve been 3-0 down. No question. However, despite our weakened team, I was confident that the manager would make the requisite team changes at the break. One goal and we’d get back into it. No worries. Just before the restart, Neil Barnet was finishing off his half-time work with a comment which went something along the lines of –

“And a mention to Kelly Babin from America, who I got very drunk with last night.”

He didn’t mention any lesbians, though.

We began with a little more spirit in the first few moments of the second-half with Malouda looking the one to take it to the visitors. However, Sunderland broke away and cut through our square defence on 52 minutes and we were two down. The scorer was Gyan, one of the few stars of that hideously boring World Cup in South Africa. Oh hell. Bizarrely, Ancelotti kept faith with Ramires, but subbed Malouda with Kalou. Far be it for me to second-guess a manager who has twice won the Champions League, but – Carlo, come on, mate!

At last, the docile Chelsea support got into the game with a throaty and lusty “Carefree” and I hoped, in that romantic nature of mine, that we could roar the team on to a memorable fight back. To be honest, we created few chances, despite the youngsters Mc Eachren and Kakuta entering the fray. If anything, Sunderland could have increased their lead.

Hundreds of spectators were leaving even before the catastrophe of Sunderland’s third. Poor old Ashley did well to summon enough strength to get back to cover his left flank, but then unbelievingly played the ball right into the path of Welbeck.

I have to be honest; Sunderland could have won 5-0. It was our worst home league defeat since a 0-3 reverse against Manchester United in 2002.

I absolutely hated to see all of those empty blue seats in the last five minutes. That ain’t Chelsea.

Oh well – unlike 1985, at least there wasn’t a full blown pitch invasion.

As I walked away from Stamford Bridge, a few thoughts entered my mind. Why are those two Chelsea fans behind me smiling and laughing? When will the texts start? How the hell did we let in three in one home game? Is the mitigating circumstance of being without JT, Lamps, Ess and Alex a valid excuse for this lacklustre show? Will I get rid of my spare ticket for Birmingham next week? Will Kelly be returning soon? Is the CIA website in meltdown? Where is that Lesbian restaurant?

Kelly texted me – “3 games, 1 goal, thousands of pounds – loved every moment.”

Back at the car, the texts were coming through. There was one from Del, a Liverpool fan, who commented that, all of a sudden, we weren’t so Butch. As we drove out of the darkened West London streets, Parky and I got a few things off our chest about our poor performance, but were soon looking forward to the game at St. Andrews next Saturday, where there will be 4,000 noisy Chelsea fans encamped behind the goal. It is likely that there will be another weakened Chelsea team on the pitch and we will be facing tough and workmanlike opposition.

There will be no hiding place. We’ll need to be together. Let’s go.

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Tales From Sunny Stoke

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Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 12 September 2009.

What is it with last minute winners versus Stoke?

I left my Somerset home at 7.15am and, on leaving the village, almost ploughed into twenty docile pheasants idling across the road. Such are the hazards of country life. Could they not tell I had a match to go to? There were clear skies overhead as I picked up Lord Parky soon after. It was a pretty uneventful trip up past Birmingham to Stoke. I was in contact with Kev ( Gromit ) who is over for a week or so from his home in Detroit. We agreed to meet up at his motel in Stoke…it turned out that he was staying in a converted pub called “The Plough,” one which I used to occasionally frequent during my spell at Stoke during my college years.

I briskly drove past the site of the old Stoke ground, the old Victoria Ground – a lovely old stadium, a shame it had to go – and it was a sad sight indeed…the pitch was over-run with weeds and the stands and terraces were no more. Hard to believe that I had seen quite a few Stoke games there, including two against Chelsea.

My spell in Stoke lasted from September 1984 to July 1987 and it was a perfect location for me…Chelsea was just two hours away on the train, but Stoke was right in the heart of a smattering of away venues that were no more than 90 minutes away. In those three years away from home, I saw us play in Coventry, Birmingham, Sheffield, Manchester, Leicester, Nottingham and Liverpool. My first sight of Stoke was on a Sunday in late September 1984 when my parents dropped me off at the student residence, no more than half a mile away from the Stoke ground. In 1984-85, Stoke were in the top division, but were a very poor team. I saw them play five times at home that season, but the highlight was Chelsea’s last away game of the season…at Stoke, a mere ten minute walk away. We won 1-0 with a header from David Speedie and we were full of thoughts of Europe for the first time since 1971. Shamefully, Heysel put paid to all that.

