Tales From The Hawthorns

Posted on May 21, 2015 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 18 May 2015.

The end of the season was nigh. It really did not seem so long ago that we still had ten league games left to play. And yet now there were just two games remaining. The Monday evening game at The Hawthorns seemed to conjure up mixed emotions. There was real sadness in the fact that this would be the last away game of the season. But happiness came with the realisation that we could bestow some love and appreciation on the team – the champions – once more. A trip to The Hawthorns is one of the easiest of the season for me. As I collected Parky from The Pheasant, I was relishing the chance to be among the tight little knot of three thousand loyalists in the away end later in the evening. There was a lovely buzz, growing with each passing hour, at the thought of a Chelsea game in the evening.

This would probably be the last time that The Pheasant gets a mention in these tales. Over the summer, my place of work changes from Chippenham to Melksham – same company, sparkling new premises – and we have already sorted out a new Parky pick-up point; a newly-built pub opposite my new place of work on the A350 called The Milk Churn. Parky had enjoyed a spirited send off at The Pheasant. He had already supped four pints while waiting for me to finish my shift.

There was an undoubted tingle of excitement, then, as we headed north to the trip to the stadium which sits on the boundary between Birmingham and the Black Country. I missed the match – another midweek fixture – at West Brom last season, but there were strong memories of the last three games that I had attended there. Four seasons ago, there was a 3-1 win under Carlo Ancelotti amid glorious self-mocking chants of “We’re Gonna Win Fuck All” from the smiling Chelsea contingent. Three seasons ago came a 1-0 defeat and chants of “Sacked In the Morning” from the home fans aimed at the fated Andre Villas-Boas (no wonder the home fans disliked him with a name like that). Two seasons ago, there came a 2-1 loss and the last league game for the much-loved Roberto di Matteo, who lost his job after the following game in Turin.

“The Chelsea manager’s graveyard” they called it, and with good reason.

Over the past three visits, we had endured two losses and a draw. The Hawthorns has clearly not been the happiest of hunting grounds at all. However, this season West Bromwich Albion have hardly set the world alight. I can’t think of another Premiership team that has endured such a nondescript season. There have been no relegation scares, only lower-mid table mediocrity. The both of us were confident of a Chelsea win.

“Two wins to finish off the season, ninety points surely” uttered Parky as he opened a bottle of cider as we headed through Gloucestershire.

Our pre-match at West Bromwich Albion is always the same; a few beers at the “Park Inn” hotel just off the M5. The hotel’s bar was over-run with Chelsea fans of a certain generation and it was lovely to see so many familiar faces. Parky and I found ourselves chatting to a little group of home fans as we downed some lager. One West Brom fan was the spokesman for the group. He mentioned the last time that he had ventured to Stamford Bridge – in the 1988-1989 season – when a last minute Graham Roberts penalty saved our skins. We bantered back and forth about that game – it was on New Year’s Eve – and he reminded me that Roberts later played for West Brom, though he was well past his prime. This link seemed to inspire the cheery Baggie.

“I’ve always felt, like, that – going back – West Brom were a bit like Chelsea. Flair players. Maybe not always winning much. But…”

I smiled, benignly, wondering where this was going. The standard comparison of my youth was more like Chelsea and Manchester City – ooh, the irony – but this was the first time that I had heard of this unlikely pairing. He continued on.

“And there’s a link with West Brom and Mourinho, you know.”

Now I was intrigued.

“Mourinho began as a driver didn’t he, for Bobby Robson, at Barcelona?”

I thought to myself “translator, not driver but keep going mate, I’m intrigued to see where this is going.”

“Well, Bobby Robson played here, at West Brom, in the ‘fifties. We played some pretty good stuff. I bet you that Robson mentioned his time at West Brom to Mourinho. The tactics, like.”

This was fantastic stuff. Expect a plaque to be erected at The Hawthorns over the summer stating that Chelsea’s success under Jose Mourinho was conceived and nurtured by Bobby Robson at West Brom in the ‘fifties.

The team line-up was shown on the bar TV.

“Diego Costa in, Loftus-Cheek playing, Remy in midfield, Izzy Brown on the bench.”

We left in good time for the 8pm kick-off, but the inevitable scrum at the turnstiles resulted in a delay. The rain had just started to fall. To my right was a large rainbow lightening the gloom. My enduring love of stadia – Simon Inglis calls it “stadiumitis” – flitted in to my mind.

“A rainbow over the site of the former Rainbow Stand, nice.”

As we waited in line, a familiar face at Chelsea was to be found singing songs to himself. A decidedly odd character at the best of times (I don’t think I have ever seen him sober), he was now putting to song every single thought that was entering his head.

“We are the Chelsea, we want to go in.”

“Let us in, let us in, let us in.”

“Getting wet, getting wet, getting wet.”

Oh boy.

To my left were two touristy-types, looking quite out of place, adorned with Chelsea track-suit tops, Chelsea coats and Chelsea scarves, obviously hot-foot from the megastore. Everywhere else, Chelsea colours were at the bare minimum, as per normal.

I edged towards Al and Gal, right behind the goal. I had just missed the guard of honour. Bollocks. There was just time for me to join in with both sets of fans clapping and singing along to “The Liquidator.”

“We are West Brom.”

“Chelsea.”

Chelsea in all yellow. It always reminds me of our 6-3 win at Goodison way back in August. Good noise from both sets of fans at the start. At West Brom, the noisiest section is right next to us in the shared Smethwick End. The three of us were just yards away from them. I was surprised at the amount of empty seats in the corners.

After a few early exchanges, the ball fell to Berahino outside the box. With no Chelsea player able to get close and charge down his shot, the ball tantalisingly curved away from Thibaut Courtois and inside the post. I was, annoyingly, right in line with the flight of the ball.

After less than ten minutes, we were a goal down, and the baying home fans just yards away were letting us have it.

Groan.

Out came their colourful array of songs, but then one which made me chuckle.

“WWYWYWS?”

I turned and looked at one in the eye, pointing “here.”

He waved away my gesticulations.

Thoughts wandered back to the 1985-1986 season with me in the Rainbow Stand; a 3-0 win in front of just 10,300, including 3,000 Chelsea.

“Where were you when you were shit, mate?”

As the game developed, we struggled to find any rhythm. Overhead, the skies grew dark and dirty.The home fans were buoyant. Their chants rang out. They suggested that we’d all be Albion fans by next week, which was at least original.

Then, a few moments of craziness, which the viewing millions in Belgravia, Brisbane, Bombay and Badgercrack, Nebraska probably saw – and understood – better than the three thousand in the Smethwick End. At the other end of the pitch, with Chelsea attacking down the right, the play was stopped. Initially, I thought the play was stopped for an offside. There appeared to be an “altercation” in the penalty area. For some reason, Diego Costa was booked, although Gal was convinced that he saw an elbow aimed at our number nine. While that melee was just about to be resolved, I looked up to see Cesc Fabregas drive the ball back towards the crowd of players in the box. I can only presume that he had heard a whistle and was returning the ball to the referee.

It was struck too well. It bounced back off a player. We thought nothing of it.

Red card.

The away end went ballistic.

To be honest, nobody was sure what had happened.

I still don’t.

Down to ten men, we seemed to play with an extra drive and with extra spirit. We troubled the home defence, but not the home goalkeeper. At the break, there was a general consensus that we’d claw a goal back.

Our hopes were smashed after just a minute of play when, down at the other end of course, we saw a defender – John Terry – attempt to rob Berahino of the ball from behind as the dangerous striker advanced on goal. I could only hope, from one hundred yards away, that it had been ball before leg. The referee had decided otherwise.

Berahino scored from the penalty.

The Baggies’ stadium was in full on “Boing Boing” mode now.

Their unique club anthem, with Black Country affectations, boomed out.

“The Lord’s moy shepherd, oil not want.

He makes me down to loy.

In pastures green, he leadeth me.

The quiet waters boy.”

The Chelsea team, clearly frustrated, were struggling to create chances, but we were running up against a packed defence. The otherwise poor Loic Remy twisted into a little space and shot low, but his firm drive came back off the base of Myhill’s post. On the hour, Courtois tipped over a Morrison effort, but from the resultant corner, the ball fell at the feet of Brunt, who smashed a drive past everyone and in to our net.

Three fucking nil.

Oh boy.

The home fans could hardly believe it and, frankly, neither could we.

However, with the home fans still bubbling away with chants and taunts, the evening changed.

With thirty minutes of the game remaining, the Chelsea fans collectively decided to act. Yes, we were getting stuffed at West Brom, but we had enjoyed a magnificent season and we weren’t going to let one game stop our sense of fun. Harking back to an afternoon at Selhurst Park earlier in the season, out came a song from our recent catalogue.

“We’re Top Of The League.”

And it continued, like at Selhurst, and continued.

At some point, it morphed into “We’ve Won The League.”

At times, both versions were sung together.

After thousands of miles following the team all over England, Wales and Europe, this was the simple answer – an exhausted answer – to the people who mock us.

“We’ve Won The League.”

Diego Costa was replaced by Juan Cuardrado. Nathan Ake replaced Loftus-Cheek. Izzy Brown replaced Remy.

And still we sang.

I joined in at the start and tried my best to keep it going for as long as I could. After a few breaks, I re-joined the rendition…“think I’ll have a sore throat in the morning.”

We had a few chances, but the focus was now not on the players, the focus was on us.

And still we sang.

The home fans quietened. It is easy to say we left them dumbfounded by our noise, but they had sung well all evening. They were merely taking a break. I expect that they thought we might tire, but we kept it going. It was truly wonderful. I remember a “Chelsea, Chelsea” chant at Anfield – captured on TV, with a quick glimpse of me – from a 3-0 loss in 1986 going on for about fifteen minutes, and drawing a comment from the BBC commentator Barry Davies and boos from The Kop, but this one at The Hawthorns in 2015 went on for thirty minutes.

The result was simply brushed aside. I am sure that plenty of sweaty new fans in Nerdistan were getting all anxious about a surprising loss – “damn, Berahino isn’t this good on FIFA15” – but the three thousand foot soldiers in the Smethwick End were having a party.

At the final whistle, the home fans roared. Well done to them. Three losses and a draw in our last four games there now. The Hawthorns is indeed turning in to a private nightmare for us all.

I quickly spotted the lone figure of Jose Mourinho making his way across the wet grass of the pitch, his brown suede shoes pacing out in a strong path. It reminded me of his “chin up” walk at Arsenal in 2007.

With his players staying a respectful distance behind him, our manager simply walked towards us, signalling “number one” with his index finger pointing to the sky. He stopped by the goal line, and clapped us. He hasn’t always been our biggest fan this season; I always wondered if his well-publicised complaints about our home support were aired to inspire us or were they the mark of a manager who just wanted to vent? I don’t know. At The Hawthorns he wanted to just say “thank you.” Perhaps if we had kept quiet, with no thirty-minute serenade, maybe we would not have seen this iconic walk from our manager. We will never know.

For maybe thirty seconds or more, he stood in front of us, and we lapped it up. The players clapped too. It was a beautiful Chelsea moment. He turned and met his players.

We said our goodbyes to each other – “see you Sunday” – and exited amid a party-like atmosphere. Never has a three-nil loss been so widely ignored amid scenes of complete and proper joy. We walked down the exit ramp, leading down from the stadium and out in to the night, with songs continuing.

Football, eh?

With the floodlights piercing the sombre Black Country night, a West Brom fan bundled past and admitted to his mate –

“If they had to win, they’d have fookin’ spanked uz.”

I smiled. He was probably spot on.

I slowly walked back to the car. These trudges back to the Park Inn after a defeat are becoming common place, but this one was thankfully a little easier.

On Sunday, Sunderland, and the party continues.

See you there.

Tales From Mothering Sunday

Posted on March 17, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 15 March 2015.

On the eve of Chelsea’s clash with Southampton, I visited the local music venue in my home town. Big Country – or at least the latest incarnation, with Bruce Watson and Mark Brezezicki as the two original members being augmented by three others – played a tight and evocative set at Frome’s “Cheese & Grain” and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The swirling guitars brought back memories of a time in the mid-‘eighties when they were one of my favourite bands. There was one very specific memory. It is football-related. Does that surprise anyone?

On St. Valentine’s Day in 1986, Chelsea played a Friday night friendly against Rangers at Ibrox Stadium. I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent and with time on my hands. I only found out about the game late on but I quickly managed to get a message to a mate who was studying at Strathclyde University. I asked him if I could crash at his flat and I bought a train ticket. I was on my way to Glasgow to follow Chelsea and it would be the most exotic trip of my Chelsea story at that time. Excited? You bet. The one thing that sticks in my mind features the train trip through the Southern Uplands, north of Gretna, south of Carstairs, when a fellow passenger had an old-school stereo system and played the Big Country’s debut album “The Crossing.” It seemed a bit of a cliché at the time, but it was the perfect addition to our trip north through snow-dusted hills. Magical memories.

“I’m not expecting to grow flowers in the desert, but I can live and breathe and see the sun in wintertime.”

The night also brought a few bittersweet memories too. The guitars, often sounding at times like bagpipes, and the lyrics, paying homage to Scotland’s dramatic countryside and gritty urban landscape, brought back vivid memories of my trips to Scotland with my mother over the past twenty years. How Mum enjoyed those trips north. Our list of towns visited list like a Proclaimers song; Edinburgh, Glasgow, Perth, Stirling, Brechin, Inverness, The Kyle Of Localsh, Portree, Inverness, Arbroath, Dundee. At times my eyes were moist.

After my mother’s passing, it has been a difficult time, but I have slowly improved. With the weekend – including Mother’s Day – following hard on the heels of the funeral on the Thursday, I felt that an important staging post would soon be reached. As far as the grieving process was concerned, I likened it to a Winston Churcill quote. The weekend would not mark the end, nor even the beginning of the end, but it would mark the end of the beginning. Since many close friends read these match reports, and since I feel it appropriate to do so, I include herein the eulogy that I wrote for my dear mother and which the vicar shared with those attending the service on Thursday 12 March.

My dear mother Esmé lived a most wonderful life.

Mum was born on the third of January 1930 in one of the small cottages opposite The Talbot Inn, not more than one hundred yards from this beautiful church and lived virtually her entire life in her beloved Mells. Mum was an only child, born to two devoted parents; Ted Draper, a gardener, and his wife Blanche, a cook and housewife. Mum attended the local village school and there is no doubt that she had an idyllic childhood in this rural haven, making friends and enjoying the comforts of her family. The church was never far away, physically and spiritually. Life was simple, but rich with love. Her father would sometimes have the use of the parish vicar’s motor car and there were trips to visit local family but also occasional trips to the seaside. What a treat for young Esmé.

After excelling in the “eleven plus” at Mells School, my mother attended Frome Grammar School, cycling in from her village for the first few years. Although her studies were under the dark cloud of war, my mother had a carefree time. Mum studied hard and again excelled in all subjects. Rather reluctantly, I feel, Mum played as a goalkeeper in the girl’s school hockey team alongside her three great friends Barbara, Mary and Marda. During the war, there were occasional dances at the village hall. Mum passed all of her exams and began a teacher training course at a college in Bath. However, Mum soon decided that this was not for her and so began working as a dispensing chemist at a shop in Frome’s Cheap Street.

