The three matches that had preceded our home game with Everton had been highly disappointing; a distressing 1-3 loss at Leeds United, an inconceivably dour 0-0 at Bournemouth and a depressing 1-2 defeat at Atalanta.
Disappointing, distressing, dour and depressing.
That’s some indictment, eh?
In such circumstances, I might be forgiven for feeling down before the Everton match.
Not one bit of it. In the latter stages of my day at work on Friday, I suddenly realised that the fatigue of the previous three weeks had evaporated and I suddenly felt energised.
I was, to use one of my favourite sayings, chomping at the bit for the chance to drive to London with a clear head and the opportunity to enjoy a typical Chelsea Saturday.
The three of us were away early. I collected PD at 7am and LP at 7.30am.
The first section of the two-and-a-half-hour drive to London involved Parky regaling us with tales from Turin, Milan and Bergamo. He had attended our match in Italy with Salisbury Steve and Jimmy The Greek and – the football apart – had really enjoyed himself. There were, however, long days involved. On the outbound trip, he stayed awake for thirty-six hours. On the return trip, delays at Turin airport meant he had to sleep at Gatwick on his return.
We also spoke briefly about the 2026 FIFA World Cup, and that is all it deserved. The price of match tickets is obscene, a clear indication of FIFA’s mission to make money from supporters with not a hint of a moral compass. Like the Qatar World Cup of 2022, I strongly suspect that I will not watch a single match. We also spoke about the ridiculous number of games. During that colossal first phase, there will be no edge and no jeopardy. I am getting bored just thinking about all those pointless matches.
As I have said before, FIFA’s mantra is “more is more”.
Well, I shan’t be part of it. If most of the stadia are half-empty, I shan’t be bothered.
I dropped PD and LP near the pub, and they slid off for a quick breakfast at “The River Café” while I backtracked across Fulham to eat at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road.
Two bacon, two sausage, two fried eggs, two hash browns, two black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea.
£11.
I’d include a photo, but you’d only be jealous.
I parked up and caught the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the lads were already getting into a decent sesh. On the short journey from West Brompton to Putney Bridge, with the sun shining gloriously, I had to admit that there is no greater place than London on a crisp Winter Day.
I strode into the boozer at about 11.15am and was happy to see the Normandy Division of Ollie and Jerome sitting alongside the usual suspects. On this day, our ranks would be joined by several from the US.
First up, Michelle from Nashville, who had also visited Italy and met up with the lads in Bergamo. Michelle entertained me with snippets of her post-match stay in Milan; a few days of opera and art, all very agreeable.
Next up was Tom from Laguna Beach in California, a friend of mine since meeting on the old Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2007, and at an away game at West Ham a couple of years later.
Lastly, my friend Natalie from Kansas City arrived with her long-time friend Amy – her first visit to London, and hence Stamford Bridge – and Amy’s two parents Ash and Julie. Natalie’s first-ever match at Stamford Bridge was alongside me to witness that unforgettable 6-0 thumping of Arsenal in 2014. I last saw Natalie at a home game against Southampton in January 2019. We enjoyed a great catch up, and I enjoyed talking to Amy and her parents before their first-ever Chelsea game. I had a few stories to keep them occupied. They absolutely adored the cosiness of “The Eight Bells.”
The five of us said our goodbyes and left for Stamford Bridge at 1.45pm. I took one last photo of Nat, Amy, Julie and Ash on the busy Fulham Road before going our separate ways. I would, however, be seeing Nat at Cardiff the following Tuesday.
I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 2.15pm.
Those in the Dugout Club had been given blue Father Christmas hats, and some of them were wearing them as they watched the players warming up.
I suppose for £5,000 a ticket, a Santa hat as part of the deal works out to be rather pricey.
Bless.
Right then, what of the team?
I couldn’t argue with Enzo Maresca’s choices on this occasion. It is, I think, what I would have chosen.
Robert Sanchez in goal, and possibly large parts of the penalty area too.
Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella as the full backs, with licence to roam.
Wesley Fofana and Trevoh Chalobah, the centre-back pairing for this game and perhaps others to come if this went well.
Enzo Fernandez and Reece James, the withdrawn midfielders, but able to burst into other areas.
Pedro Neto on the right, Alejandro Garnacho on the left, the Billy-Whizz twins.
Cole Palmer tucked in to the middle, but looking to ghost into areas unmapped by man nor beast.
Joao Pedro to lead the line, or at least to occupy defenders while others harried and carried.
During the day, I had reminded everyone that Everton last beat us in a league game at Stamford Bridge way back in 1994. I was scolded for mentioning it, but I was confident. I bumped into Hersham Bob – no laced-up boots, nor corduroys, alas – who suggested that the returning Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall would get the winner.
“That’s the spirit mate.”
The minutes clicked down.
It was a gorgeous day in Old London Town.
The game started.
“C’mon Chels.”