I spoke to Kev and Parky about how surreal it was for me to be able to walk home from a Chelsea game. It seemed to end that whole season in a perfect way for me…I made it to over twenty games in that first season back in the top flight and I was grateful of my ideal location, right in the middle of “football country.” I still have a slight soft-spot for Stoke.

I parked up and we had a pre-match breakfast in a cheap-and-cheerful café. Both Parky and myself noted a baseball-cap wearing local who was sat nearby. We got the impression that he was out “spotting” but Kev was blissfully unaware. Cathy and Dog were already in a nearby pub and so we made plans to meet up. But first, I shot over the road to buy some local delicacies – five meat and potato Wrights Pies, manna from the Gods while I was a poor student. I half-expected to see Parky and Kev in a bloody heap on the floor on my return, set upon my Stoke’s notorious “Naughty Forty,” but all was well.

We spent a couple of hours in two working class pubs – no frills, very old school. It was great chatting to Kev again after last seeing him in Texas. We had a few laughs and I think we share a similar sense of humour, despite Kev’s over-reliance on quoting “Monty Python.” I put this down to Kev now living in America – nobody quotes Python sketches to me in England, but as soon as I set foot in America, I get some Yank talking to me about “dead parrots” and comments like “he’s not a messiah – he’s a very naughty boy.”

We parked up at the stadium and we were soon inside. The immediate area inside was full of Chelsea fans doing The Bouncy. Plastic beer bottles were being thrown everywhere, some with beer in, some empty. I left them to it and made my way up to my seat in row 25 alongside Alan and Gary. As luck would have it, Kev was two rows in front. I had warned him about wearing colours ( as we were drinking in Stoke pubs ) and he had changed into his Chelsea shirt as soon as we had parked up.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon – very similar to our game at the Brittania a shade under a year ago in fact. How time flies.

The first thing to say is that for a crowd of only 24,000 home fans, the Stoke lot certainly made a racket. Their version of “Oh when the reds go marching in” was very impressive…top marks. They also sung their trademark “Delilah” with gusto, too.

This was the stereotypical “game of two halves” really. Stoke’s over-physical approach was difficult for us to handle and Gary commented –

“They’ve rattled us.”

I had to agree. There was the strange instance of Kalou getting booked for the block of Delap’s throw, but Alan reckoned it was for ungentlemanly conduct…a cover-all phrase if ever there was. Mike Dean soon became public enemy number one. Our approach play was laboured and we were struggling. Stoke sensed danger and their supporters rubbed our noses in it –

“You’re not signing anymore.”

A cross from the Stoke right down below me dropped into the area. I spotted Cech advance and I sensed danger –

“He’s coming, he’s coming!”

Indeed he did – and Stoke went ahead. The stadium erupted and it was a sickening sight.

“Delilah” echoed around the trim stands. Injuries to two Stoke players resulted in a massive eight minutes of injury time. Thankfully, we made use of those minutes when a superb pass from Frank, perfectly weighted, found Drogba who smashed the ball over ( it may have been through ) the Stoke ‘keeper.

Get in!

The first-half had been poor, but with hardly any chances for either side. I noted Frank, Drogba and JT encouraging the away support to get behind the team as they walked off at the break.

“Come on!”

The second half was different – a constant barrage of pressure. Mikel got better as the game continued and Ashley was up and down the wing as if his life depended on it. Chance after chance came our way, but the clock kept ticking. How many awful corners did Frank drop into the Stoke box? We have been saying for years that his corners are rubbish, but nobody listens. Shots high, shots wide, shots not very handsome…Stoke were defending with great conviction and I was beginning to think we would be leaving with just a point.

Not good enough.

Corner after corner came and went. The Chelsea support – though not at its best – kept roaring. A Londoner behind me was very loud and was obviously keen to get his hands on the prize for “the most over-use of the C word in 90 minutes.” He was relentless and I was happy I didn’t have a child with me. The PA announced five more minutes extra time and a few early leavers came back to their seats…where there is hope!

Well, on 94 minutes, a quick interplay between Anelka and Malouda and – bang! We saw the net ripple, but could hardly believe it!

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

I lost myself, but briefly focussed back on the pitch and saw the players steaming over to the bench…

Big John and me screamed at each other. I was given a bear hug by a complete stranger ( OK mate, that hurts now, put me down ! ) and we had the best ever Bouncy.