Just after the war, Mum travelled to Hanover in Germany with several other teenagers; it was one of the first ever exchanges after the hostilities. My mother had a wonderful time in Germany, making great friends with Liesel, the young German girl whose house Mum stayed in. While working at Roberts Chemists, my mother’s wavy hair and sparkling blue eyes attracted the attention of Reg Axon, a shy shopkeeper working a few doors away at John Dance. My father summoned some courage to ask my mother out and the rest, as they say, is history.

My parents married on April 25^th 1957 in this very building. They honeymooned in London and set up home in New Street. They were, I am sure, blissfully happy. My parents were incredibly well suited. Both were kind and gentle, both loved home life. My mother moved on to work in a women’s clothes shop, again in Cheap Street. Of course, my parents longed for children. After eight years of waiting, I was born on 6^th July 1965. However, my birth was tinged with sadness since my twin brother was stillborn. It is something which weighed heavily on my mother’s mind for many years. Both my mother and I contracted salmonella – I was born prematurely – and it was a miracle that I lived. For the first few weeks, Mum stayed in a nursing home, while I remained in an incubator at hospital; the distance between us must have been unbearable for dear Mum.

I know it sounds like a cliché, but my parents really were the best parents in the world.

They were always so industrious and busy. Both enjoyed gardening, but my mother’s great talent was as a home-maker and especially as a cook. Visiting friends and relatives often gasped at the enormity of the “spread” which Mum conjured up, with the dining room table creaking under the weight of sandwiches, sausage rolls, cakes, trifles and desserts. I always remember a Canadian relative talking in awe of the “suppers” which Mum provided. Nobody ever went hungry in the Axon household.

As I followed Mum’s path, with attendance at schools in Mells and then Frome, my mother continued to work tirelessly, maintaining her parents’ house in addition to her own. Mum was also a great servant to the village too, assisting in church affairs, village fetes and various committees. My mother also kept a close eye on those in the village who required an extra little care and attention. This was probably Mum’s greatest attribute; the selfless willingness to put others first.

Sadly, my mother often suffered with asthma and was admitted to hospital on several occasions.

In 1974, my parents announced that they were to take me to Stamford Bridge to see Chelsea for the very first time. For that simple act, I owe them so much. Our summer holidays were great highlights; there were five trips to Italy and Austria. Diano Marina in Italy was our favourite destination and in 1975 I ended-up playing football on the beach with a young Italian boy called Mario. Thanks to my mother, who swapped addresses with Mario’s mother, we became pen friends. We are still friends to this day.

My school days were not always happy and at times of upset and distress, my mother was always there to comfort me and to take away my pain. Through my teenage years, Mum suffered a little with depression and if I am truthful, our relationship became a little fraught. When I left Mells to go to college in Stoke-on-Trent in 1984, I am sure my mother missed me tremendously. Mum’s frequent letters to me throughout my three years in Staffordshire were testament to this. My parents continued to enjoy their holidays; there was a grand tour of Italy, and also a skiing trip to Austria. Yes, my mother has skied. How wonderful is that?

However, at the end of the ‘eighties, my mother lost both parents within ten months. Mum had cared for her parents, virtually until the end. The losses of her mother in April 1988 and her father in February 1989 were huge. Depression returned once again and my mother was in a fragile state of mind. I toured North America for ten months at around this time; looking back, I am sure Mum missed me enormously. On my return in 1990, things gradually improved and in 1991 my parents departed on a three month “round the world” trip, taking in Hong Kong, Singapore, Brisbane, Fiji, Hawaii, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, San Francisco and Vancouver. Sadly, my mother contracted shingles just before the start and the trip was cut short. The planned visits to Toronto, New York and Philadelphia never materialised. But more of that later.

In April 1993, my dear father passed away at the age of sixty-nine. The sense of loss was huge, but I was immediately impressed with my mother’s strength and resilience. We became significantly closer. For the next few years, Mum’s depression came and went at regular intervals. We visited Scotland every autumn for six years and how Mum enjoyed these trips. When depression lifted, Mum would resume her high levels of industry in the home and village, enjoyed coach trips with other villagers and continued to attend the church. After a while, shopping trips to Frome faded, and despite occasional car trips with me, Mum rarely ventured from Mells. Our cat Gemma was a lovely companion. Mum especially enjoyed watching Formula One on TV. I even caught her watching some Italian football occasionally.

There were trips to Calais, Cornwall and North Wales. In truth, my mother first started to suffer with dementia in around 2005. Its advance was slow, but steady. Throughout it all, my mother remained happy and contented. As I moved between jobs, my mother was keen to hear of my progress and Mum took great delight in hearing of my travels. Her cheerfulness was an inspiration. There were visits to local pubs for Sunday lunch and one or two trips to Chelsea. Friends and relatives called in to see Mum. Life had changed, but things were still fine.

In around 2009, Mum began visiting a local dementia centre and then carers called in to keep an eye on her while I was at work. Mum visited both Critchill Court and Emma Shepherd Day Care Centre over the past few years; as recently as fourteen months ago, Mum was heading in to Frome on four days each week.

In September 2010, I took my dear mother to the United States for an unforgettable week. We were based in Philadelphia – where our relatives resided in the nineteenth century for a few years – but we also visited New York. Mum was a real trooper, up every morning by eight o’clock, and we had a fantastic and joyous time. One moment will live with me forever. We had visited Yankee Stadium in The Bronx one Tuesday evening and I was driving back to Philly. I was high over the Hudson River, on the George Washington Bridge, with my mother in the back seat, quietly taking it all in. I glanced over to my left and I saw the bright lights of Manhattan. My heart leaped. I felt like the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

Only eighteen months ago, we drove to Scotland, staying in Dundee. After attending around thirty Chelsea games, my mother’s last football match was in Brechin. From The Bronx to Brechin, Mum was a lovely companion.

Sadly, Mum was hospitalised with arthritis just over a year ago. My mother would never walk again. For the past year, Mum’s life has consisted of being cared for at home, watching TV, singing along to some CDs – Mum had a lovely voice – and sharing some smiles and laughs with me. Mum never complained.

The carers loved visiting Mum. Mum was always so appreciative. Everyone loved her.

Last summer, I was able to take my mother out in her wheelchair around Mells and to sit out on the lawn to sip a cup of tea in the fresh air. I so wanted to do the same this summer. Last month, Mum was again hospitalised with pneumonia. As you all know, I was full of hope that Mum would make a full recovery on her return home. It was not to be.

My dear mother passed away at home on February 26^th with me by her side. Mum was a sweet, gentle and kind woman, a devoted daughter to her beloved parents and a loving wife to her husband Reg and a compassionate and respected presence in her home village. Mum was the owner of the most amazing smile; wide and welcoming one moment, mischievous and cheeky the next.

She really was the best mother that I could have ever asked for.

Mum was an angel. It was an honour to be her son.

I left my home village on Mothering Sunday 2015 just before 8am and soon collected PD and LP. The pre-match was rather rushed, but hugely enjoyable. I met Roma and Shawn outside the West Stand, opposite the Peter Osgood statue, and it was obvious that a visit to the megastore had taken place; Shawn was wearing a fantastic Chelsea tracksuit. There was a Delta Airlines football competition underneath the old Shed wall; Shawn had participated here, too. Roma had certainly made the most of her Chelsea match day. The two of them had been at Stamford Bridge since 9am.

We then headed off to see Mark at the stall and I bought his latest book for Roma, highlighting the little section on Frank Lampard which I had penned. Roma adores Frank and is as confused as any of us after his move to City.

We then headed off to The Goose and enjoyed a chat with a few mates. I had fortuitously bumped into a mate, Brian – from Belfast, now Los Angeles – and it was great to see him again. In the beer garden, it was cold and crisp. Familiar faces everywhere. I then arranged to meet Tom, the Vodfather, down at Fulham Broadway to collect two tickets for Shawn and Roma. At just before 1pm, all was sorted.

We headed inside the turnstiles to the MHU and I shared a story with Roma as we ascended the flight of stairs to the upper tier. Back in 2005, my mother and my good friend Glenn’s gran, attended the Chelsea vs. Birmingham City game; it was one of the great Chelsea memories. We met Peter Osgood in the megastore and then had lunch in the Butcher’s Hook. On reaching the top of the stairs in the MHU, the two ladies – my mother 75 and Rose 79 – disappeared off in to the ladies. A split second later, Glenn and I heard both of them let out a massive laugh.

“Oh blimey, what have they said…or done?”

It transpired that on entering, they thought they had seen a man in the ladies. They had looked at each other and couldn’t resist a spontaneous giggle. Every time I walk past this spot in the MHU concourse, I think back to Mum’s laughter.

Sigh.

I took a few photos of an excited Roma and Shawn before they took their places high up behind the goal. They were fantastic seats. Alan arrived with Tom, who has been very poorly of late. He is in his ‘seventies now. It was great to see him again. The match programme, marking our 110^th anniversary, was in the style of the original “Chelsea Chronicle” and it looked fantastic. The flags were passed overhead. The teams appeared. One change from Wednesday’s anti-climax; Willian in for Ramires. There was a return for Ryan Bertrand, a hero from that night in Bavaria.

We began well. After only ten minutes, Eden Hazard worked the ball to Branislav Ivanovic out on the right. Very often this season our right-back is often the outlet for our attacking plans, yet often his final ball is disappointing. On this occasion, he lofted an inch perfect ball in, which picked out the lone leap of Diego Costa who easily scored past Forster. It was a fine goal.

Southampton, a fine team under Koeman who gave us a tough game on the south coast earlier in the season, did not let our goal stop them from moving the ball well. The impressive Sadio Mane tested Courtois, and then soon after a joint lunge on Mane by Matic and Ivanovic resulted in referee Mike Dean awarded a penalty. The consensus in our little group was that it was indeed a penalty. Tadic despatched it and although Courtois got a touch, the ball still hit the back of the net. 1-1.

For the rest of the first-half, with the atmosphere at times being ridiculously quiet, Southampton moved the ball around with aplomb, and were the more incisive. We, by contrast, looked tired and lacking in confidence. Our right flank was constantly exploited; the Willian and Ivanovic partnership looked disinterested. Oscar and Fabregas made little impact. It was as poor as I have seen for a while.

The away fans, again, aired the rather amusing and self-deprecating – “The Johnstone Paint Trophy, You’ll Never Win That.”

Sadly, around five thousand Chelsea fans didn’t get the joke and responded – “Champions Of Europe, You’ll Never Win That.”

Oh boy.

An overly theatrical response by Ivanovic to a tap tackle did not result in a penalty. It was the only Chelsea “moment” worth commentating on. At the other end, Courtois pulled off a few more saves. Southampton deserved to be 3-1 up at the break. Oh dear.

Yet again, we needed an inspiring team talk from the tongue of our manager at the break. Right from the first few seconds of the second-half, it was wonderful to hear the home support rising to the occasion with thunderous noise. It was a magnificent reaction. Well done everyone. However, a rasping free-kick from Alderweireld forced a full-stretch save from that man Courtois. First class.

Mourinho made a change; Ramires for Matic.

It felt like a goal must come. A Willian effort was deflected on to the post by Diego Costa. A shot from Oscar was blocked, and then a header from Oscar was parried by Forster. Surely, our goal would come.

Big John was up to his balcony-bashing best. “THUMP THUMP – THUMP THUMP THUMP – THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP – CHELSEA.”

Another Oscar effort was saved. Remy for Oscar, Cuadrado for Willian.

Cuadrado failed to impress and dragged a shot wide. Then Azpilicueta went close. In the last minute, we could hardly believe what we witnessed; the Southampton goal was under attack and how. Remy had a shot blocked off the line, and the rebound was sent goal wards by JT but his effort was blocked, but the ball rebounded out to our captain who then stabbed the ball over. As the ball flew past the goal frame, the groan could be heard for miles and miles.

The much-hoped for eight point gap was now “only” six. I felt sure that many new Chelsea fans were about to pepper the internet with a plethora of negativity.

Another sigh.

After the game, at the Copthorne Hotel, Roma and Shawn met some Chelsea royalty; Ron Harris, Paul Canoville, Bobby Tambling and Roy Bentley. There were photographs of course, but also a couple of lovely conversations. Roma especially enjoyed hearing about Bobby Tambling’s close relationship with Frank Lampard, her personal favourite, which developed as Frank drew nearer and nearer to 202 Chelsea goals.

Roma’s smile was wide.

It was a beautiful end to Mother’s Day.

Tales From The 5,500

Posted on January 8, 2014 by Chris Axon

Derby County vs. Chelsea : 5 January 2014.

After a few days of depressing weather, Derby County away in the Third Round of the F.A. Cup was just what the doctor ordered. Despite the protestations of the Aston Villa manager Paul Lambert – did he honestly say that the F.A. Cup was a hindrance and that his players would rather be rewarded with money rather than silverware? – over five thousand Chelsea fans had happily bought tickets to follow the boys in royal blue in our first game of the 2014 competition.

And heaven knows we have owned this trophy in recent years.

2007 Manchester United.

2009 Everton

2010 Portsmouth

2012 Liverpool

Four out of four.

In 2014, let’s make it five out of five at the new Wembley.

I had driven up to Derby with Parky and his son-in-law Kris. At just after midday, I pulled in to the car park at Derby’s Midland Station after avoiding the match-going traffic headed for the car parks around the Pride Park Stadium. From what I had seen of it, Derby looked to be in reasonable health. Rolls-Royce (jet engines in addition to cars these days) and Bombardier (trains and planes, but not automobiles) are still located within the city. There were new shopping centres and signs that the recession had not bitten too painfully. This was only my fifth visit to the city; all four previous trips were, unsurprisingly, for football.

The first of these came in 1986 and – shock horror – did not involve Chelsea. Three college mates (Steve – Derby, Bob – Leeds and Pete – Newcastle) and I bumped into each other at college in Stoke on a Friday afternoon and made the quick decision to travel over to Derby by train that evening to see the Rotherham United game. If Derby won, promotion from the old third division would be gained. I have much respect for fellow Chelsea fans who only watch Chelsea, but I used to be partial to the occasional non-Chelsea game in my younger years. Looking back, during my time at Stoke, this didn’t happen too often, though. I remember the odd match at Stoke City, Port Vale, York City and an aborted trip to Crewe Alexandra, but nothing excessive. Chelsea, then as now, was the main drug of choice. However, on that rainy May evening twenty-eight years ago, the four of us squeezed our way into the side terrace at the old Baseball Ground to watch a Derby County team, which I am sure included Steve McClaren, rather nervously defeat Rotherham with a late winner to win 2-1. There were wild scenes in that ridiculously packed mosh-pit of a terrace, underneath the upper tier. I’m so lucky to have experienced the madness of packed terraces back in those days.

It was a different world.

The Baseball Ground, irregular stands, double-decked behind the goals, squeezed in amongst iron foundries and tight terraced streets was a classic football ground. The pitch was always muddy. The atmosphere was first class.

My second visit took place in 1987, when I again made the trip by train from Stoke-on-Trent to Derby. This time, I had returned to my college town for my graduation ceremony on the Friday and had stayed in town until the Sunday for the televised game with Chelsea. This was a poor match which we lost 2-0. The only two things that I can remember from the game is the appearance of some Chelsea pensioners, guests of Ken Bates, on the pitch before the game, and me getting pushed against a crush barrier so badly that I ended up with bruises around my waist.

A different world indeed.

Then, with Derby County now playing at Pride Park, two further games; a 1-1 draw in 2001 and a 2-0 win in 2007. Strangely, of the two matches, the draw was a better contest. The latter win was as dour a win as I can remember.