The first quarter of an hour was quite subdued, with tentative probing from us, and a few more direct bursts from the visitors. Their fans made a fair bit of noise at the start of the game.
On fifteen minutes, Dewsbury-Hall took a knock and had to be substituted. He was replaced by Carlos Alcaraz. I liked the way we clapped him off. He was honest player for us and has fitted in well with the Toffees.
I tried to catch Rob’s eye to let him see me wipe my brow.
“Phew.”
On eighteen minutes, Jack Grealish shimmied and advanced down below us and sent over a cross, but Trevoh Chalobah blocked. Grealish looked a handful in those early stages.
Two minutes later, a shot from Iliman Ndiaye that Robert Sanchez saved through a crowd of players.
A voice from the crowd behind me :
“They look more organised than us.”
At that exact moment – in fact, as I began tapping away those words from a worried spectator on my ‘phone – I looked up to see Wesley Fofana pass to Malo Gusto, who released the ball perfectly between defenders to meet the run of Cole Palmer. His finish was pure Palmer; a cool finish past Jordan Pickford.
The trademark celebration, the run to the corner, lovely.
Chelsea 1 Everton 0.
Just after, Garnacho blasted over from a difficult angle, and then the same player latched onto a risky back-pass by Alcaraz but struck the ball just past the near post with an empty net begging.
By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency.
But then the visitors came again. It made a change for a team to attack us at home. James Tarkowski headed wide, then Ndiaye mishit a pull-back from Jake O’Brien. Then, a ball was rifled across the box by Gana Gueye but nobody was there to meet it. I was just grateful that KDH was off the pitch.
Next up, a skilful run from Grealish resulted in a shot that Sanchez somehow blocked with his shoulder.
We were riding our luck alright.
Just after, Pedro Neto did what Pedro Neto does, and I photographed him sprinting past his hapless marker Vitaliy Mykolenko. He reached the goal-line and played the ball into the path of Malo Gusto who touched it past Pickford.
GET IN.
By this time, Mykolenko was flat on his back, while Gusto slid towards the corner.
Phew.
Chelsea 2 Everton 0.
“That goal was beautiful.”
At half-time, I spoke to a few friends and acquaintances.
“Just doing enough.”
One replied –
“I think we’ve been diabolical.”
Throughout the first period, the atmosphere was quiet but that’s nothing new these days, eh? Everton were totally quiet.
“1994, lads.”
The second period began and a cross from the quiet Enzo teed up Garnacho at the far post, who was always stretching to connect. My photo of his lunge is almost as poor as his finish. The ball flew wide.
Throughout the first half and into the second half I had been impressed with the excellent play of first Chalobah and then Fofana. On fifty-two minutes, Wesley made a sensational block tackle on an Everton attacker who would have been through on goal.
I immediately thought “Bobby Moore on Jairzinho, 1970”; it was that good.
At last, a stadium-wide chant enveloped Stamford Bridge. It was initiated by the good people of The Shed, but the Matthew Harding soon joined in.
“CAREFREE.”
Garnacho shot over after a lightning break down our left. He was having one of those days.
On fifty-eight minutes, Cole Palmer was substituted, but Maresca went safe with Andrey Santos rather than with Estevao Willian. I approved of the way Palmer’s time on the pitch was managed.
I was impressed with Joao Pedro, who was something of a menace for the Everton defence, and he showed a few instances of great hold-up play.
On the hour, it was Chalobah’s time to shine defensively. He initially lost ground in a chase but recovered so well to make a last-ditch tackle just inside the box.
At The Shed, Sanchez tipped over.
At the Matthew Harding, Santos shot over the bar.
On seventy minutes, Reece James made a mistake in our final third, but that man Fofana recovered well. Just after, Grealish sliced well wide after arriving at the far stick at a free kick.
On sixty-five minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.
On seventy-five minutes, Pickford tipped a Reece James free kick over the bar.
On eighty minutes, Estevao replaced Joao Pedro. Pedro Neto moved inside as a false-nine.
On eighty-six minutes, Ndiaye raced past Fofana and struck a slow shot towards goal. The effort bounced back off the far post. Clalobah then blocked a shot from Alcaraz.
In the first minute of injury-time, a Neto break but Gittens shot weakly over.
The whistle blew.
I had enjoyed this one. It had a little bit of everything. We weren’t at our absolute best, nor not near it, but we showed signs that it might be coming together. At least we stemmed that mini run of awfulness. Everton showed a willingness to attack, and, on another day, they might have returned North with a point or more.
I thought Fofana and Chalobah were excellent.
Here’s an idea, Maresca. Play these two together in all games. Cheers.
Oh, the run. Here it is.
Chelsea vs. Everton : Premier League.
19 August 1995 to 13 December 2025.
Played : 31
Won : 18
Drew : 13
Lost : 0
Oh, and to complete a perfect day, Frome Town won 4-0 at Tavistock in Devon to strengthen our position at the top of the table.
Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.
We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.
We were in Wroclaw.