Fantastic stuff. The whistle went and my head was spinning. The Chelsea players, dressed in all blue, trotted towards us and the away stand was a forest of arms, gesticulating and clapping – a perfect picture, a perfect moment.

Them and us – players and fans – as one.

Kev was obviously ecstatic and I was so pleased for him. We met up with Parky and trotted back to the car, bumping into Mark Coden as we waited for the police to clear a rowdy group of Stokies. It took an hour to leave the car park – time for a Wrights pie and we listened to the scores.

It was a lovely trip south with the sun setting over the Malvern Hills. We bumped into a bemused Manchester City fan at the services and he could hardly believe what he had seen at Eastlands. He was dazed, but overjoyed. We wished him well.

We stopped for a quiet pint in Tewkesbury at an old pub overlooking the River Severn. It clearly hadn’t been a vintage Chelsea performance, but who cares.

“Top of the league – Spurs next – life is good.”

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Tales From The Longest Day

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Chelsea vs. Burnley : 29 August 2009.

It feels great to be back at the top of the league once again – with a few laughs along the way, too.

This turned out to be a long day spent at HQ. I collected Parky at 8am and met up with a few others in the café at 10am. Bob from San Francisco had been in town since Thursday and had gone to the “Star On A Stool” event with Petr Cech, Daniel Sturridge and Paolo Ferreira that night. After a bacon sandwich apiece, we joined up with the boys in The Goose beer garden. This was another rushed pre-match and I only had time for a few pints.

The talk in the beer garden was off European trips in the autumn. Six of us have booked flights and two nights’ accommodation in Madrid for only £130. That’s a great price. I visited Madrid – for just one day – in 1987 and so can’t wait to back and see it again. A few of the lads are doing all three group stage games. We were like kids at Christmas time on the Thursday and I received around thirty emails during the day, talking about possible trips and it was so funny. The buzz grew with each new email. This was even before the draw took place! A few of us said that the day of the CL Group Phase draw is one of the most exciting days of the season.

Rob even said he gets more excited about the draw than some games these days and I, for one, knew exactly what he meant.

Porto and Atletico were easy places to book, but Cyprus was proving to be more difficult. Parky chimed in with the comment that one of his mates works at RAF Lyneham and he wondered if he could get the RAF to take a few paying guests over to Cyprus in a Hurricane troop carrier.

Parky was serious. I had visions of Rob, Gary and Alan getting parachuted in!

Lacoste Watch

Rob – brown
Bob – aqua
Parky – royal blue
Jokka – light blue

Unlike Hull City, we left in good time. I needed to call in at “the stall” to pick up a Kerry Dixon-signed copy of Mark Worrall’s new book “Chelsea Here Chelsea There.” I got to know Mark Worrall over the last year because I had learned that a mutual friend had been gravely ill – thankfully fully recovered. One thing led to another and I heard that he was bringing out a book to mark the silver anniversary of our iconic game at Highbury in 1984. He asked me to contribute and so I penned a three-thousand word piece, along with around fifteen other fans. Bob bought a copy – his was signed by Kerry Dixon, too. We made our way into the ground, my head full of Europe, the book and God knows what else.

One sight made me jolt. As I queued up for a couple of programmes, I saw a young lad in a claret and blue shirt and it was only when I saw “BFC” sewn into the back, I remembered that we were playing Burnley. I had simply not thought about the game nor our opponents in the pub. I was simply, as the song goes, there for the Chelsea. It made me laugh.

I was inside the stadium with plenty of time to spare, unlike for the home-opener. This would be a special day for me. This would be my 500th game at Stamford Bridge, going all of the way back to 1974. Glenn asked me what I could remember about my first game and I was full of memories but mentioned that we had Topic chocolate bars at half-time and that “I would never have imagined I would have reached five hundred.”

As the last few minutes ticked away, Alan and myself noticed some “European style” streamers being held from the MHU balcony wall. There were three together at either end and they formed the framework for the Chelsea – Pride Of London flag as it was passed along. I think the display needs more work ( more streamers for a start ) but at least the effort wasn’t lost on me. Further updates to follow as the season progresses.