We dropped into the “Merry Widow” pub, one of a few “Chelsea only” pubs in the city centre, but the place was packed and the beers were served in plastic glasses. Despite the appearance of many old black and white photographs of former Derby players adorning the white brick walls, which on another day I would have like to have studied, we soon moved on.

A few hundred yards away was the “Mansion Wine Bar.” This was also packed with Chelsea, but was a far more pleasant environment. We chatted with Burger and Julie, just arrived from their home in Stafford, and it was lovely to bump into them once more. We enjoyed their company for an hour or so and then set off – in the drizzle – for the stadium.

We had heard, through texts, that Nottingham Forest had walloped West Ham 5-0 in the lunchtime match.

Happy Chelsea fans, fed-up Derby fans.

They hate Forest.

Pride Park – sorry, iPro Stadium – is located amidst car dealerships, superstores and themed restaurants. Its location is pure 21^st Century, especially compared to the more intimate surrounds of the old Baseball Ground. Welcoming the spectators outside the main stand is a bronze statue of Brian Clough and Peter Taylor, holding the 1972 League Championship trophy. The statue isn’t great; the figures are more like caricatures than anything else. Derby County play a minor role in the story of the European Cup in my life; their match with Juventus in 1973 is the first European Cup match that I can ever remember seeing on TV. Those were the glory years for Derby County; how strange that a statue of Brian Clough also exists in the town centre of their most bitter rivals, Nottingham Forest.

Inside the packed concourse, there was a little confusion. My ticket was printed with “Turnstile 51-54, Stair 5” but it seemed these numbers were incorrect. After painstakingly studying a book of logarithms, a slide rule, a calculator, a heart monitor, an air-pressure gauge and a thermometer, the steward advised me to use “Stair 58.”

I think that the presence of 5,550 away fans had caused the ticketing department at Derby County to throw a wobbly.

Anyway, with minutes remaining, I was in.

“Stoke at home in the next round.”

“How boring!”

I fancied a new ground, like all 5,499 others no doubt.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, I couldn’t help but notice the Derby mascot sprinting around the pitch, pumping his fists, geeing up the crowd. It didn’t seem right to me. This chap – in a ram’s mask – was just wearing a Derby kit, but with no extra “padding” around his waist. Surely mascots should, by nature, be slightly rotund, just like Stamford, for example…thus increasing their comedic value. This wasn’t very good. This wasn’t very good at all.

May I suggest a mascot for the modern age? An overweight mascot, beer in hand, wheeled out on to the pitch on a sofa, where he just sits in the centre circle for ten minutes before getting up out of his seat and falling, head first, on to the floor?

That would appease me more than this super fit, super lean Derby County numpty.

On several occasions before the match, the announcer had implored the home supporters to get involved and make some noise for the players.

“Show us the black and white.”

This resulted in a rather lukewarm response, with only a small percentage twirling their bar scarves, in the style much beloved on Tyneside a few seasons ago.

Unlike the 14,000 down the road for the Forest versus West Ham game, I was very pleased to see a near 32,000 full house. The teams appeared. There were a few surprises, no more so than the return of Michael Essien, the captain for the day. No room, still, for Juan Mata.

With Oscar, Ramires, Willian and Luiz all playing, it was almost like watching Brazil.

Up front, Samuel Eto’o made his F.A. Cup debut.

The skies were grey and the rain still fell.

The Chelsea section, amassed in one bank in the south stand, was soon making their presence felt with tons of noise. I was right behind the goal. Just behind Parky and Kris, just in front of Cookie, Scott and Andy from Trowbridge. Familiar faces everywhere I looked.

The Derby support tried its best to rally against us; in particular their lads to my right were soon getting behind their team. Soon into the game, they made me laugh. I guess this is their “signature chant” but they soon picked out one unfortunate Chelsea fan and, as one, began their routine by clapping and pointing –

“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause…“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause… “You!”(point)…”TWAT!”… pause…“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause… “You!”(point)…”TWAT!”

We were laughing along at that.

I was wondering if this was the modern day version of a song that Derby fan Steve used to mention back in the ‘eighties. In those days he said that the DLF – usually located in the C stand at the Baseball Ground – used to sing this at away fans –

“Sing something simple, you simple TWATS.”

The first-half was often an even affair. Derby certainly caused us a few problems early on with their blond haired starlet Will Hughes getting a lot of the ball. Our defence held strong. We seemed to find it difficult to get behind the Derby defence and our main form of attack tended to be shots from distance. A low raking shot from Ramires which bounced off the post was the nearest that we came to scoring.

The Chelsea songs kept coming, with the “Willian” song and the “Mour-in-ho” (eliciting a wave from Jose) the most popular.

“You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea, you make me happy when skies are grey.”

On the pitch, there were green boots, pink boots, orange boots and a pink ball.

I had visions of Brian Clough turning in his grave.

No goals at the break. A replay was the last thing we wanted.

As I departed down the stairs at the half-time break, the same weary voice that had endeavoured to get the crowd going before the match was once again asking the home crowd to get involved. This time, it seemed that a camera was roving the stands and picking out supporters, with their image appearing on the “jumbo” TV screen. The whole sorry affair seemed to be a tad embarrassing.

“Come on, look at the camera. See your face on the screen. That’s it, the person in the purple jacket, well done. Give us a smile.”

I silently groaned.

Of course, this sort of crowd participation gets a much different response on these shores compared to my experience of watching baseball games in the US. Even when home teams are getting slaughtered, the roving cameras tend to garner a much more positive response from home fans, with people smiling, waving, acting the fool and even dancing. In the UK, we’re a lot more apathetic about this type of activity.

“Get that camera off me, you bugger.”

We are as awkward with cameras being pointed at us as Americans are with cutlery.

The Chelsea team were attacking us in the away section for the second-half. The noise levels soon resumed. Mourinho soon changed things, with Eden Hazard replacing Essien, with Rami moving back alongside Mikel. We had more of the ball and the pressure began to tell.

Just after an hour, Eden Hazard was clumsily fouled on the left. Willian sent in a lovely cross towards the nearpost where Mikel jumped unhindered to head in.

Yes, Mikel had scored again.

Mikel is rarely a threat at corners and so it was with joy and amazement that I saw him reel away and become smothered by his happy team mates. The away end roared.

The two chaps next to me who had been calling out Mikel were strangely silent.

Then, a massive disappointment.

A blatant, stupid, brain dead, humiliating dive in the penalty box by Ramires.

I think that the Derby fans had a ready-made chant for him.

Torres replaced Eto’o and Chelsea pushed for a second, calming goal. The Chelsea fans, way too prematurely for my liking, began singing about the final.

…”we’re going to Wemberlee, que sera sera.”

Thankfully, after a Torres pass, Oscar was able to dispatch a swerving shot past Grant in the Derby goal.

2-0, that’ll do, happy days.

In a matter of seconds, Fernando Torres – superbly backed by the 5,500 – worked two good chances for himself to no avail. Willian was my man of the match, full of endeavour and enthusiasm. He gets better with each game.

In the closing minutes, Jose Mourinho gave a first team debut to midfielder Lewis Baker.

The bloke next to me muttered “never heard of him.”

There was just time for Steve McClaren and Jose Mourinho to share a laugh and a warm embrace by the side of the pitch before the referee signalled Chelsea’s safe progression into the next round.

It had been a good day.

Tales From Up’Anley Duck

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 12 January 2012.

I awoke on Saturday morning with a mixture of feelings. Outside, the weather was dark and depressing. I had negative thoughts about the entire day to be quite truthful. After the Swansea defeat on Wednesday, I knew that a redoubtable Stoke team would be looking to heap further misery on the club. And then there were all of the churned-up feelings about the politics of it all; the board, the manager and the supporters were seemingly at odds with each other and emotions were tugging my heartstrings in a hundred different directions. And yet, I knew that there was nowhere that I would rather be on this particular winter’s day. The city of Stoke-on-Trent was my home for the best part of three years, from September 1984 to July 1987. I studied human geography at North Staffs Polytechnic, which was based in the city. For many personal reasons, I always enjoy returning. So, I decided to make the best of the day out in Staffordshire, but I did wonder what my state of mind might be in when I would eventually return. There was no doubt about it; this could be a bad day. A very bad day.

My Facebook status summed things up –

“Off to Stoke. In the cold. In the rain. We know what we are, alright.”

I left home at 10am, with a 150 mile trip to the middle of England ahead of me. I soon texted my partner in crime Alan, who was travelling up on one of the official Chelsea coaches with Gal.

“Duck Kerouac.”

He responded –

“Tom Robinson.”

I was “on the road” to the city where the word “duck” – as a term of endearment – is used at an alarming rate. Alan was on the “2-4-6-8 Motorway.”

I tuned in to the Danny Baker show on five live – if there’s a better programme on the airwaves, I am yet to find it. Baker used to host the original “606” programme when it was first broadcast in around 1991. At the time, it was natural for that programme to follow on from the launch of a thousand and one fanzines just a few years earlier; it gave normal fans the platform to air grievances, but to share anecdotes about the quirkiness of being a football supporter. I remember back in those days, Baker would hardly mention any of the day’s games, nor would supporters care. Talk instead was of comedic moments from fans’ pursuit of their teams, sightings of footballers in unusual places, bizarre pre-game rituals, favourite kits, banter and humour. If anything, Baker actively discouraged the general public from phoning and taking about specific games because – for the 99.9% of listeners who would not have seen the game – it would have been a waste of time. How I wish that ruling was prevalent today; the current “606” show with Mark Chapman and Robbie Savage dwells too much on specific incidents in specific games.

I drove through Bristol, with no signs of the overcast weather lifting. At 11am, I eventually made it up onto the M5; it had been a slow start to the journey.

I randomly selected a CD; a collection of songs by Tears For Fears, a band from Bath – my birthplace – that I used to admire back in the days of my time in Stoke. In those first few weeks of finding new friends at college, Tears for Fears acted as a cornerstone for me.

“I’m from near Bath – where Tears For Fears are from.”

The other two cornerstones were sport-related.

“I’m from Somerset – yep, we’ve got a great cricket team.”

“I’m not from Chelsea – I’m from Somerest.”

As I drove through Gloucestershire, my mood was brightened. I realised that several of the songs perfectly summed-up the current confusion amongst Chelsea fans –

“The Hurting.”

“Shout.”

‘Change.”

“Mad World.”

Tears for Fears’ first album “The Hurting” was coloured by the band’s involvement in primal therapy – and I thought back on some of the album’s other song titles and how they would be the ideal fit for the current Chelsea situation –

“Suffer the children.”

“Start of the breakdown.”

“Watch me bleed.”

…maybe we should have a group primal therapy session in the away section of the Brittania Stadium later in the day.

“Shout, shout – let it all out. These are the things I can do without. Come on…Chelsea.”

Just south of Birmingham, a few fields were dusted with snow. I soon drove past West Brom’s ground; the final straw in the league careers of Andre Villas-Boas and Roberto di Matteo. At the intersection of the M5 with the M6, at last a few splashes of blue above the clouds.

Things were looking up.

As I turned into the A500 at 12.45pm, I noticed a group of policemen in a lay-by, on motorbikes, in cars, on the look-out for Chelsea coaches and cars. With the Britannia Stadium on a high ridge of land to my right, I drove on up to the city centre in Hanley.

And here’s the inevitable history lesson. During the industrial revolution, the area now known as The Potteries consisted of several independent towns; Stoke, Fenton, Longton, Hanley, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Burslem, Tunstall and Kidsgrove. Pottery was the dominant industry, although the area was endowed with a local coalfield which ably provided the fuel to fire thousands of bottle kilns. First canals and then railways ferried china clay in and pottery out, to markets throughout the UK, Europe and further afield. The names Wedgewood, Minton and Spode became world famous and put the area on the map. It was a hive of frantic activity, a real industrial hotspot.

In 1925, five of the towns – Stoke, Hanley, Burslem, Fenton and Longton – came together to form the city of Stoke-on-Trent, although the slightly aloof town of Newcastle remained separate. My first few weeks in Stoke were spent trying to decipher the local geography and the local accent alike. The biggest anomaly of all was that the de facto city centre, housing the large department stores, library, theatres and bus station, was in the centrally-located town of Hanley. I lived in Stoke, the southern-most of the five towns. Stoke had the train station, the polytechnic and Stoke City Football Club. The town centre of Stoke was only marginally bigger and busier than my local town of Frome. The most northerly town of Burslem housed the city’s lesser football team, Port Vale.

As Chelsea Football Club now reside in the upper echelons of the football stratosphere these days, I am sure that millions of our global fan base has never even heard of Port Vale. If they have, I’m sure that many are unaware that the club is located in Stoke-on-Trent, even less that it is in Burslem.

On my previous visits to the city with Chelsea, I have tended to re-visit my more familiar haunts to the south in Stoke and ‘Castle. This time, I decided to head into Hanley.

Or – in the clipped and peculiar vernacular of the locals –

“Ah’m gooin’ oop’Anley, duck.”

By 1pm, I was parked up and was soon outside in the biting wind, stumbling around the city centre, attempting to recognise landmarks from a quarter of a century ago.

To my surprise, it was a bit hazy. I found my way to The Tontine pub and dipped in out of the cold. As students, we had to be wary of which pubs were “student-friendly” and quite a few pubs in both Stoke and Hanley were anything but “student friendly.” The Tontine was our safe haven on our nights out in Hanley, which tended to end up in a large multi-floored nightclub called “The Place.”

In The Tontine, I ordered a pint of lager (“lahh-geh”) and was surprised how cheap it was.

“Two qued fefty, duck.”

The long narrow pub hadn’t changed much in the 25 years since my last visit. I noted a few Stokies talking to a couple of Norwegian Stoke fans who were in town for the game. The world gets smaller and smaller, doesn’t it? In my time in the city, the locals were very insular and local to their town. I was reminded of a story which one of our lecturers told in an attempt to explain the colloquial nature of the Stokies’ mindset.

One of his aunts was touring America and she found herself on a local radio phone in. The radio presenter asked where the woman was from, since the accent completely threw him.

“Ah’m from Longton, duck.”

Not only did the woman presume that the presenter had realised she was from England, she didn’t even bother with the city name of Stoke-on-Trent, which the poor bloke might – just might – have heard of.

Seeking clarification, he quizzed her further…maybe he thought she was from Canada or Australia –

“OK. Where’s that?”

She replied, nonchalantly – “near Fenton, duck.”

The QPR v. Spurs game was on TV, but I gave it scant regard. I thought back to my time in the solidly working class and industrial city. Football dominated my thoughts. Over the three years in Stoke, I probably went to around ten Stoke games. In two of the years, in fact, I lived in a terraced house only twenty yards from the Victoria Ground. However, in November 1985, thoughts were of a game further afield; how “un-Stoke.”

Around ten friends and I travelled down to Wembley on an official Stoke City coach for the final World Cup qualifier for the 1986 Finals in Mexico. England had already qualified, but there was a chance that England’s opponents Northern Ireland could qualify too if they could muster a draw at Wembley.

However, I had another reason. It would mark Kerry Dixon’s home debut for England.

I had to be there.

Kerry had broken in to the England squad on the summer tour of Canada and Mexico, but had yet to play at Wembley. I don’t remember the trip down to London at all, save for the fact that it was a strange mix; half Stokies, half students from the poly, most of which I knew. Two friends – Nigel and Trevor – were from “Norn Iron” and were gung-ho about their team’s chances.