I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.
Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?
“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”
Parky immediately chimed in.
“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”
Howls of laughter followed.
Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?
Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.
Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?
It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.
Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.
We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.
Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.
We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.
On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.
On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.
I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.
We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.
With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.
We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.
After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.
In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.
We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.
The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.
Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.
Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.
You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.
Enough of these history lessons.
On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.
Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.
For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.
I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.
RIP Stephen Rouse.
The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.
Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.
The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.
Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.
Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.
We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.
Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.
When in Rome.
Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.
At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.
At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.
At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.
Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.
PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.
Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.
My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.
I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.
I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.
The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.
We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.
It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.
Fackinell.
Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.
I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.
The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.
“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”
To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.
We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.
At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.
At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.
That made me laugh. What a small world.
We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.
Michelle led the way, and we followed on.
It was her finest hour.
We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.
I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.
If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?
At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.
At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.
Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?
Everyone wins. Everyone wins!
I hate modern football.
But here we all were.
Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.
Why were we here?
To see us win it all. Again.
Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.
Result.
I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.
The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.
Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.
Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.
The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.
Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.
Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.
I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.
I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.
The minutes ticked by.
There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.
The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.
Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.
I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.
“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.
Fantastic.
The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.
It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.
It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.
It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.
The desire was seemingly with them, not us.
Sigh.
Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.
The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.
“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”
“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”
On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.
At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.
Time to check the team again.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.
Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?
Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?
Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.
I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.
At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.
I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.
On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.
Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.
They were together at West Ham United.
The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.
Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.
The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.
Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.
Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.
We looked poor.
There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.
Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.
But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.
Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.
Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.
On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.
The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.
Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?
Oh boy.
At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.
It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.
On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.
Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.
On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.
From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.
We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.
On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
No complaints from me.
We pushed on.
On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.
We were level.
GET IN.
Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.
Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.
On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –
“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”
He didn’t let me down.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.
We erupted again.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.
We were ahead.
Fackinell.
Our end boomed now.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The World has ever seen.”
Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.
Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.
“Get up, you fool.”
On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.
Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.
In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.
And we were 3-1 up.
More beautiful noise.
The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :
“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”
Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.
With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.
Lovely.
There was still more to come.
With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.
Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.
What a feeling.
Phew.
We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.
At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.
“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”
The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.
At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.
I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.
Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.
I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.
And what a night.
We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.
If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.
Europe really is our playground.
And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.
We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.
PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.
In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.
And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.
Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…
I will see some of you in Philadelphia.
Phackinell.
REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL
…this one is going to resemble a mazy Pat Nevin dribble, drifting from place to place, hopefully entertaining, and with a few dummies thrown in for good measure.
In the build up to our home game with Nottingham Forest, I had read that there would be a couple of banners appearing before kick-off in The Shed and the Matthew Harding to celebrate the impact that Thiago Silva has had during his relatively short period of time at Stamford Bridge. And quite right too.
Everybody loves Thiago Silva.
The man is a defensive colossus. He is calmness personified. He oozes class. In a season that has stumbled along with many a setback along the way he has stood out like a beacon of professionalism. How I wish that all of our players showed the same skill set and the same work ethic as Thiago Silva. Ah, I had best add N’Golo Kante here.
We need a banner for him too.
On the evening before the game, by chance, I caught a comment by an acquaintance on Facebook that Thiago Silva was looking to return to Brazil, to his childhood team Fluminense – for whom he played seventy-odd games – after he eventually leaves Chelsea. I loved this idea, of legends returning home, and of course I immediately thought of Gianfranco Zola returning to Cagliari for a couple of seasons after leaving us. I just hoped that we could tease another season or two out of our veteran Brazilian.
I then checked on Thiago Silva’s playing career and I was reminded that he had played for Milan, after his spell with Fluminense, from 2009 to 2012. And that made me think. I was lucky enough to see Chelsea play Milan in Baltimore in the summer of 2009, just ahead of our wonderful double-winning campaign under Carlo Ancelotti. I did a little research and soon realised that Thiago Silva had indeed played in that game. My heart skipped a little. I then checked a few photographs, as is my wont, and I spotted an image that made me smile. In the first-half of the game, which Chelsea would win 2-1, I had taken a photo, focussed on Frank Lampard, that also featured a veritable “Who’s Who” of top-ranking footballers from that era.
Ronaldinho, Didier Drogba, Alessandro Nesta, Jon Obi Mikel, our man Frank, Andrea Pirlo and – there he was – Thiago Silva.
So, here indeed was proof that this was the very first time that I had seen Thiago Silva play. It’s very likely that this was the first time that Frank had seen Thiago Silva play too, though his view was certainly different than mine.
Almost fourteen years later, the two of them are at the same club, although of course it was Frank who signed the cherished Brazilian during our interim manager’s first spell at the helm at the start of the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/21.