The game began and it was a thoroughly entertaining first-half. Nikolas Anelka spurned an easy chance as he took one touch too many. Then, Frank uncharacteristically gave the ball away and the industrious Paterson shot wide after a great square pass. Had he struck the target, I am sure Cech would have been beaten. At the other end, we forced “The Beast” Jensen into making a range of excellent saves. I was surprised that Burnley only brought around 1,000 fans, especially since they brought 6,000 last season in the League Cup. However, Burnley is a really small town of only around 60,000 and so I suppose 1,000 isn’t too bad. The £50 tickets were another valid reason, as Alan pointed out.

This was a wide open game, though Chelsea were dominating the play – and chances. Our midfield was passing the ball around with glee and I remember thinking that at last we have round pegs in round holes in that all-important diamond. Deco was full of guile and touch, probing away. Essien gave so much more than Mikel in the withdrawn role, driving on in the way that only he can do. I noted that Frank Lampard and Herr Ballack kept changing flank and were very dominant. Our first goal came when Ballack pressurised a Burnley player into losing possession, Essien picked up the loose ball and set Drogba away with a perfect pass. Drogba cut the ball back for his strike partner Anelka to prod the ball home.

Yep – Drogba to Anelka again. More of the same please.

Half-time came and I showed a few close friends the new book. In addition to the 3,000 words in the book, there are also two photos…one of me at Chelsea in 1984 and one with my favourite ever player Pat Nevin in Moscow last year. There were a few shrieks of laughter at the 1984 one. Well, as if my some magical quirk of fate, who should be on the pitch with Neil at half-time but none other than Pat Nevin. Glenn, who travelled up with me to all those 1983-84 games, recognised the significance of Pat being on the pitch at my 500th game and I smiled in acknowledgement.

It was a perfect moment.

I read the programme during the rest of the break and was pleased to see an article on another of my favourite players from childhood – another number seven, Ian Britton. He played for us from 1972 to 1982, but also played for Burnley for three years. He even scored one of the most important goals in Burnley’s history in 1987, when his goal made it 2-0 in a game that Burnley had to win to avoid relegation from the Football League. He remains one hero I am yet to meet. I wonder if Beth can pull a few tricks at the CPO this November!

We continued to purr in the second-half and were rewarded with two lovely goals from Ballack and Ashley. During the build up to the third goal, Frank burst from midfield in a way that he simply would not be able to do had he been at the top of the diamond.

This was great stuff indeed and we could have scored six, maybe more.

We had twenty-five shots and Burnley had three. Men against boys. If I had to chose our best player, I would say that nobody played better than Deco.

After the game, I met up with San Francisco Bob ( unagi1 ) and we stopped off at The Finborough for a couple of pints of Becks Vier. He had watched a game from the MHL for the first time. We had a lovely chat about Chelsea and our respective home towns. The immediate post-game crowd drifted away until there were just the two of us, chattering away about Baltimore, Madrid and various other football cities. It’s a great life. We dropped in for a pizza and some Nastro Azzurro at Salvo’s, but the owner was in Italy. We watched, half-heartedly, the United vs. Arsenal game.

We then back-tracked and caught a cab down to The Imperial on the Kings’ Road, the former watering hole of Matthew Harding and The King. Rob had been there since 2.30pm and it was now 7.30pm. The drinking continued and we chatted with a few of the stragglers who were showing no signs of wanting to go home.

Sambucas were ordered and the night continued. I bumped into Mark’s mate Olly, who I had briefly met in Texas. Small world. He told me he had started the Chelsea Hairhunters group on Facebook and it made me chuckle. Two members of The Youth were there too. We left The Imperial at about 11pm and, via a quick chat with Digger at The Morrison, Rob, Bob and myself ended-up back at The Goose, the full circle completed.

We stayed on past midnight – more lagers, more sambucas, some amoretto for Rob.

“Amoretto – Chelsea Amoretto” we sung continuously. We were invited to stay behind for a “lock-in” and Reg started pouring out some free drinks. He poured Rob and me a lethal cocktail and I knew the end was in sight. We departed at about 2am and I crashed – literally – in Bob’s hotel room, while Rob headed down to the Broadway for a night bus.

It had been a top day in London Town.

Postscript – 

I was awoken by a text message from Rob at 8am. He was now back home, but had woken up at Hammersmith Hospital at around 3am. He had suffered a cut on the head and wanted to know what on earth had happened. I phoned him and we tried to piece it all together. I guess he had fallen – after all, he had been drinking for 16 hours!

The final shame, though, was this…in an attempt to check him out, the nurses had cut away his Lacoste polo and he had to travel home on the night bus wearing a hospital charity shirt.

Shade unknown.

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