We all had standing tickets in the “home” end (the tunnel end) at the old Wembley. What a thrill to see Kerry Dixon, in a plain white shirt, play at Wembley on that misty night. Chelsea used to go en masse to England home games in those days and as the game developed, there were quite a few chants of “Chelsea – clap, clap, clap – Chelsea – clap, clap, clap – Chelsea – clap, clap, clap” in that home end. Of course, I joined in. It felt like Chelsea had taken over the entire end. It was a magical feeling.

Untouchable.

England fielded players such as Peter Shilton, Kenny Sansom, Paul Bracewell, Glenn Hoddle and Chris Waddle. Gary Lineker lined-up along side Kerry in a traditional 4-4-2. The captain on the night was Ray Wilkins. Sadly, it wasn’t a great night for Kerry, who missed a couple of good chances, which are shown in the following clip (with apologies for the sighting of a Juventus-era Michel Platini in the TV studio…)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ESdUZAdO24

The game ended 0-0 amidst jeers of “It’s a fix, it’s a fix, it’s a fix.” At least Trevor and Nige were happy.

It was 1.45pm and I needed to drive the two miles south to the stadium. I decided to drive past my old faculty building on Leek Road. However, the traffic was horrendous. I slowly made my way down the hill from Hanley and I soon crossed over Cauldon Canal, with one of the last remaining bottle-shaped kilns alongside it. Ahead of me was a large open space of land which was formerly the site of a large pottery. Beyond, red brick terraced houses, then industrial units, then the open wasteland up on the hill. Pretty, it certainly wasn’t.

I was taken aback by the amount of new buildings which had sprung up on the old football and hockey pitches at the polytechnic, which was renamed Staffordshire University a while back; we had a “Sports & Recreation Studies” faculty – or shortened to “Sport & Rec” or, mockingly, “Fruit & Veg” – and we had a healthy rivalry with Loughborough University. A bit like Ohio and Michigan, Auburn and Alabama, UCLA and USC (he said sarcastically.) A new sports centre for the University had been built and was named after the city’s most famous son Sir Stanley Matthews, a native of Hanley, who played for Stoke in two spells from 1931 to 1965. He was Europe’s first player of the year and played until the age of 51. A real legend, believe me.

As the traffic slowed just outside the old entrance to the Leek Road campus, I spotted hundreds of Chelsea fans, newly arrived at the nearby train station, awaiting buses to take them to the game. I spotted a few faces – Aggie, Callum, Tim – and it was a weird sensation. A personal space, to me, had become a shared space for many Chelsea fans. It couldn’t have been stranger if the same people had been spotted outside my village shop.

By 2.40pm, I was parked up on the grass verge of a road to the south of the Britannia. The cold wind was unrelenting as I quickly walked towards the bright features of the stadium, over another canal, the past never far away. There’s surely not a more inhospitable location for a ground in all of England. Like a fortress, The Britannia stands indignantly on that ridge of high land, its inhabitants ready to wail at visitors.

“We are Stoke, we are Stoke, we are Stoke” they yell.

On its day, it’s a red hot – and white – atmosphere.

The Chelsea section, three thousand strong, took up three-quarters of the south stand. The Brittannia Stadium is a strange one architecturally; two stand-alone structures, but two stands joined. I stood alongside Al and Gal in the second row of the upper tier, just to the right of the goal.

I scanned the team and noted the changes since Wednesday. Great to see Petr back, that’s for sure.

I looked across to the main stand, in two-tiers, unlike the rest of the stadium, and set well back from the pitch. There was Tony Pulis, in trademark baseball cap, alongside Rafa Benitez, already cajoling the Chelsea players with his strange selection of hand jives. Most importantly of all, I checked to see his tie colour.

Check.

And then I saw a sight which warmed my heart and made me proud; high on the roof above the Boothen End –

“The Boothen End Sponsored By Staffordshire University.”

…excellent.

We certainly weathered the Stoke storm in the first-half. A Kenwyne Jones effort after just 7 minutes whizzed wide of the far post when we were all expecting a goal. A succession of Stoke corners caused us to be fearful, but everyone was repelled. Branoslav Ivanovic was showing great positional sense with no signs of suffering from his performance on Wednesday. A shot from Lamps on 24 minutes raised our spirits. Frank began to impose himself from deep and was the instigator of a few attacks. Hazzard and Mata buzzed around. Another shot from Frank, but Ramires couldn’t follow up.

I commented to Gary about the two defeats against QPR and Swansea. My succinct summing up was met with agreement –

“To be honest, Gal, we created tons of chances and in 9 out of 10 times, we would have won both games.”

The home fans seemed surprisingly quiet. Chelsea were full of song and with – thankfully – not much negative noise. With a look at the clock, I suggested to Gal that a “goal would be nice.”

What a brilliant own goal from John Walters, as ordered right before half-time, under pressure from Demba Ba.

“Get in!”

It was cold, but not as cold as our first-ever visit to the stadium in 2003 for our FA Cup game. Alan and I agreed that, in comparison, the weather was positively balmy. That Sunday afternoon ten years ago was the coldest I have ever been watching Chelsea.

A rasping shot was gloriously tipped over by Petr Cech on 53 minutes, but Stoke thought they had been awarded a penalty just after. Thankfully, an offside was given instead. We breathed a sigh of relief. We got into our stride and continued to exploit the spaces as Stoke attempted to get back in the game. From a corner, that man Walters headed blindly into his goal with Frank right behind him. We exploded with joy again, but nothing compared to look of biss on Frank’s face as he beamed a massive smile as he spun around and shared his joy with the away fans.

It was a lovely moment.

Next, a chop on Mata and a penalty.

“Give it to Walters” chimed Gal.

Frank drilled it high past Begovic and we roared again.

194 goals for Frank Lampard. Fantastic stuff. The goal was filmed on hundreds of smart phones. Just after, with the away end booming, Frank almost reached 195 but couldn’t quite reach the rebound of a shot.

After a little provocation, the Stoke fans finally made some noise, showing commendable qualities in getting behind their team when losing.

Well done Stoke.

The game was wrapped up when Juan Mata fed in the excellent Hazard, who unleashed a swerving bullet into the top corner of Begovic’ net. I was right behind the course of the ball and detected the slightest of deflections.

4-0? Beyond my wildest dreams.

It still didn’t save Benitez, though. The loudest chant of the day was his. However, at least I didn’t detect any booing of Torres when he replaced Ba.

The game was due another comedic twist when substitute John Terry felled Walters inside the box. The troubled Walters blasted over and we howled with laughter.

“Walters – Man of the match. Walters, Walters – Man of the match.”

“Johnny Walters – He scores when he wants.”

I hurriedly rushed down to my waiting car amidst hundreds of quiet Stokies. The “feast and famine” football was continuing and Chelsea Football Club was playing games with my addled brain. I pondered the notion of only attending every other game; satisfaction guaranteed surely?

I wondered about the welcome that Walters might get from his wife as he returned home later that evening.

“Hi love. Did you have a good game?”

Within three minutes – I love Stoke, especially leaving it – I was back on the M6.

Happy days.

Tears For Fears know fcuk all.

Tales From The Group Of Death

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

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.

Tales From The Rainbow Stand In 1986 And The Smethwick End In 2012

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2012.

I peered out of my window at 8am and it was overcast and grey. By the time I had reached Lord Porky’s village at 9am, the sun had appeared from behind the low-lying clouds. It was going to be a fine day. I had a quick chat with Porky’s partner Jill, who was babysitting her granddaughter Kayla, just turned two and a lifetime of Chelsea heartache ahead of her. Kayla has just started talking and I have no doubt that some of her first words will be Chelsea-related.

“Pass, Sturridge, pass!”

I mentioned to Jill that I have been suffering, for the first time in my life, with eczema for the past three months. Both hands are affected, though only slightly. She mentioned that eczema is a sign of stress and this surprised me; I haven’t felt under duress the past few months. I slapped some Nivea hand crème on and departed, stopping at McMelksham for a breakfast on the hoof. We drove north on the Fosse Way once more; slightly longer, compared to the going via the Almondsbury M4/M5 intersection, but a lot more scenic and rewarding. The away jaunt to The Hawthorns represents one of the shortest away trips for me at the moment. Swansea is the nearest at a mere 102 miles.

This would be my seventh trip to the home of West Bromwich Albion. We had won all previous six encounters and there have been some pretty good memories amongst those games. My first visit was in January 1986 when I was studying for my geography degree at North Staffordshire Poly in nearby Stoke-on Trent. In 1985-1986, we were flying. The much-loved John Neal had guided us to promotion and First Division respectability during the previous two seasons and we had launched a full-on attack on the league title over the Christmas 1985 period. A 2-0 win over Tottenham in front of a mammoth 37,000 was a formality. Newspaper articles proclaimed that we were genuine contenders and I, aged just twenty, was lapping it up. Here are a few notes from my diary entry of Saturday 18th. January 1986.

“Caught the 10.39am to Wolverhampton and then the 12.05pm to Smethwick Rolfe Street. The fare was just £1.95. Found the ground relatively easily. Popped into the ticket office and bought a ticket for £5. Waited outside until the Chelsea coach arrived at 2pm. Had a coffee and a pie. Sat down and took in the atmosphere, looking out for faces. Went to briefly chat to Al. Their end filled up slowly. A dull day, a little cold, rain at times. We had about 2,000 in the seats…between 4,000 and 5,000 in total anyway. I guess at a gate of around 10,000. Got off to a good start, playing well. After 20 minutes, Nevin headed-on for Speedie to race in from the right wing. He approached Grew in goal and pushed it past him at the far post. Brilliant. Good celebration. “We’re gonna win the League.” I guess we had a few more chances, Nevin had a few raids. Mickey Thomas was pretty lively for WBA, probing Colin Lee at full back with through balls. We gave Thomas a brilliant reception. After 55 minutes, a move found Dixon; he flicked it on for Murphy to stab the ball to the left of Grew. Yet more celebration. In the last ten minutes, Joe was alleged to have fouled Garth Crooks just below me. A penalty. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” I think it was taken by Hunt. Eddie dived to his left and easily saved it on the floor. Brilliant. A Chelsea move found Dixon. He took on the defender, beat him, rounded Grew, was hauled down but the ball broke to Nevin, who tapped it in from 12 yards. “We’re gonna win the League.” Not a bad match really. Chelsea were in quite good voice. Better than WBA. “Come on you Baggies.” A little kid next to me kept shouting “You’re blind ref.” Once he shouted “You’re as blind…as…a blind ref!” Out straight away and a police escort all of the way to Smethwick Rolfe Street. Met up with Alan again. If we win games in hand…we will be TOP OF THE LEAGUE.”

Twenty-six years on, a few more things to add. We played in all red that day; one of the last times we were to do so, in fact. There was always a certain cachet to take over the seats at away games in the mid-‘eighties; this activity was especially favoured by London clubs, whose fans always seemed to have a little more money spare on match days. For a few, there was always a greater chance to meet and greet certain sections of the home fans in these areas too. I’m not condoning this by the way – just reporting it. Of course, having a few thousand in the seats, always made the mass singing of “One Man Went To Mow” that more enjoyable when we all stood on “10.” The home fans, cowering alongside, often watched on in silent bemusement. On exiting the steps down from the Rainbow Stand after the final whistle, the Chelsea choir began singing “We’re gonna win it all.” And I remember that this felt quite possible. We were in all four competitions (the League, the FA Cup, the Milk Cup, the Full Members’ Cup) and we were on fire. Sadly, this proud boast went up in flames as Liverpool beat us at home in the FA cup and Kerry Dixon, our superb young striker, pulled up with a torn calf-muscle after only ten minutes. Kerry was out for quite a while and, although he made England’s World Cup squad for Mexico in the summer, he would never be quite the same player. His absence from the team was certainly a major reason why our challenge for all of the honours soon fell away over the next two months of that memorable 1985-1986 season. On the Wednesday after that Liverpool defeat, we lost at home to QPR in the Milk Cup and a few defeats in the League meant that we were soon out of the running of the title, too. In fact, the high water mark of that great Chelsea team (1983 to 1986) was arguably that afternoon at The Hawthorns.

In the end, our 5-4 victory over Manchester City in the final of the inaugural, and much derided, Full Members’ Cup was our only silver wear from 1985-1986. But that, as they say, is another story.

At 12.30pm, I pulled into the car park of the Park Inn, located alongside the busy M5 motorway. The two of us spent an enjoyable pre-match in the hotel bar, which is always a pleasant pre-curser to the afternoon’s entertainment at West Brom. We chatted with Big John, who sits a few rows in front of me at Chelsea, and a few others. Long Tall Pete and Liz arrived. More beers, more chat. The Liverpool vs. Arsenal game was on TV and I hoped for a draw. Big John stayed in the same hotel as the Chelsea team in Naples and was able to observe the team at close quarters as they assembled after the tumultuous team meeting on the day of the game. The body language was atrocious apparently; no smiles, no laughter, no bonding. John said that the team had appeared to be beaten before they boarded the coach. We agreed that if the players – and any player…we named names – didn’t want to play for the club and the manager, they could “do one.”

And then we laughed at how the internet has turned post-game analysis into a deeply depressing experience of late. We both agreed that had the internet be around in the 1978-1978 season (and the 1982-1983 season too), several social network sites would be in meltdown with all of the negativity and bile being bounded around.

We smiled and agreed that, in some ways, we are past all of that. We both love Chelsea for all of the other stuff that goes with it…a broken record here, I know, but I don’t feel the need to apologise for it. Chelsea is so much more than the football. There, another of my favourite phrases. As soon as we all realise that, the better we will all be. I had commented to John that during the journey up from the West Country, Porky and I had spent around 15 seconds discussing the day’s game; “I suppose Drogba will get the nod over Torres. Wonder if Frank will get a start.”

Just as I stood up to get a round in, I bumped into TV presenter Adrian Chiles, who used to host “Match of the Day 2” and now presents an early morning show with Frank’s lady Christine Blakeley. He is, of course, a West Brom fan. I shook him by the hand and said –

“Good luck today. Of course, I don’t fcuking mean that.”

There were certain ribald comments made by Big John, Lord Porky and myself about me being – momentarily – one degree of separation from the luscious Ms. Bleakley. Let’s leave it there.

Jesus joined us for the last thirty minutes and we spoke about a few football-related topics. He explained a few things to me about the Mexican football scene and told me that he was present, in the Chelsea corner, at both the Bluewings and Galaxy games in LA in 2007. I said that I’d have to check my photos to see if I could spot him. At 2.30pm, we set off for the short walk to The Hawthorns. It was a typical Saturday scene with the onrushing fans heading off to the match, past the hot dog, burger and roast pork food stalls. At the corner, Jesus bought a small packet of pork scratchings for the three of us to share on the small walk down to the away entrance at the Smethwick End.

There was a longer than usual wait at the gates – enough time for Parky and I to be reunited with a gaggle of Chelsea from Trowbridge, who had travelled up by train. They had actually spent their pre-match, by chance, with Alan and Gary in Birmingham city centre pub. After a thorough search, I was in. I bumped into Fiona and Ronnie, who had been in The Vine; Fiona had sadly reported that a few members of “The Youth” had started throwing bottles around inside the pub, causing a window to be broken.