I then decided to flick through a few photos from that very enjoyable stay in Baltimore. I took plenty of the game of course – probably the highest quality match of the seventeen that I have seen us play in the US – but just as many of our fellow supporters too. One photo again made me smile. It featured my good friend Burger on the right of a group of random, blue-jerseyed, American fans who must have been drinking with us, or near to us, at the time. But I immediately spotted two other people that I recognised; Kristin and Andrew from Columbus in Ohio. I had not noticed their faces in this particular photo before. As luck would have it, those very same two people – friends of mine for a few years now – were going to meet us in the pub on the Saturday morning before the game with Forest.
As I continually say, Chelsea World is a very small world indeed.
We were all up in London at the usual time. I was parked up at around 10am. With PD still convalescing at home, his seat in my car and his seat in the stadium was taken by Glenn, my match-going friend from Frome since as long ago as 1983.
1983. You know where this is going, right?
The next match to feature in my look back at the 1982/83 season is the iconic and famous encounter against fellow strugglers Bolton Wanderers at their Burnden Park ground on Saturday 7 May 1983. In the years that have passed since this game was played, many of our supporters have bestowed upon it the title of “the most important match in Chelsea’s history” and it is easy to see why. Going in to the game we were fourth from bottom, one point below our opponents. Chelsea had been financially at risk for many a season, and the thought of dropping into the Third Division was not only depressing enough from a supporters’ perspective – the pain, the ridicule, the struggle to recover – it would also cause an extreme strain on the immediate future of the club with reduced revenues hitting hard, despite the tightening of strings inaugurated by Ken Bates over the previous twelve months.
Although my mind was full of worry about my upcoming “A Levels” in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing, this was nothing compared to my concern for my beloved Chelsea Football Club.
My diary on the day tells that when I heard on the radio of Clive Walker’s low drive in the second-half giving us a 1-0 lead, I was not too elated because all of the other protagonists at the basement were also winning. However, after all the results came through, I was overjoyed. We had risen unbelievably, to fourteenth place.
I called it “quite a wonderful day.”
With emphasis on “won” no doubt.
How many Chelsea went to the game? The gate at Bolton was 8,687. The general consensus was that we took thousands. In the following week’s home programme, Ken Bates praised the “almost three-thousand” who were there. I have to say that a photograph of the away section of the ground on that rainy day in Bolton, with Chelsea playing in the all lemon kit despite no obvious colour clash, suggests that only around 1,500 were standing in a small section of terrace. However, at the time it was always a predilection for London clubs, especially, to invade the home seats at away games, so I am in no position to suggest that we did indeed not have around 3,000 up there. I know that some Chelsea were in the seats at the other end of the ground. There is another photo of the scenes at the final whistle and a good number of Chelsea fans are seen celebrating in the upper tier above a deserted home terrace along the side of the ground. The number in this section does in fact look like 1,500. So, around 1,500 on the terrace and around 1,500 in the seats. Let’s go with 3,000.
I always remember that on my first ever trip to Bolton’s new Reebok Stadium in 2004, I picked my long-time Chelsea mate Alan up en route and he told me a few stories about the game at Burnden Park in 1983. He, it goes without saying, was one of the three-thousand. I always remember how he told the story of how Breda Lee, loved by so many, was bedecked with good luck charms as she made her way up to Bolton on the Chelsea Special. Breda had lost her son Gary after a horrific incident at Preston in 1981, and would always travel on the Chelsea Special with John Bumstead’s mother Mary, and was seen by many Chelsea fans as their “Chelsea Mother.” On this day, Alan said that she was wearing a lucky four-leafed clover trinket, a lucky horseshoe, a sprig of lucky heather and was clutching a rabbit’s foot too.
It all worked.
The victorious Chelsea team that day was as follows –
Steve Francis.
Joey Jones.
Chris Hutchings.
Gary Chivers.
Micky Droy.
Colin Pates.
Mike Fillery.
John Bumstead.
Colin Lee.
Paul Canoville.
Clive Walker.
The non-playing substitute – hard to believe in this day and age – was Peter Rhoades-Brown. I love it that four players from this line-up (Chivers, Pates, Bumstead, Canoville) still take part in the match-day experience at Stamford Bridge forty years later as corporate hospitality hosts.
I salute them all. And I salute the 3,000 too.
Forty years on, the day was starting to take shape. I dropped Glenn and Parky off outside “The Eight Bells” and then met up with Ollie at Stamford Bridge once more, this time with his cousin Julien, both from Normandy. I often write about the gathering of the clans on match days and this was no exception. By the time I reached the pub at 11.30am, a gaggle of friends – old and new – were well into a session. Sitting alongside Glenn, Parky, Ollie and Julien were Kristin and Andrew, fresh from a few days in Edinburgh, and with some fellow Ohio Blues, Steve and Jake who I met on their visit in 2019, plus Jeromy and Neil, who were attending their first game at Stamford Bridge. We all got along famously. It was also superb to meet up again with Jesus, from California, who we last saw at Watford last season, and who was another chap that Parky took under our wing while he was living in London many years ago. Completing the scene was Russ, originally from Frome, who now lives in Reading and was attending his first home game for quite a while.
Everyone together, everyone happy.
Up on the platform at Putney Bridge tube, a few Forest fans were engaging in some light-hearted chat. The well-rounded vowels of their East Midlands accents made a change on match day in SW6.
“Bit of a free hit for us, this game, not expecting much but you never know.”
To be honest, we hadn’t thought too much about the actual match – probably with good reason – and Glenn admitted that he wasn’t expecting much from the game either. In our current predicament, the day was all about seeing friends and enjoying each other’s company.
Elsewhere in London, over twenty thousand Notts County fans were in town for the National League Play-Off Final against Chesterfield. One of them, Craig, a friend from college in Stoke, sent me a message to say he hoped that we were victorious against Forest. He hates Forest, does Craig.
I said to the Forest supporter “the only person worried the outcome of this game is a Notts County fan.”
This of course wasn’t strictly true, but it raised a laugh at least.
The front cover of the programme marked the exact twenty-fifth anniversary of our European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph in Stockholm against VfB Stuttgart.
A few personal memories…
A group of us went with the club to Stockholm, flying out from Gatwick on the day before the game, and flying back right after. It seems really expensive now, and it was then; £450 not including a match ticket. With inflation, that equates to just over £1,000 in today’s money. I drove up from Frome with Glenn and met up with Daryl, Andy, Mick, The Youth, Neil and Tony, three of whom still go to all the home games and many away games to this day. I always remember that on the coach in to the city from the airport, it became apparent that Chelsea had managed to split the hotels of a father and his teenage son. Tremendous. Thankfully, that faux pas was soon resolved.
We all stayed in a hotel a mile or so to the north of the city centre and that first night was as pleasurable as it gets. We went off for an Italian meal in a restaurant called “Pele” which was named after the Brazilian star’s 1958 World Cup debut in the city. We drank Spendrups lager and ate Italian as couples danced to the tango. It was a very surreal visit. Later, we found ourselves in a bar owned by the former Arsenal and Everton players Anders Limpar – the bar had the worst name ever, “The Limp Bar” – and he was serving that night. I remember a “sing-off” between Chelsea fans and an all-girl German choir. Another surreal moment.
On the day of the game, we bought some cans and soaked up the sun in a central park – I remember seeing Ruth Harding nearby – and then made our way to a crowded bar where Johnny Vaughan was spotted.
Then, back to the hotel and a nervous wait for the coach to the game. Once aboard, The Youth lead the community singing. Outside the Rasunda Stadium in Solna there were Chelsea everywhere. The gate for this game was 30,216 and we greatly outnumbered the Stuttgart fans. We must have had 25,000 there and I think everyone who travelled to Sweden got in. With road travel from the UK being highly expensive and time consuming, virtually everyone went by plane. At the time, it was the biggest single airlift out of the UK since World War Two.
Growing up as a Chelsea supporter, the twin cup triumphs of 1970 and 1971 were etched on our soul and in our psyche. For a while, the two stars on our chests celebrated those two wins. And here we were, twenty-six years on from Athens, with a chance to equal that celebrated feat.
This was a magnificent time to be a Chelsea supporter; some might argue the best of all. Glenn Hoddle had raised the profile of the club by reaching Europe in 1994, and then the signings came…Ruud Gullit, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Gianfranco Zola. We were truly blessed. The 1997 FA Cup win under Gullit was followed by the League Cup under Vialli in 1998.
We all travelled to Sweden in May 1998 with a sense of being very capable of repeating that win in Athens.
Stuttgart were managed by Joachim Low and their star man was the striker Freddie Bobic. Their ‘keeper was Franz Wohlfahrt who had been on the receiving end of Spenny’s run in Vienna in 1994. The former German international Thomas Berthold played for them too.
Our team?
De Goey
Clarke – Leboeuf – Duberry – Granville
Petrescu – Poyet – Wise – Di Matteo
Flo – Vialli
Shades of Ryan Bertrand in Munich; Danny Granville at left-back. Vialli played Mark Hughes in the League Cup Final but he wasn’t missing out on this one.
At the game, I wore a Chelsea 1970 replica shirt and the scarf that my mother bought me after my first game in 1974.
In truth, the game wasn’t a classic, but the Chelsea fans were at our best that night in Sweden. The game hinged on a substitution. On seventy-one minutes, Gianfranco Zola replaced Tore Andre Flo. Within twenty-five seconds, Dennis Wise floated a ball through and the ball held up. Zola caught it sweetly on the half-volley and it rose all the way into the goal at our end. I was almost behind the flight of the ball.
Absolute fucking delirium.
I caught Glenn and Andy right after our goal.
In the last five minutes, Dan Petrescu was sent off but we were in control, the Germans were a spent force.
“Dambusters” rang out in Solna.
What a night. What a team. What a club.
Athens 1971. Stockholm 1998.
We had done it.