Only one word for that; pathetic.

The game had started by the time I eventually found myself alongside Alan (yes, the same Alan from 1986) and Gary, my away day companions. The team was as strong as I could have hoped for, with the two stalwarts Lampard and Essien alongside Ramires. I had a quick look around The Hawthorns. The old Rainbow Stand had been replaced around ten years ago by a single-tiered structure, with the corners enclosed by acres of dull grey steel. These areas cry out for a Chelsea style flag or emblem. The corners, though unsightly, at least keep the noise in. I noticed that a new row of executive boxes had been installed at the rear of this stand since the visit at the end of last season. Ah, last season; the day that we joyously celebrated the fact that we were “gonna win fcuk all.” How times change.

It was a relatively eventful first-half and half-chances came and went. The home team, with Fortune and Odemwingie at the heart of every attack, always appeared to be more cohesive, despite long periods of Chelsea possession. Chances were exchanged and Petr Cech was kept busy. Juan Mata and Michael Essien were having a lot of the ball, but the Chelsea support was getting very impatient with our lack of success in breaching the Baggies’ back line. The noisiest section of the home support shared the Birmingham End and they were in pretty good voice. There was the usual banter between us and them –

“Arse to a Russian. You’d sell your arse to a Russian. Arse to a Russian.”

“Speak fackin’ English. Why don’t you speak fackin’ English?”

“Speak fookin’ Russian. Why don’t you speak fookin’ Russian?”

It was odd to see the boys attacking us in the first-half. A fine strike from Michael Essien was headed for a top corner, but custodian Ben Foster tipped the effort over. With the half-time whistle approaching, a gorgeous ball from the otherwise quiet Didier Drogba found Daniel Sturridge. Studge had been his usual self; shooting at the earliest opportunity, much to the chagrin of us all. On this occasion, he lost his marker with a nice body sway, but annoyingly drilled his low shot wide of the left-hand post.

We howled.

The Chelsea support was spasmodic at best. However, one thing pleased me. With the sixth anniversary of the passing of Peter Osgood on Thursday, the away fans often sang the trademark song.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star.
Scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.
And Chelsea won – as we all knew they would.
And the star of that great team was Peter Osgood.
Osgood, Osgood, Osgood, Osgood.
Born is the King of Stamford Bridge.”

After Ossie’s death in 2006, our first game was at The Hawthorns of course. Always in our thoughts, Ossie…

I was expecting a marked improvement in the second half, but it got worse. The sun disappeared and the clouds returned. The Chelsea support grew more and more frustrated with each minute of lazy play and half-hearted effort. After around ten minutes, a ball from Mata was played into acres of space for Studge to run onto. For once, our opponents were caught out playing a high-line. However, Sturridge misread the path of the ball and Foster met it first and cleared. More derision was aimed at the hapless Sturridge. I am quite befuddled by Sturridge. At times, his reluctance to pass to a colleague reaches ridiculous levels. No doubting his self-confidence, which is usually seen as a massive plus when assessing an attacker’s abilities, but his selfishness will weigh him down.

In a surprising show of togetherness, we sang “Amazing Grace.”

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

There were more verses of “The King of Stamford Bridge.” However, West Brom were now in the ascendency and Petr Cech became the busier of the two ‘keepers. The away support wailed for the introduction of Fernando Torres. Overall, Drogba had been woeful, showing hardly any of his willingness to chase down balls and use his strength. However, Drogba stayed on and Nando replaced Essien. God bless him, Torres’ first action was met with roars of approval as he chased back and won the ball with a great tackle from behind. It was an abrupt wake-up call for us all; this is what we had been missing all bloody game. A player with passion.

With ten minutes to go, West Brom took the lead after a ball was not cleared. My heart sunk. A draw at West Brom was bad enough, but a defeat? The Hawthorns came to life again. The whole stadium “Boing boinged.” It was quite a sight for my sore, sore eyes. I stood in numbed silence. Then came the West Brom club song –

“The Lords’s my shepherd I’ll not want.
He lays me down to die.
In pasture’s green he leadeth me.
The quiet waters by.”

And then, of course, came the song which rocked us to our core –

“Sacked in the morning.
You’re getting sacked in the morning.
Sacked in the morning.”

Of course, a fair few hundred Chelsea supporters joined in, too. I felt Alan bristling to say something. I just turned around and glowered. It was always my opinion that supporters are there for the team. It seems that certain sections of our support do not believe that this is correct. In the final flurry of activity at the Birmingham Road End, a great Ashley Cole cross was met by a Frank Lampard prod, but the ball flew past the far post and then Mata flashed wide too. Petr Cech went up field for one last corner, but the chance did not amount to anything.

At the final whistle, I stood in more numbed silence.

On a very bleak afternoon, only Torres, Cech, Lampard, Mata, Luiz and Drogba came over to clap the away fans, who – surprisingly, in my eyes – stood and clapped them for quite some time. That, at least, made me very very proud. However, that feeling soon subsided.

Alan said “see you on Tuesday” but I could not speak. I simply nodded.

As I waited outside the stand, several friends walked past. There were lots of long faces and I am sure I was exhibiting a particularly effective 1982-1983 style frown. However, Andy from Trowbridge approached and made me smile.

“Keep your chin up, Chris” as he mimicked Mourinho at Arsenal in 2007.

On the walk back to the car at the hotel, we had hoped to buy several bags of pork scratchings, but we couldn’t see any stands which were selling them. Lord Porky was distraught.

A 1-0 defeat and no pork scratchings.

FCUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUK.

Back in the hotel bar, a beer for Porky and a cappuccino for me. A quick word with Jonesy from Nuneaton. We both agreed that we had begun the season relatively well, but we were now seemingly getting worse with each game. I was still adamant that AVB should stay and get to the summer before clearing out the players who clearly do not fancy playing for him.

Jonesy : “You going Tuesday, Chris?”

Chris : “See you there.”

We both smiled. We had seen worse and we both knew it. The same old Chelsea, the same old Chelsea…

…and I have a feeling that my bloody eczema is going to get a lot worse over the next few weeks.

Tales From Lord Parky, Burger And Chel

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 8 May 2011.

As the days passed, the sense of anticipation rose throughout the week. By Saturday, I could hardly think of anything else. This comes as no surprise I am sure. I think everyone was thinking the same thoughts. Everyone nervous. Everyone excited.

Sunday arrived and I was ready.

I cleared the debris from the last Chelsea trip from my car and made sure that I had all the necessary match day essentials.

Ticket – check.
Camera – check.
Wallet – check.
Phone – check.
Bottles of Peroni for Parky and Burger – check.
Cans of Coke for me – check.
CDs – check.
Head full of memories from past matches at Old Trafford – check.
Hope eternal – check.

At about 9.45am, I set off from my village in Somerset, now overflowing with late spring greenery and vibrant colours. I collected His Lordship and we were on our way. It looked like it would be a day of sunny intervals and scattered showers, with the sky full of clouds. For a change, no music on the road north; we just chatted away about all sorts. After a McBreakfast at Melksham, we hit the M4, then the M5, then the M6.

Heading towards Birmingham, a car sped past with the number plate “KI55 UTD” and I commented

“Kiss United Goodbye more like, mate.”

At 12.45pm, we swung into Stafford and called in to collect Burger. There had been a flurry of activity earlier in the morning with a ticket up for grabs. However, the ticket in question was quickly snapped up by another Chelsea fan and so Julie was unable to come with us. A coffee apiece and we were on our way.

Burger quickly updated us with news from his hectic life – I hadn’t seen him since Everton away in the F.A. Cup – but talk soon swung around to talking about our great shared obsession; Chelsea Football Club. As we sped up the M6, my two passengers opened up some bottles of beer and I had provided a Midwest Blues Chicago 2006 koozie for Burger. Our paths didn’t actually cross during that crazy Chelsea weekend, but I first met Julie and Burger at Stamford Bridge the following December. We were in deep conversation about the Chelsea trip to Baltimore and Texas in 2009 and I completely missed the turning for Manchester. So, we had to fly over the Thelwall Viaduct and on to the M62 and approach Old Trafford from the north and not the south. This was the same way that I approached Old Trafford on my first ever visit over a quarter of a century ago, when a Somerset coach driver got a little lost on his way to the stadium.

In April 1986, I was a student at North Staffs Poly in Stoke and I had arranged for the Yeovil Branch to collect me, plus my college mate Steve and his twin brother Sean, outside the old Victoria Ground on the way through. Steve was a Derby County fan but was relishing the trip to Old Trafford. He had christened me “Chel” on a boozy night out earlier that season, though this wasn’t, believe it or not, due to my love of Chelsea.

It was, instead, a nod to the London nickname for people called Derek.

“Awright, Del?”

“Chris – we should call you Chel.”

For a few nights, Steve was “Stel” – but only “Chel” stuck.

I wonder why.

The coach reached Manchester in good time – I can remember spotting the towering United Road stand across the warehouses of Trafford Park – but the coach driver then seemed to get lost on his final approach to the stadium. We eventually parked up at the adjacent Old Trafford cricket ground, home of Lancashire, and we were given a police escort on the 15 minute walk to the home of Manchester United. I remember that I got inside with only a few minutes to go and soon lost contact with Steve and Sean. I was positioned right at the back of the small terrace area in front of the infamous K Stand. In 1985-1986, United had begun the season very strongly and had won all of their first nine or ten games – including a narrow 2:1 win at The Bridge in October – but had since slumped, allowing their old enemies Liverpool back in the mix. We had been in the top six all season, along with West Ham and Everton, but had recently slumped ourselves. We had recently lost 1:4 at home to West Ham and 0:6 at QPR. United, as far as I can remember, had enjoyed a recent resurgence, though, so the United faithful – all 45,000 of them – had assembled at Old Trafford to see their team defeat the declining Chelsea.

I remember straining to be able to see any of the ensuing action as the game unravelled before me. Life on the terraces back in the eighties was certainly wild and “carefree” but it wasn’t the greatest place to watch for me, not being the tallest. I’d often watch on my toes, steadying myself with my hands resting on the person in front of me, then end up getting jostled and moving feet and yards in the ensuing scrambles, with fellow fans literally moving as one organic unit. You would often get surges as shots went in and it was like being in a football mosh pit. After many games, I’d be physically exhausted. The tightest of away ends were Anfield and Old Trafford and the buzz was unbelievable.

Actually, despite the usually rubbish views, I miss it badly.

We weathered the storm in the first-half, but – attacking our end – Kerry Dixon broke through soon into the second-half. It was Kerry against Chris Turner, the United ‘keeper, and Kerry coolly slotted the ball past him. There were wild scenes amongst the 4,000 away fans, but the home fans were far from happy. I kept looking around and the seated United fans were only a few feet away. It felt like the whole ground was rocking to the sound of “United – clap, clap, clap – United – clap, clap, clap” as the home team attacked us. I seem to remember a few missiles – possibly darts – raining down on us and I remember thinking –

“F***ing hell – we’re like sitting ducks here.”

Doug Rougvie, good old Doug the Thug, thighs like tree-trunks, gave away a penalty – a penalty at the Stretford End? Surely not! – and Jesper Olsen equalised. With thoughts of getting out alive – who knows what was waiting for us in the dark hostile streets of Stretford – we then broke in the very last move of the game. Speedo squared for Kerry and the rest is history.

We went ballistic; jumping, screaming, pushing, hugging, falling, yelping, punching the air.

The referee soon blew up and the United hordes were silent: we were euphoric. It then dawned on me that we had compounded issues on the hooligan front and my walk back to the waiting coach would be even more precarious than had it stayed at 1:1. I soon met up with my mate Swan, from Radstock, and we safely returned to the coach…one of my most memorable walks back from a stadium ever. To say I was buzzing would be a massive understatement.

We even had a police escort – sirens wailing, lights flashing, policemen on motorbikes – all of the way back to the ring road and Steve and Sean hadn’t seen anything like it. Chelsea had a right old name back in those days and they were loving it.

“Bloody hell, Chel, does this happen at every away game?”

I suspect that I just gave him an old-fashioned look.

No words were spoken, but a lot was said.

I can’t remember what clobber I was wearing at Old Trafford in 1986 – it was the season that sportswear fully gave way to a new code which included fully-buttoned paisley shirts and leather jackets, worn with Burberry and Aquascutum scarves around the face, like urban guerrillas – but I am pretty sure I had a pair of Hard Core jeans, which were de regueur in the 1985-1987 period.

It was the era of scally perms too – check.

At 2.30pm – back to 2011 now – I parked up in the same suburban street as in the Champions League a month or so ago. I was parked about a mile from the stadium, but only about 500 yards from where the Yeovil coach had parked way back in 1986. I wondered if any of those Somerset lads would be at the game; I hadn’t seen Swan since around 1987. With the coffee and beers taking a toll, my two passengers quickly exited the car in need of relief. With nobody looking, they quickly took it in turns to disappear inside a hedge which bordered the garden of a small block of flats.
We were in Manchester. It was the least they could do.

The Battle Of The Polo Shirts –

Parky – Fred Perry.
Burger – Rene Lacoste.
Chris – Henri Lloyd.

Out onto the Chester Road, past the Gorse Hill pub and a few more United pubs. The red replica shirts were everywhere.

“Come come, nuclear bomb.”

The Bishop Blaize – always full of song, the United version of the So.

Burger – his first visit – and I took a few photos. Down Sir Matt Busby Way – it sounds grandiose, but it’s just a narrow terraced street with open ground and a car dealership on one side – with fanzine sellers shouting their wares.

“Red Issue – out today.”

“United We Stand – only two quid.”

“Get your Red News today.”

Further down, Dave Johnstone was there –

“The Chelsea fanzine, only a pound, hurry up.”

David Moyes, the Everton manager, hustled past and Parky yelled “Moyesy” as if they were long lost friends.

I wanted to take Burger down to the Munich memorial and we stood, in silence, for a few seconds. I turned towards Burger and Parky and said “I wonder how many United fans can name the players who died in Munich, you know?” I then reeled off a few names, my back to the memorial, just to prove a point…

“Duncan Edwards, Tommy Taylor, David Pegg, Billy Whelan…”

We then walked back up to the road and I stood amongst the United fans for a few moments. I know it’s a cliché, but the United tourists – the “Daytrippers” as the local lads call them, with derision – were out in force. I issued Burger and Parky with a little task for the next few minutes –

“Ruin as many photos as you can.”

With that, Parky spotted his chance and slowly ambled through a group of United fans from Asia just as their leader was about to take a photo.

Classic.

This group had even brought their own inflatable thundersticks. No wonder the lads in the Paul & Shark pullovers and Berghaus rainjackets from Crumpsall, Clayton and Ordsall mock some of their own fans. In the rush for global supremacy, the local populace feel as though the identity of their club is being changed irrevocably, with tourists paying high prices for match tickets at the expense of the local working classes.

Sound familiar?

“Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

It used to annoy me – back in the ‘eighties – that whenever Chelsea’s “potential” was spoken about, we were often cited as having the fan base and stadium location to become the “Manchester United of the South.” I just wished that our two clubs would never be compared in this way because, even then, United attracted the glory-hunters and idiots. You know the type – people who purport to follow United, but can’t name their opponents at the weekend. I squirm when I think that there are JCLs at Chelsea now who now resemble the United stereotype.

Shudder.