The euphoria was real. I have rarely been as happy at a Chelsea game. And yet most who were in Stockholm probably thought that it would not get any better than this. We were a cup team, no more, and the equalling of the 1970 and 1971 wins were seen as our “glass ceiling”. We knew we would never win the league…
We walked out into the Solna streets so happy. Famously, a local girl flashed her assets from a balcony as thousands of Chelsea fans walked past. We eventually found our coach.
Back at the airport, it was mayhem. There was coach after coach after coach in a massive line. In the terminal, we saw Ron Harris and Peter Osgood. Johnny Vaughan commented “it’s like the last chopper out of Saigon.”
The call went out that anyone on a Monarch flight should make their way to the departure gate. We sprinted. It was a matter of getting bodies on flights. We were lucky; we left at around 3am, on the same flight as actor Clive Mantle who I had photographed earlier outside the stadium.
Stockholm 1998 was one of the very best nights.
I’d rank the European wins that I have seen like this :
Munich.
Stockholm.
Porto.
Baku.
Amsterdam.
Incidentally, the club’s photographs from that night were taken by Mark Sandom, who sits a few rows in front of me, and I sent away for a set when I returned home. I still need to frame one or two enlargements from that game and find space for one of them in my Blue Room.
…Solna 1998 gave way to Fulham 2023.
Unfortunately, Alan was unable to make it to this game, so I sat with Clive and Glenn in The Sleepy Hollow. There were more than a few mutterings of discontent at Frank Lampard’s starting eleven, but there was pleasure in seeing Lewis Hall at left back. In came Edouard Mendy between the sticks while Mateo Kovacic, Raheem Sterling and Joao Felix started too.
Mendy
Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Hall
Gallagher – Enzo – Kovacic
Madueke – Felix – Sterling
The two Thiago Silva flags appeared at both ends of the stadium just before the teams entered the pitch. The one in The Shed was particularly striking. I loved it. I also loved the words of the match day announcer as he ran through the team.
“Number six, your captain, Thiago Silva.”
Despite our struggles this season, there appeared to be a near full-house at Stamford Bridge. The three-thousand Forest fans were already singing about “mist rolling in from the Trent” and their players looked smart in their plain red / white / red, a combination – the simplest of all kits – that rarely gets seen at Stamford Bridge these days.
While we huffed and puffed in the opening section of the game, The Sleepy Hollow claimed a victim, with Glenn quietly nodding off after some alcoholic fumes rolled in from the Thames. After an unlucky thirteen minutes had passed, a Forest cross from their left from Renan Lodi was bravely met by the leap of Taiwo Awoniyi, impressive in the away game on New Year’s Day, and the combined forces of Mendy, Badiashile and Silva were found lacking. The away team, in their first real attack, had struck.
The Forest fans erupted, the scorer did his best “Christ The Redeemer” and Forest players swarmed around him down below me.
Fackinell Forest.
I sent a photo of a dormant Glenn to Alan with the caption “one down.”
Our reaction was hardly immediate, and our attacks lacked precision and incision. Noni Madueke, looking so good at Bournemouth, tended to frustrate both himself and us. On one occasion, his turn was sweet but he then fell over himself. It summed up his luck. There was a shot on seventeen minutes, our first, saved, from Sterling and an effort from Hall was then blocked. Our best effort took a whole thirty minutes to arrive; a Hall cross, a Felix header, but too close to Keylor Navas in the Forest goal.
This was a really poor first-half.
Clive helped to alleviate the pain by buying us a hot chocolate apiece.
Just before the whistle, Mateo Kovacic – who has dipped in form quite shockingly of late – was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek, the perennial squad player.
I was surprised that there were so few boos at the break.
Soon into the second-half, Glenn resurfaced and Russ came over to sit by us for the duration of the game. The Sleepy Hollow had undergone a significant reshuffle. We were now back to a four. Clive, who had been near suicidal during the first-half needed cheering up.
“We’ll win this 2-1 mate.”
He smiled. Or was it a grimace?
Forest, though, began the brighter and almost doubled their lead through Moussa Niakhate but his volley was blasted wide.
On fifty-one minutes, there was a nice interchange between Madueke and Trevoh Chalobah down our right and the ball was pulled back from the goal-line by Chalobah into the feet of Sterling, whose goal bound effort took a deflection before hitting the net.
Yes.
The crowd roared as Sterling briefly celebrated.
“C’MON CHELS.”
Immediately after, Forest retaliated with a tantalisingly deep cross that just evaded the nod of a red-shirted attacker.
The crowd rallied.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We were playing much better now. A few half-chances, and then on fifty-eight minutes, a strong run from Loftus-Cheek in the centre was followed by a prod of the ball to Sterling, who cut inside and left his marker Joe Worrall on his arse before perfectly curling an effort into the top far corner of the goal.
Bliss.
GET IN YOU BASTARD.
His celebration, this time, was far more euphoric, and so was ours.