One more thing…outside the East stand (aka the old K stand), there are two statues. One, facing out, is a lovely bronze statue of Sir Matt. Facing him, twenty yards away, is another statue – of Best, Law and Charlton. It’s the “meeting place” at Old Trafford and, pretty much, the epi-centre of all things United. What a shame then, that there was a massive advertisement for Audi draped behind Sir Matt and four Audi cars, on display stands, right behind the Holy Trinity statue.

There is a famous saying – if United had a heart, they’d sell that too.

I know that United’s fans have complained about similar displays of crass commercialism in the past and I can sympathise with the United hard-core on this. There was, for example, a similar sponsor’s advertisement which adorned a banner on the East stand frontage which tried to commemorate the memory of the 50th anniversary of the Munich air crash in 2008.

“Ten” said Burger.

“Ten what?”

“Ruined photos.”

“Good work.”

We barged in to another Asian photo opportunity and I whispered “Come On Chelsea.”

“Eleven.”

We met up with a gaggle of Chelsea lads and then went inside. Parky and Burger were in the corner, I was in the little section of 500 in the South stand. There was a Scouser on the turnstile –

“Hope you win today, lad – and Torres scores.”

Inside, up the stairs and two bottles of “Singha” in the cramped and stifling bar. It was like a bloody sauna. I met up with a few friends – too many to name – and we watched on as Arsenal lost at Stoke City. Although the game was massive, I completely agreed with Alan’s take on things –

“I’m surprisingly not too bothered actually. Whatever will be will be. Just glad we’ve put ourselves back in contention, we’ve done ourselves proud.”

The team flashed upon the screen – I would have found room for Ramires (possibly instead of Mikel) and would have played Anelka instead of Kalou (who, as the world knows is an impact player, best suited to coming off the bench.) My confidence was being tested.

Alan, Gary and I had seats in the second from last row; right at the top of the stand (the same stand that was bombed by the Luftwaffe in WW2) and my mate Millsy was just behind us. He had a lovely experience against West Ham; he took his son to his first ever game and the two of them were picked out in the crowd by the TV cameras at the end of that most emotional match. What a lovely memento of Game #1.

At 4pm, we were roaring – to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

At 4.10pm, the game kicked-off.

At 4.11pm, Park had played the ball through to Hernandez and we were 1-0 down, the United fans in a frenzy.
For the rest of the game, we were second best. The midfield was woeful in the first period, with only Mikel showing the occasional bit of form. We were slow and lacked fizz. The second, from Vidic, made our task even more difficult.

Rooney came in for torrents of abuse and showed his class by giving us a “Winston Churchill” – he loves playing the victim, typical Scouser.

We expected a more enthusiastic show from the boys in the second period, but – although we did play better – the step up wasn’t great. To be fair, Ramires played well and gave us lots more options out wide. Frank’s close-range stab brought cheer, but nobody seemed that convinced we would fully recover, despite the chants of “we’re gonna win 3:2.” To be truthful, it was only through miraculous blocks – Alex was great – and woeful finishing that we didn’t concede more. I thought Rooney would score on many occasions, cutting in from the left, working the ball onto his right.

United’s support was quieter, though, during the last 20 minutes…we definitely had the fans worried, if not the team. Torres came on and screwed a shot wide. We knew it was not to be. The Chelsea fans around me began leaving and the United fans began roaring again in the final five minutes.

“Giggs – Giggs Will Tear You Apart Again.”

Groan.

I texted a curt “well done” to four United fans at the final whistle and I was soon out on the forecourt, battling the gentle slope and the crowing United fans alike. Burger had been delayed in his exit; he had said that two United fans – not from England – had somehow got tickets in the away seats and had unzipped their jackets at the end of the game to reveal red shirts. A punch in the face from an enraged Chelsea fan was the response.

Not big, not clever, but totally understandable.

Just after we reached the car, the heavens opened, thus providing a perfect Mancunian ending to the time spent in United Land. We gobbled down some Cornish pasties and slowly nudged our way onto the A56. Thankfully, the traffic moved relatively quickly and we were soon on our way south, hemmed in, no doubt, by 20,000 United fans.

We were philosophical – as you would expect – and the day had been enjoyable, despite the result. Burger had thought that the singing from his section was good, but I knew it was a lot better in 2010. With good reason. We stopped for a toilet break at Knutsford – the place absolutely teeming with AON shirts – and as Parky and Burger got out of the car, I asked them…

“Toilet, boys? Need a pee? You’ll need to find a bush or a hedge won’t you? Who are you, the Chelsea Hedgehunters?”

We dropped Burger off in Stafford at about 8.30pm – Julie had watched the game in their local and was sad, but happy to see us. It had been a tough old day. The chat and laughter, so therapeutic, continued on as we headed south, through Birmingham and beyond. As a mark of respect for the recently deceased Poly Styrene, His Lordship had brought along an X-Ray Spex CD and – despite an already sore throat – I belted out a few old favourites from 1977 and 1978.

Then, the last few miles, and a compilation of songs from the early 1980’s – our era, don’t you know? I love the song, but I just grimaced when it came on –

“When routine bites hard,
And ambitions are low,
And resentment rides high,
But emotions won’t grow,
And we’re changing our ways,
Taking different roads.
Then love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.”

Tales From Pastures Green

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 20 April 2011.

Just another Chelsea Saturday? I guess so.

Just another Saturday of pounding the roads, fun-filled conversations with mates, pre-match drinks, camaraderie with a cast of thousands, songs, junk food, goals, music on the car CD player, memories, triumph, pathos and self-deprecating humour.

Really: what else are you going to do on a Saturday?

The first decision of the day – what to wear? This can take ages, but I was in a hurry. I went dark. Navy blue Victorinox T-shirt, dark blue HL jeans and a pair of black Clarks Wallabees.

I had to zip into Frome first thing to get a few things done. The town is enjoying a little renaissance at the moment; bohemian shops, a thriving arts scene, regular bands at a few venues and a thriving café culture. I love it. My hair cut takes fewer and fewer minutes to finish these days; sigh. A little bit of shopping. Rush, rush, rush. With that all accomplished, I set off and collected Lord Parkins of Parkyshire just after 11am. For the record; a lovely white and muted olive green Fred Perry, jeans and a pair of Adidas.

Still after all these years, we’re football fashion obsessives. If anybody sees us giving in to the easy option of Samsung Wear, please give us both a slap.

The game at The Hawthorns was a special one for Lord Parky. On 15th. April 1961, he attended his first-ever Chelsea game. His father is an Arsenal fan and the Parkins family were living in North London at the time. Parky, as a six year old, was taken to Stamford Bridge and fell in love with the colour blue. Chelsea defeated Arsenal on that spring day some fifty years ago and a life of Chelsea support was borne.

50 Years – good on you, mate.

So, you all know the score by now…the road up to the West Midlands is so familiar. With no Pompey in the top flight, this 115 mile jaunt to West Brom is my nearest away game now. It’s an easy place to get to. I don’t mind West Brom. As I drove through Gloucestershire, we mulled over the sad fact that – unlike 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 – this season was not going to be rewarded with either a league title or a cup final appearance. In fact, we just have seven games left this season. We went over plans for each of those – there will be a big American invasion for the West Ham game, but Parky and I fancy something different for the Spurs game; we are looking at a pub-crawl up the Kings Road in the heart of trendy, glitzy, Sloaney Chelsea, rather than the more working class, football orientated North End Road.

As I drove north, there were a few incoming text messages from fellow fans, from near and far. We aimed for The Park Inn, just off the M5, and we reached there at around 1pm. It dawned on us that it was a case of “Lord Parkins parkin’ at The Park Inn.”

Mike from the NY Blues phoned me to say he was “just at the Park Inn” and we waited his arrival. It soon dawned on me that he was “just parkin” – at a nearby boozer – and our paths never crossed the entire day. Burger had been in touch, on the lookout for tickets. There were a few familiar Chelsea faces in the hotel bar area, mixed in with a smattering of home fans. It dawned on me that the current West Brom shirt is a classic. Simple and effective. The designers at Adidas should take note. I had a brief word with Big John – “a lot of Chelsea fans are wailing like spoilt brats at the moment” – and we then retired to a low sofa and finished off some pints of Becks Vier, some savoury nuts and some salt and vinegar crisps. The sun was slowly breaking through and a gaggle of Chelsea were perched on a grassy bank just outside the hotel.

Our season was over, our team are rubbish? Try telling that to the three thousand who had loyally driven up to sample the delights of West Bromwich.

A Chelsea game? We’ll be there.

For the West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea game in March 2006– the first Chelsea game since the passing of Peter Osgood – there was a pre-planned meet at this hotel and there were hundreds of Chelsea there. At the game, we all held up photographs of the iconic Peter Osgood header versus Leeds United and there was a beautifully respected minute silence before the game for Peter Osgood and also a young West Brom fan that had recently been killed in a car accident. During the game, referee Mark Halsey sent off our flying Dutchman Arjen Robben. Back in the hotel bar after the game, we spotted Halsey walking through a room of Chelsea fans (he had obviously stayed there the night before) and we roundly booed him. Although he had a smile on his face, he flicked a “V” at us and said “F Off!”

Not the behaviour we expected to be honest. Alan and I always think Halsey has had it in for us since that day!

I seem to remember Ron Harris saying that Chelsea used to stay at this hotel back in the ‘seventies when playing at venues in that West Midlands area.

On the 15 minute walk to the stadium, we passed a cricket game in progress and then a little group of teenagers sharing a jumbo spliff. A few vans were selling hot dogs, burgers, steak sandwiches and bags of pork scratchings. At the stadium, we turned right past the main stand and we were soon in the Chelsea area.

This was my sixth visit to The Hawthorns with Chelsea. I had a lovely seat, a third of the way back, just behind the goal. The stadium has changed over the years, but has kept the same cosy feel. It’s odd that the club has decided to “do an Ibrox” and enclose the corners with unsightly grey steel, but I guess they have attempted to keep the noise in. A throstle – the club symbol – is perched in the north-east corner against all that steel. It was almost camouflaged.

The West Brom fans, sharing that south end…the Smethwick End…were in full voice and I was impressed with a couple of new songs in their repertoire, including a club song which was based on the famous “The Lord Is My Shepherd” hymn. I couldn’t decipher all the lyrics, but I heard

“The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want.
He makes me down to lie.
In pastures green; he leadeth me.
The quiet waters by.”

Maybe I have heard this before, but I certainly can’t remember it. After a few shouts of the surely surreal “Hodgson’s Barmy Army”, they asked us the age old question “WWYWYWS?” and I turned towards them and pointed “here.”

I then mentioned to Gal, stood alongside me, a game in January 1986 when a crowd of only 10,300 saw Chelsea (in all red) defeat West Bromwich Albion in a top flight game. I well remember us leaving the ground that day – we had seats in the old Rainbow Stand – singing “We’re Gonna Win It All!” and actually believing it…we were in contention in all of the three major trophies and the team was playing some super football, with Dixon, Speedie and Nevin at their zenith. A week later, Kerry was injured against Liverpool in an F.A. Cup tie that we lost and we were soon defeated by QPR in the League Cup too. I always class that game at The Hawthorns as the high water mark of that iconic 1983 to 1986 Chelsea team.

So, West Brom…where were you in January 1986?

The Chelsea team began rather sluggishly despite buoyant support from the travelling hordes. In my mind, we were back playing a 4-3-3 with Florent Malouda upfront with Drogba and Kalou. I really wasn’t sure, though. A Malouda effort whistled wide after just two minutes, but West Brom then enjoyed a period which caused us harm. Our midfield trio were giving up too much space and West Brom broke and Morrison prompted Mulumbu to hit over.

On 16 minutes, our worst fears were realised. A fine move from the home team and the ball was played in to their player of the moment Odemwingie. Our defence was caught rather flat-footed and Odemwingie sublimely chipped an advancing Cech. With that, the home fans to my left were bouncing like fools and the stadium was rocking.

“Oh God – here we go again.”

Not to worry. Our midfield got more involved and we were soon asking questions. On 21 minutes, a lovely ball from Ashley Cole was played inside the full-back and Florent Malouda crossed into the danger area. A scramble in the West Brom defence and the ball broke to Drogba who crashed the ball in.

Soon after, Drogba made a trademark run from deep, fending off Baggy challenges, and shot from distance. Carson could only parry the shot into the path of the much-maligned Kalou who expertly despatched the rebound into the far corner. It really was a fine finish. Gal, to my left, had been giving Kalou a predictably tough time and, amid bouncing, I just gave him a big old hug. With this, 3,000 home fans to my left sat down.

A Frank Lampard free-kick was whipped in with pace and swerve, but Carson reacted well and palmed the shot over. We were now rampant and our support was rocking. Just before half-time, Frank broke and calmly despatched the ball into the goal just inside the left-post. Straight after, the more buoyant support towards the rear of the stand began a lovely, self-deprecating chant and we all soon joined in:

“And now you’re gonna believe us, and now you’re gonna believe us, and now you’re gonna believe us, we’re gonna win F-All.”

Proper Chelsea.

We were buoyant at the break and fully expected more goals and even…whisper it…one from “you-know-who.” I briefly met a clearly jet-lagged Beth during the interval.

As the game restarted, the away fans baited the home club with a song in honour of the much-loved and respected hero of our 1997 and 2000 F.A. Cup triumphs –

“One Di Matteo, there’s only one Di Matteo – one Di Matteo!”

Two quick offsides soon into the second-half set the tone. A Drogba lob from way out was just over. I lost count of the number of times that we broke at will down that left flank. The interplay between Malouda and Cole was excellent and, again, I had to admire the unharnessed energy of The World’s Best Left-Back.

To be honest, the second-half was a blur. It was all Chelsea. Prompted by an excellent Mikel and Essien, plus a rejuvenated Lampard, we broke at will and had numerous chances to further our 3-1 lead. We were guilty of over-elaboration at times and I bellowed “come on – we’re not Arsenal.” A deflected Kalou shot, after a fine dribble and shimmy inside the box, was deflected up onto the bar.

Torres was warming up and we yelled for his introduction. Instead, Carlo reverted to type and the first substitution was very safe; Bosingwa for Ivanovic. Come on Carlo, get Torres on…give him a run. I still have faith in the manager but he does himself no favours at times. Two stooping Kalou headers went wide. Chance after chance. Tons of possession.

At The Hawthorns, there is a large bakery opposite the north stand (the company I work for once did the transport for them and I parked on their site at a game in 2003). Throughout the second half, they must have been baking a massive batch of hot-cross buns, because there was a sweet aroma of dough, orange peel and cinnamon which wafted around the stadium. It was quite lovely, in fact. It sure beat the usual aromas associated with football matches…’orse**** and ‘amburgers.

Yossi was introduced for Frank Lampard and we presumed that Torres wouldn’t be far behind. The Torres chants continued. It was plain for all to see that we are still with him.

At last, but with just eight minutes remaining, Carlo brought on Torres for the excellent Drogba.

What followed was car crash football, with the home fans mocking Torres’ price tag, and two or three moments of pure anguish.

On 88 minutes, a lovely ball in to Torres on the edge of the box. A sidestep past Carson and the Spaniard slotted the ball in.

Oh boy – at last – the draught is over – let’s celebrate!

No! A linesman’s flag and offside. I had lost count of the number of offsides during that second-half and this was the killer. What bad luck.

Torres then slipped – or was he fouled? – in the box and the West Brom fans howled.

Then, a free-kick and John Terry had a close chat with Torres. I kept my photo focussed on Torres as he spun away from his marker. Oh, how I wanted to capture his first Chelsea goal on film. The ball was played to the edge of the box. I snapped just as Torres kicked and missed – a football air shot – and the entire Chelsea support groaned.

The groan could be heard in Pakistan, Australia, Kenya and the USA.

At the other end, West Brom had a couple of late chances, but they had been totally overrun. A cross was met with a header which Cech easily saved. The last Chelsea attempt on goal was from an unlikely source. John Terry juggled the ball and unleashed a great volley which Carson did well to save. One of these days, JT will score a blinder.

I just can’t believe we didn’t score any goals in that rampant second-half.

The players came over to thank us for our support. JT took off his lime green shirt and, despite the protestations of an overzealous steward, gave it to a fan at the front. I slowly made my way out. As I waited for Parky to emerge, I chatted to a few mates. Parky, full of smiles, said that David Luiz had given his shirt to one of our disabled fans and the fan was overcome with joy.

On the walk back to the hotel, we devoured a bag of pork scratchings and apple sauce.

Such decadence.

We watched the first-half of the Mancunian semi-final in the hotel bar, but then headed south. We avoided the radio – if we listened, we would jinx it. Instead, we listened to The Style Council, Sex Pistols and Soft Cell. The cloudy skies over Worcestershire soon brightened up as I drove past Tewkesbury, Cheltenham and Gloucester. The Malvern Hills to my west were simply stunning.

I had packed a couple of bottles of Peroni as a mark of celebration for Parky’s 50th anniversary. As I drove, he drank. A familiar scenario.

The F.A. Cup semi-final result was not known to us until I got back to Parky’s village at about 8pm.

It was the end to a perfect Chelsea Saturday.

Tales From The David Luiz Show

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 March 2011.

Saturday had seen beautiful Spring weather in Southern England, mixed in with yet more faltering footsteps from our protagonists at the top of the table. When I awoke on Sunday morning, I was hoping for another pristine day – more clear skies and sunny weather please – and a continuation in our steady upturn in form. As I collected Glenn and Parky, the skies were a little less inviting than the previous day, but the buzz was there alright. We had a brilliant drive up to London, hardly pausing for breath as we discussed all sorts of topics. The chat continued over a Full English in the caff. Good vibes, good friends, good fun.

I left them to it and – yet again – sauntered off down to Stamford Bridge. This is a familiar routine for me these days. As I drive to 90% of all of the games these days, I need other distractions than drinking in a pub for three hours. I limit myself to just a couple of pints; any more would be silly. I met up with Mick The Autograph King and also had a little chat with Ron Harris, Clive Walker and Kerry Dixon. I collected a signed photo of Fernando Torres from Mick, plus I got Chopper to personalise a photo – “To The Philly Blues” – for 612Steve to get framed up and hang behind the bar at the meeting point of the Philly Chapter.

I breezed back down towards the pub, with the skies lightening and the sun slowly coming out. There were fans everywhere. Outside the tube, I brushed past the usual dozen or so touts plying their trade and I silently tut-tutted. Over at the CFCUK stall, Mark Worrall was wearing a Luiz wig. A quick “hello Cathy, hello Dog” and I was then on my way through Vanston Place, past the upmarket restaurants on the left, and then onto the more down-at-heel North End Road.

I joined the boys in The Goose at about 1.30pm and – of course – everyone was out in the ridiculously busy beer garden. Two pints of “Carling, me darling.”

Faces everywhere, conversations taking place, beers being quaffed.

Somebody asked me for my prediction of the day’s game.

“Two-nil, I reckon.”

The news soon came through from the ground that Fernando Torres had been paired with Salomon Kalou and nobody saw that coming. The general view had been another stab at the Drogba / Torres partnership…and I use that term loosely. It certainly hadn’t worked yet, but has to be the way forward this season. I had spoken to Glenn and Parky about Kalou on the way up in the car, in fact. Of course, everyone knows that Kalou isn’t the most liked of our players and I wondered if this was fair. At Chelsea – and I am sure we are not alone – we always seem to have a scapegoat. If it isn’t Kalou, it’s Mikel. However, in his defence, Kalou tries his best and keeps his head down. He never grumbles. Do fans really expect that Chelsea can maintain four top line A list strikers? There will always be room in our squad for bit-players, squad players, players that can be relied upon to come in and know they will play every third game. We know he’s infuriating, we know his choice of final ball often lacks judgement, but he fills a role for us. Out in the beer garden, a few more of my vocal friends were at it already – slagging him off – and the game hadn’t even started.

The pub was rammed and the beer garden too. It’s nothing special – dark brown brick walls surround a patio area with around ten low-lying benches and tables – but the pre-match chats are always nicer out in the fresh air than in the stifling and crowded pub itself. I had a quick chat with Jon and Lee, whom many on CIA know, plus Digger, his baseball cap laden with around 100 badges. This was our first foray out into the beer garden since the Arsenal game in October.

Our hibernation was over. We were out and about and lapping up the early Spring sun. At last, blue skies dominated. We were some of the last to leave the boozer – even though I was looking forward to the game, a little bit of me wanted to just stay there, chatting in our small groups, enjoying our friendships. Having a giggle.

We set off from The Goose at 3.30pm. By 3.45pm, we had all splintered off to line up at our various entrance turnstiles. By 3.55pm, I was inside and the two teams were being read out by Neil Barnett. There was the confirmation of the team – yep, it wasn’t a lie, Kalou in – and Tevez was out for our visitors. City only brought down 1,500 for this game. We always take 3,000 up to Eastlands. For all of their new found wealth, I can never hate Manchester City. They have suffered too much at the hands of their local rivals. Their support has always held up. I’ve always got on really well with their fans to be honest. They don’t take themselves too seriously and seem well grounded. They had a few flags and the largest one was in City sky blue, white and claret –

“MCFC – Warrington – Don’t Look Back In Anger.”

Elsewhere, it seemed like the home flags had multiplied. I spotted that a lot of the supporters clubs flags had moved from the East stand to the West stand. I noted the Motor City Blues flag down towards The Shed. There were others, but my vantage point was too far away for clarification of their origin. Along from me, a small flag was just visible on the MH balcony.

“547 SW6”

Who knows what this refers to? I know: just wonder if anyone else does. It’s a toughie.

I couldn’t miss the huge Pimlico “We’ll Never Be Mastered” flag on The Shed wall, too. It’s strange that we don’t have too many local flags at games these days – in fact I can only think of this one and a Battersea one – but this is confirmation of how our support really comes from the suburbs and beyond these days. Not many of the local populace in Lambeth, Battersea and Putney are Chelsea fans. A similar situation exists for Tottenham and West Ham too. For whatever reason, these more ethnically diverse populations are not match goers.

For five minutes before the game began, The Bridge was rocking to the sound of “One England Captain.”

On the cover of the programme, a lovely photograph of David Luiz, hair wild, after scoring against United recently. Inside, one game was featured in two separate articles. Firstly, our former striker Colin Lee spoke about his two goals during our 1986 Full Members Cup victory over Manchester City. Then, Rick Glanville dissected several photographs from that game twenty-five years ago. It brought back some memories alright. The Full Members Cup was the “brainchild” of our former chairman Ken Bates who recognised the need to generate extra revenue amongst the teams unable to participate in UEFA competitions after the Heysel ban. This was a strange competition in a strange era for football in England. Hooliganism was rife, crowds were down, the long-ball game dominated. But I loved it. I was at Stoke, at college for a second season – er, year – and attended 22 games in that 1985-1986 campaign.

I remember that we played in a league game at The Dell on the Saturday – I didn’t go – but then played the very next day at Wembley against City. I went out for a few drinks around a couple of pubs close to my digs in Stoke and caught a very late train down to London at about 2am.

Big mistake.

The train was packed with City fans, or should I say their lads. Everyone who was involved in football in the ‘eighties will recognise this term.

Their lads. Their boys. Their chaps.

Their firm, in other words.

If I am not mistaken, while we were beating Southampton, City had played a Manchester derby against United at OT. As I stepped inside the train, the carriages were full to overflowing. There was no room to sit, hardly any room to stand. There were City lads everywhere. I had to stand next to the doors, cheek by jowl with a couple of Mancs. I was soon sussed, but thankfully the lad I was talking to – drunk beyond words, clutching a can of lager, his accent punctuated with classic Manchester words and phrases – didn’t spill the beans. After a while, the rumours came through that a few Chelsea had been spotted towards the rear of the train and had got a pasting. I remained quiet and tried to stay clear of eye contact and didn’t make conversation with passers-by as they roamed the train chatting to other lads.

Eventually, I sidled off to a first class carriage – which, in the classic joke of the era…was empty! – and tried to get some sleep. Outside Wembley Stadium, I bumped into my mate Alan and we posed from particularly cheesy photos outside the Twin Towers. I watched the game with two lads from my college in Stoke who I also bumped into. Despite gates for this cup being really low, over 68,000 attended this game. It was Chelsea’s first game at Wembley since 1972 and our end was packed. I would suggest we had 50,000 there, City just 18,000. We went a goal down, but then stormed into a 5-1 lead with goals from David Speedie (the first Wembley hat-trick since a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1966) and Colin Lee. We were buoyant and in great voice. I had a spot on the terrace in the west end. It was only my third ever visit to the famous old stadium. Then – typical, oh so typical Chelsea – we let City score three times in the last six minutes.

Chelsea 5 Manchester City 4.

Unbeknown to me, Chelsea’s lads had “got it on” with City’s firm (they were called The Mainline) before and after the game, yet this would be the final chapter in the original Headhunters story. On the following Friday morning – just before our game at home to West Ham and the ICF – all of the main Chelsea faces were rudely awoken by various members of the police and things would never be the same again.

Back to 2011.

Manchester City – in that classic kit – began the stronger and had the best of the initial exchanges. After just five minutes, the ball broke to Yaya Toure but his low shot was stopped, low down, by Petr. And then, we slowly got into the game with a few half-chances. Kalou was played in but – stumbling – his effort was smothered by Hart.

While we were watching, Alan and I chatted about a few things and – I am not sure what initiated it – he spoke about another crazy day in that 1985-1986 season. On New Year’s Day 1986, our game at Upton Park was called off. I heard the news when I was about ten stops away on the tube so turned tail and sadly returned home. Alan, however, had found out at the ground and was with around one hundred Chelsea fans who then decided, on the spur of the moment (excuse the pun), to attend the Arsenal vs. Tottenham Hotspur game. They filtered in to the Clock End amongst the away support, keeping it quiet. Just before the teams came out, they burst into song –

“Chelsea – clap, clap, clap – Chelsea – clap, clap, clap.”

Tottenham soon scarpered and the one hundred Chelsea had a police cordon around them for the rest of the game.

Oh, how I wish I had been there.

Proper Chelsea.

On thirty-five minutes, a sublime back-heel from Fernando Torres set up Ramires who crossed for Frank, but the chance was squandered. We had a few more attempts, but our finishing was off. Malouda set up Kalou, who swivelled nicely on the penalty spot, but his shot was hit squarely at Hart. The Kalou- Booers were out in force.

The best moment of the first-half was the sublime ball that new hero Luiz chipped out to Ashley Cole. Central defenders just don’t do that! The weather was now gorgeous – blue skies overhead and strong shadows on the pitch for the first time in 2011.

We continued to dominate possession into the second period but I rued my mate Neil’s comment that “goals will be hard to come by today.” David Luiz then provided me with another moment to remember for a while. He chased down a City attacker, tackled cleanly, hustled for the loose ball and strode away majestically before playing a perfect ball inside. It was as perfect a piece of defending that I have seen for years and years. There is clearly something about David Luis’ instant relationship with us fans that is so reminiscent of Frank Leboeuf’s first few games in 1996. A ball playing, confident central defender. But Luiz offers so much more. He looks the real deal and his play got better and better. A lone Dzeko header was City’s only real attempt on our goal. Cech was rarely bothered.

A cross found the head of Ivanovic, but his strong header was blocked. I eventually realised that our support had waned a fair bit during the second-half and I hadn’t even noticed. After Carlo signalled for Torres, and not our friend Kalou, to come off, the crowd suddenly came to life and roundly booed. At least they didn’t sing “YDKWYD.” An image of Roman, slumping in his seat when he saw Torres walking off, was splashed on to the TV screen in the stadium. However, a double-substitution involving Didi and Nico energised the whole stadium and we took it to City. Then Yuri came on for Kalou and our domination stepped up even more.

Now, we were roaring.

Down below me, the David Luiz master class was ready for another inspirational moment. 15 yards away, he faced a defender and tapped the ball rapidly between his feet.

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right.

Oh boy. What a player.

The City defender didn’t enjoy this and hacked into him. Thankfully, Frank Lampard did not fancy taking the free-kick (his set pieces were yet again slow and inaccurate). Instead, Didier whipped in a fantastic ball and there he was.

Luis. A forward thrust. A header, A mass of hair. The ball going in.

Yeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssss!

Such drama. With ten minutes to go, we had timed it right. The Bridge erupted.

There was still time for another memorable Luis moment. Inside his own half, he was faced with a City attacker. Leaving the ball completely alone, he moved to his left, stepped and moved again and the City player lurched to his right, off balance. With that, Luis returned to the ball and passed it out to a team mate. I’ll be honest, that ranks up there with the very best Pat Nevin and Ruud Gullit shimmies.

This boy can play.

And then, the stunning denouement. Ramires – he of the surging runs and beautifully timed tackles – spun past three immobile defenders and despatched the ball into the net. The sense of anticipation before the strike was worth the entrance fee alone. The Bridge again erupted and the world was a very fine world once again. In the closing seconds, I remembered how out-of-sorts Ramires was at the corresponding game at Eastlands back in October. He just wasn’t in it. I wondered about his size and his skill level. I need not be worried. Although he scored at Bolton, this was his crowning glory. This was a lovely result and augurs so well for the future. We are changing our personnel at the business end of a testing season, evolving as we go. Once Torres – I simply cannot fault his effort – gets going he will be fine. But the game was all about two other new players.

David Luiz and Ramires. Simply Braziliant.

It had been quite a sideshow.

Tales From The Lower Tier Of The Bullens Road

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2011.

This was always going to be a long and tiring day. I woke at 5.45am.After making myself a wake-me-up coffee, I quickly turned the TV on to see that Fernando Torres had requested a transfer request from Liverpool. As I scrambled together my match-day essentials, I contemplated the whole Torres transfer story. It has many angles, many dimensions. Whether we get him or not – and I hope we do…he is one of the world’s best strikers after all – the reassuring thing is that Roman still has some spare roubles in his kitty after the Russian World Cup bid / bribe. Generally speaking, I’m more in favour of spending our resources on nurturing our own talent and promoting from within. But every now and then, it is important to refresh our squad with top talent and make a statement. Signing Torres would undoubtedly convince others to follow him to the Fulham Road. Torres would be, as the Americans say, a marquee player. Our strike force is aging and we need to refresh it. And I have a feeling that, for once, Chelsea may have got the timings just right. With our main bidding rivals Manchester City having already spent £23M on an inferior player, we may have a free run on Torres. I liken the January transfer window to one of those bizarre cycling races where all riders go incredibly slowly for 95% of the race – “me? I’m not going…what about you?” – but then sprint like mad in the last two laps. Manchester City, with typical gusto, seem to have spent their wad way too quickly. Signing Torres would be huge. How ironic that I would be walking within feet of Anfield later in the day. I half-expected to see a Chelsea shirt – 9 Torres – pinned to the Shankly Gates.