Clive was full of praise : “you called it.”
But this was Chelsea 2023, not Chelsea 2009 – that photo from Baltimore succinctly illustrates the cyclical nature of our sport’s teams – and just four minutes later, a ball was pushed into the six-yard box by Orel Mangala and I immediately feared danger. The ball was headed home by that man Awoniyi, with another unmarked team mate alongside him to give him moral support and guidance, with Mendy was beaten all ends up. A VAR review couldn’t save us.
Double European Champions Chelsea 2 Double European Champions Forest 2.
On seventy-three minutes, Kai Havertz replaced Felix and Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.
Clive threatened to leave.
I tried to give him hope.
“Sterling hat-trick mate.”
He definitely grimaced this time. But so did I.
Every time that Ziyech got the ball, either in the middle of a wriggling, shuffling dribble, or at a free-kick, I genuinely expected him to provide some magic. To be fair, his brief outing was not without merit but we could not, quite, claim the winner.
It ended 2-2.
The away fans celebrated loudly inside Stamford Bridge and out on the Fulham Road. This was a big point for them in their dogged fight to avoid an immediate relegation back to the Second Division, er The Championship.
The day seemed to be all about Nottingham. On the drive home, we were to learn that Craig’s Notts County dramatically edged out Chesterfield at Wembley, so well done to them. Forty years ago, Notts finished in a respectable fifteenth place in the First Division.
Talk about cycles.
Next up is the toughest away game of them all. I am fearing our trip to Manchester City next Sunday.
FCRed Bull Salzburg vs. Chelsea : 25 October 2022.
When we heard the dates for the games in Group E of this season’s Champions League, my first task was focussed on sorting out Milan. I am, after all, used to just attending one away game of this stage in the competition. But after discussion with the Paul and Parky, I then turned my attention to the away match at FC Red Bull Salzburg. It took a while to resolve but I eventually sorted out a trip for us all.
2022 (Milan and Salzburg) would join 2015 (Porto and Haifa) and 2017 (Rome and Baku) as the only years that I would complete two of the three group phase games. I am in awe of those that continually attend all three, and in absolute awe of those who rarely miss any European away games.
Quickly, then, after the home game with Manchester United on the Saturday came a trip out to Austria on the Monday.
I collected my fellow troops late on Monday morning and we headed up to Heathrow where a British Airways flight to Nuremburg in southern Germany would take off at around 3.45pm. There was much traffic in the last section of the trip east and we arrived a little later at Terminal Five than planned, but all was OK. I had hoped for something a little more substantial on the outbound flight than a packet of crisps and a glass of water but “hey ho.” A fortnight after I was looking down on the port of Dover en route to Turin, I was looking down on it again, though from a much higher elevation. We had left a little later than planned but the pilot clipped thirty minutes off the flight time. We touched down at Nuremburg airport at 6.45pm.
We caught a cab to our digs – a really nice apartment in the middle of an industrial estate – and then soon headed for some drinks. We stopped at a little neighbourhood bar en route to a U-Bahn station for the first drink of the trip, and I had to conjure up some German for the first time in ten years. Amazingly, I realised that the very last time that my little tootsies had been on German soil was the day after a certain game in Munich in 2012. Nuremburg city centre was pretty quiet. We had further drinks in three bars and the lagers, of course, went down well.
I was last in this old city in the summer of 1985. I had stopped off on a month-long Inter-Rail trip to primarily visit Zeppelin Field where Hitler held those rallies in the horrific days of the Third Reich. I traipsed all over the southern half of the city on a Sunday afternoon. Eventually I found it all. The Grosse Strasse was still in place, as was the Congress Hall, and the tribune and podium remained. I clambered up on to the very podium where Hitler addressed his followers. It was, I have to admit, a very eerie sensation.
It pains me to report that a Chelsea mate, a Jew, was abused after a recent game by some of our so called supporters.
Words fail me.
I spoke to Paul and Parky about Hitler’s plans to build the biggest stadium of them all, just to the west of the Grosse Strasse – “Deutsches Stadion” – which would have held 400,000 in a huge horse-shoe shape, but this monster was never built. It would have been the biggest stadium ever.
I saw their eyes glaze over before me.
Sadly, my hunt for a German sausage, a crusty bread roll, with some sauerkraut and a dab of mustard did not materialise. We made do with a chicken kebab.
The wurst was still to come.
…more eyes glazing over.
On the Tuesday, the day of the game, we took the U-Bahn into town and caught the 8.12am train south to Munich. It was a quick and easy service and only took an hour or so. I tried to snooze a little. Outside there was mist and fog, with limited visibility.
But I was awake to see a gorgeous image that I think will remain in my memory forever. Looking out to my right, in the middle of a field shrouded in mist, a lone white church tower stood, with sunlight crashing against it.
It took my breath away.
I quickly thought about my two previous games in Austria.
1994/95 : Austria Memphis 1 Chelsea 1 and two words – “John Spencer.”