I set off at 6.45am and soon collected His Lordship. Grey and overcast skies greeted us as we pounded the tarmac of the M4 and M5. Parky was in “full on chat mode” and I let him talk – and talk. After a McBreakfast in Birmingham “on the hoof”, we called in to collect Burger in Stafford at 9.30am.

As I was back in Staffordshire, I was reminded of my college days. On every train trip down to Chelsea in the mid-‘eighties, I would pass through Stafford. Towards the southern edge of the town, I always looked out for “The Everton Estate.” This was a council-estate of around two hundred houses with its own walled garage area. Every spare foot of wall was sprayed with graffiti proclaiming a love of Everton Football Club. It really was quite a sight. In the post-war years, many Liverpudlians were given new lives in a variety of outlying satellite towns as a result of the heavy Luftwaffe bombings that befell the city in the 1939-1945 period. Many city-centre homes were decimated, but this gave the city authorities the chance to also clear surrounding slum areas in one fell swoop. Typically, Scousers moved to the immediate overflow towns of Skelmersdale, Runcorn, Widnes, Warrington and Kirby, just outside the city boundaries. However, it seems that Stafford had its fair share of Scousers too. And it seems it had a reputation of being quite an Everton stronghold. A similar scenario has existed in other UK cities too – the overspill towns of Dagenham and Basildon are West Ham strongholds, Harlow and Bishops Stortford are Tottenham enclaves, while the notorious “schemes” of Easterhouse and Drumchapel are hotbeds of Celtic and Rangers support respectively.

My first visit to Everton had been almost twenty-five years ago. I had travelled up by coach from Stoke-On-Trent with two fellow Chelsea fanatics – Pete and Mac – who I have strangely not seen since those college days. We played Everton – the reigning League Champions – on a Sunday in March 1986. It was live on TV. In those days, the antiquated Park End stand housed the away support on two tiers. There were a couple of thousand seats high up in the upper tier, but the lower tier afforded a far less satisfactory view. The trick was always to get in early and hoist yourself up onto the ledge at the back. On this particular day, the three of us weren’t so lucky and so we had to scramble around on the very shallow terraces of the lower tier. It was a proper mosh pit and I am always amazed how many fans were squeezed into that narrow area. For the games when Liverpool or United visited Goodison, it was just a bobbing sea of heads, with the lucky two hundred standing at the back. The couple of photos I have from that day show a forest of heads, with occasional glimpses of match action. Chelsea, in all-red, scored first through the much maligned Jerry Murphy, but Everton equalised late on. I just remember being happy to be in another new ground, at last able to see for myself the famous church overlooking the north-west corner, the gargantuan main stand, the lovely double-deck stands on all four sides. To this day, Goodison remains one of my favourites.

On the return bus ride back to the city centre, the irritable natives bricked the bus, but an even more unpleasant fate was to befall us. After games at either Anfield or Goodison, there was usually a delay to get back to Lime Street and this allowed the locals to regroup and plan their cowardly attacks on away fans. On this particular occasion, we were “sussed” as we loitered for a few seconds on the train station forecourt. One Scouser kicked me in the back of the leg and on turning round –“oh God, here we go” – I was faced by a pack of locals. The three of us were chased by five or six scrawny Scousers from the Lime Street train station around the corner to the National Express coach depot. We scrambled aboard just as the Scousers caught up with us. It had been a narrow escape. Back in those days, with the spectre of Heysel everywhere you went, Liverpool was a tough old place on match days. The myth of the wise-cracking, football daft Scouser, peddled by the media, tells only half the story. The city housed some of the most violent football psychos of the time. On the main approach by train into Lime Street, for many years, a piece of daunting graffiti said it all –

“Cockneys Die.”

Liverpool away in the ‘eighties was no place for the feint hearted.

Ironically, the game at Goodison Park in March 1986 represented one of the last away days for the original Chelsea firm before “Operation Own Goal” kicked in around two weeks later. I seem to remember up-close and personal photos of the main Chelsea faces being shown on the news – and police surveillance photographs from that game at Goodison in particular.

They were crazy times really. It was the fear of getting hit which made every away game a battle of nerves. I was lucky to come through relatively unscathed – a lone punch to my face was my total involvement in football hooliganism and I am glad we have moved on.

Tuna, over from Atlanta for two games, was travelling north with Andy and the Nuneaton lot. As we drove past Stoke, we heard that they were just a mile or so ahead of us. I first met The Fishy Boy in Pittsburgh in 2004 and a Tuna story from a few years back is long overdue. For the two games in LA in 2007, I decided to save some beer money and take the cheap option on accommodation. I stayed at the Santa Monica youth hostel – inexpensive and central to the main action. After a night on the beer with the usual suspects, I managed to talk Tuna into kipping in my youth hostel dorm rather than schlep all of the way down to a mate of his in Marina Del Ray.

“It’ll be OK, Tunes – there was a spare bunk this morning…no worries, son.”

At around 3am, we stumbled into my room, but – horror – all of the spare bunk beds were now occupied.

“Here’s my blanket, Tunes – just sleep on the floor here, by the bathroom, nobody will know.”

“Alright son – cheers mate.”

Within seconds, we were both asleep, the beer taking its toll. Sorted. However, when I awoke momentarily at a very early stage the next morning, there was no sign of The Fishy Boy. Strange, I thought – but, still suffering from the beer intake, I dozed back to sleep. As I got up for good, my brain was a bit clearer and I began wondering what on earth had happened to Tuna. When I met up with him the next day, I had to enquire why he had left in the middle of the night. I just couldn’t work it out. Tuna replied that after an hour or so, the massive – and I’m talking massive – chap who had been sleeping in the bunk below me had got up and had wanted to use the bathroom. In the darkness, he stumbled into a sleeping Tuna. In a confused state, Tuna slowly awoke, rubbed his eyes, and had been confronted with a totally naked mass of blubber, hovering over him and pointedly asking

“What the HELL are you doing?”

At this stage in the re-enactment, I was sniggering like a schoolboy…and Tuna was shaking with laughter. Tuna had quickly gathered his clothes and scarpered, catching a cab outside the hostel and returning to his mate’s place further south.

“I had to go mate!”

On the final approach in to Liverpool, the grey skies miraculously vanished and the sun shone intensely. We had been playing some Prince Buster and other ska songs, especially for Burger as we had been driving north. “The Liquidator” started up and we joined in with the requisite clapping.

We strode into The Arkles at just after 11am and the place was already full of Chelsea. Parky got the beers in and I had a scout around. There they were – the Nuneaton lot, with Tuna too. A hug for The Fishy Boy – great to see him again. There was another good show from Nuneaton – eight all told. Whitey, wearing a lovely CP jacket, joined us for a few minutes. Parky told some jokes. I updated Tuna with news of a few of the lads from Frome. I noted more and more of those quilted Barbour jackets. Definitely the flavour of the month on the terraces at the moment. Andy and Parky were in nice Berghaus jackets, though – lightweight but warm. Just the job for a cold day at football. The skies were blue as we sauntered out of the boozer and made our way across Stanley Park and down towards Goodison. The white roof of the huge main stand was catching the sun. It was an impressive sight indeed. I texted my mate Francis, a Liverpool fan, and he asked if we would be taking Torres back with us.

The immediate area outside the away turnstiles of the Bullens Road was bathed in bright sunshine. Burger shot off inside to try to find a suitable location for his flag, while Parky and myself waited and spoke to a few faces. Parky then dived inside, no doubt hoping to have one last beer before the start. I took a few photos of the stadium, trying to catch a few quirky angles. I noted a new feature since my last visit in 2008 – a photographic “time line” of old photos and facts wrapping itself around the ground. A nice touch. Everton are the senior team in Liverpool of course – and played up the hill at Anfield in their first few years. For many years, Everton were the dominant force in the city too, with Goodison the grander stadium. Bill Shankly put a stop to all that.

However, while Chelsea won the F.A.Cup in April 1970 – the moment that undoubtedly caused me to pick Chelsea as my team – Everton won the league championship around the same time. How easy would it have been for me to choose The Blues of Liverpool and not London? I guess we will never know. Best not dwell too much on that.

Through the turnstiles and into the cramped under croft – yet more Barbour jackets, fans drinking Chang beer from plastic bottles, singing The Bouncy, the walls awash with blue and white signs. And then out into the sunny stadium. I found my seat in row 12, right next to Mo and her mate from Wrexham – just a short hop for them.

Then, the theme from “Z Cars” and the players emerged. Lots and lots of empty seats, though. The toffee girl was waiting with the two mascots on the centre circle. Handshakes with the captains.

We quickly serenaded the team with our version of “Hey Jude” (we were in Liverpool after all, eh?) and we then asked for Carlo – and Torres! – to “give us a wave.” We then followed this with a really impressive medley of songs for the majority of our players. Songs for Essien, Malouda, Frank, JT, Ivanovic, Drogba and Anelka. And Fernando Torres – with much laughter – to the tune, of course, of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

“La la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la, la la la la, la la la la…la la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la – Fernando Forres, Chelsea’s Number Nine.”

The Everton fans weren’t laughing out loud, but I bet they were smiling inside. Despite the early kick-off, I had the impression that a fair few Chelsea had been on the ale all morning. There was a nice buzz in the away section and the songs were coming thick and fast. The seats – on wooden floorboards – are tightly packed at Everton and I wondered if this helped.

Then the holy trinity of away songs – morphing as the song gathered momentum…

“You’re so quiet / it’s a 5hit-hole / you’re all w@nkers, Goodison.”

Although, I whispered to Mo – “I love this stadium. Proper old school.”

“Me too”, she agreed.

Michael Essien blasted high and John Terry headed over, but the songs echoed around the Bullens Road. Then, a Jack Rodwell shot was superbly saved in front of us by Petr. The game struggled to come alight. My eyes kept wandering over to various details of the massive two-tiered stand opposite. It provided an impressive backdrop as the game carried on below. I couldn’t but help notice the acres of empty seats, though. The F.A. Cup clearly doesn’t stir the emotions as it once did. The best chance of our half came after a lovely break from Ramires who played in Anelka, but his shot was blasted straight at Tim Howard.

Another song caused yet more mirth from us –

“No noise from the unemployed.”

And, for heaven’s sake, Everton really were deathly quiet. I timed them – they did not utter a single song of encouragement until 34 minutes had passed. Everton have always been quiet, but this broke all records. A Malouda rasper from 30 yards whistled past the post. Then – a period of surreal songs from the away 3,000. An appeal for “handball” by the denizens of the new version of the Park End – a boring single tier structure, so typical of the bland new stands of recent years – was met with much laughter from us. Burger was to tell me that a similar thing happened at Bolton. For the next ten minutes, the game was forgotten as we came up with song after song which replaced the word “Chelsea” with “handball.” We were roaring.

“You are my handball, my only handball; you make me happy when skies are grey…”

“Handball here, handball there, handball every f-ing where…”

“Handball, handball, handball, handball – tra la la la la…”(with associated bouncing.)

“And it’s super handball – super handball fc…”

“La la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la, la la la la, la la la la…la la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la – Handball, Handball – Chelsea’s Number Nine.”

Brilliant stuff. The first-half petered out and I found it hard to remain focussed. All the singing had given me a headache.

During the half-time period, I took yet more photos of one of my favourite stadia. It did dawn on me, though, that in nine previous visits to Goodison, I had yet to see us lose. That could be a lot to do with my liking of Everton’s home stadium. ESPN’s commentary team appeared in the near corner, seated at an impromptu desk, along with the F.A. Cup itself. The summariser Ray Stubbs was sat alongside Kevin Keegan and Robbie Savage. We, of course, reminded Savage what he was – we were in one of those moods.

Everton came out before us after the break and Phil Neville was serenaded too. He gestured – “who, me?” with a smile. Fair play to him. He isn’t reviled as much as his odious brother. Everton started the far stronger in the second period. I noted that, in the shadows, the pitch was still quite frosty. We were labouring in the bright sun. We had no tempo and Anelka was very ponderous. Lamps was quiet. Our midfield played better at The Reebok. JT gave the ball away and Cech did so well to block. From a Baines corner, our nemesis Louis Saha leapt unchallenged and headed in at the Gwladys Street End.

Oh God.

The Everton fans were roused, with the self-deprecating “We only sing when we’re winning.”

We took a while, but eventually our spirits stirred. The appearance of Kalou as substitute brought about the usual selection of moans – from Mo and her mate, amongst others. Carlo does indeed to reach for Salomon as option number one these days. But still, all of us say he plays better when he comes off the bench. After a great save, a lovely sweeping move using a bursting Essien and Anelka, out wide, resulted in the ball being played into Kalou in the inside-right channel. He steadied himself – I snapped – and threw the defender off balance, then calmly clipped the ball into the goal. A perfect finish indeed.

Get in. We screamed and I turned to my left.

“Kalou! Kalou!” and Mo smiled.

Everton then seemed to have umpteen corners, but virtually all ended up in the safe hands of our great goalkeeper. Petr had a virtually blameless game and he is now back to his best. Then, the ball broke to our little dynamo Ramires and he struck a low drive at the base of the near post with Howard well beaten. A quiet Lampard was substituted. Then, the last action of the entire game – Ivanovic lost the ball, only for Beckford to slam a volley right at Petr Cech, who parried the venomous shot over.

I would have settled for a draw before the game and it was a fair result. The game came to life a little after the break, but it was far from a classic. Few players shone, apart from the magnificent Cech and the resurgent Essien. Oh well. We live to fight again.

It took a while to leave the car park on Stanley Park, but while we were waiting, Tuna was spotted and he had time to come over for a brief “goodbye.” His brief synopsis?

“What a dire game. I would have had more fun if I had gone ferreting.”

We listened to Five Live as we drove through Cheshire and Staffordshire. The Torquay vs. Crawley Town game was first up. On a day when the main story involving Chelsea was away from the actual game, Crawley even had an attacker called Torres. We dropped off Burger in Stafford at 5pm – he has a busy work schedule ahead, so we’re not so sure when he will be able to meet up for another game. We then listened to the Southampton vs. United game.

“Come on Saints!”

The drive south was very tiring indeed and I had to stop for a Red Bull and then again for a double espresso. At Strensham, we chatted for a while to two Bristol Rovers fans, on the way back from a pitiful 6-1 drubbing at previously bottom of the table Walsall. Oh boy. We briefly mentioned a game that three out of the four of us had seen almost 31 years ago – and the Bristol Rovers fan certainly had a glint in his eye when he spoke of that famous 3-0 Rovers win over Chelsea at Eastville back in the old second division. I let him have that little moment of glory – he needed cheering up.

I eventually reached home at 8pm, quite shattered. It had indeed been a long day. I am avoiding another long trip north on Tuesday, so my next game will be on Sunday against Liverpool. We will wait and see if a certain Spanish player fills that number nine void in our line up. It could be quite a game.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 1985-1986

Tales From The Hawthorns

Tales From Mothering Sunday

Tales From The 5,500

Tales From Up’Anley Duck

Tales From The Group Of Death

Tales From The Rainbow Stand In 1986 And The Smethwick End In 2012

Tales From Lord Parky, Burger And Chel

Tales From Pastures Green

Tales From The David Luiz Show

Tales From The Lower Tier Of The Bullens Road