2016/17 : Rapid Vienna 2 Chelsea 0 and another two words – “shite friendly.”
There was a quick turnaround at Munich’s Hauptbanhof, a place that I remembered not only from post-match meanderings in May 2012, but from my wanderlust years of my youth. My most common trip in those days was Milano Centrale to Munich Hauptbanhof, via a change at beautiful Verona. It afforded me a fine sleep between Verona and Munich. I must have travelled that route ten times or so.
Our onward leg left from Platform 11, right on the southern edge of the main section of the station, which – I have to remark – was not as large as I remembered it. Nothing on the scale of Milan’s beauty anyway.
Platform 11 brought back a funny memory or two from late September 1987.
Ian, Trev and I – three college mates, as featured in the Milan episode – had spent the evening at the city’s famous Oktoberfest. We were blitzed. We had consumed four massive steins apiece. We were walloped. I am not sure how, but I walked away with two “Spatenbrau” steins, the others had one apiece.
Fellow travellers were slumped, snoozing, comatose, all over the station, a scene that was repeated after the 2012 game where Glenn and I tip-toed among Bayern fans on the way to the left-luggage lockers.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, in a beer-induced haze, my two companions first lost their left-luggage keys, but eventually found them. Trev was out of money so decided to catch an overnight train to Paris and head back to the UK early. Ian and I would travel to Hamburg. But I then realised that I had lost my wallet and Inter-Rail card and that Trev must have had them both; he was already asleep and far from impressed when I woke him. It was lucky that I had awoken him to be honest. He was on the wrong train so I quickly hooked him off. By sheer luck, I had rescued him just in time. We all then decided to catch an overnight train to Vienna to get some sleep after the Hamburg train never materialised.
We slept like babies.
When we woke, all was still. Ian and I presumed that we had miraculously arrived in Vienna. Trev, bless him, thought that he was newly arrived in Paris.
I looked outside.
We were still stuck on platform 11 at Munich.
Fackinell.
My only explanation for this is that the Germans, bless them, had put on train compartments for revellers to sleep in overnight during Oktoberfest.
But none of us never found out for sure.
Later that day we headed up to Stuttgart and Dortmund to see a football game that had already taken place.
Drink. What a perilous friend.
Back to 2022, we arrived at Salzburg train station at just before 11am. The last few miles of the jurney had been simply magnificent. The Alps to the South were just splendid. What a joy to travel in support of our team.
Salzburg. I was last here with my then girlfriend Judy, en route to a few days in the Alpine resort of Kaprun in late 2010. I had dropped into Salzburg from Vienna once in the ‘eighties by train, I think I never left the train station, but stayed an afternoon in the city on a day trip with my parents in 1977 from Seefeld in the Austrian Tyrol.
We picked up our match tickets at the quaintly named Fanny von Lenhert Strasse – I heard we had sold all 1,500 – and then quickly nabbed a cab to take us to our digs, a one room apartment a mile outside the city centre. Within an hour of arriving in Salzburg, we were sat at a table in a local restaurant drinking a pint of Stiegl, awaiting the arrival of plates of pork schnitzel with parsley potatoes.
The beers went down well. I remembered the beer from 2010.
The food was gorgeous too.
Fantastic.
We walked into town and soon spotted some friendly faces outside a sun-kissed bar in the square next to the train station. It was about 1pm.
“Corner Am Banhof” was to be our base for around two hours. It was bliss. Although our friends Alan, Gary, Daryl, Nick and Pete were down in the old town, where I had visited with mater and pater forty-five years ago – I remember a castle atop a hill and Mozart’s birthplace and lots of antiquity – we found it hard to move. Leigh and his son Darren invited us over to share a table and their two friends from Norway had brought them a bottle of “Fisk” to consume; a heady drink consisting of eucalyptus, liquorice, menthol and vodka. The bottle was shared.
“It’s like getting pissed on Lysterine.”
A local woman, with a shapeless hat, kept pestering us for cigarettes and money.
Leigh’s son Darren asked me if I knew who she was.
“Badly Drawn Girl.”
Friends of Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke called in, suffering a little from a Stiegl brewery tour on the Monday.
Talk of alcohol, talk of football, talk of alcohol again.
The sun beat down. My face was heating up.
“You love the Limoncello, Leigh.”
“Love it? He bought the T-shirt.”
Leigh, wearing a vivid yellow Stone Island T-shirt, beamed in the autumnal sun.
Many friends drifted in and away. A group of Chelsea supporters were sat across the way. I felt sorry for the lone bartender. She was pulling pints of “Stiegl” at record speed.
It was time to move on. We had heard that some friends were massing at the “Shamrock” in the old town so another cab was hailed. We usually avoid Irish bars, preferring local ones, but the weight of friendship was pulling us. Inside, there were more familiar faces.
Fifteen minutes, we sauntered into the “Shamrock” and yes, faces everywhere.
Cathy and Dog, Josh and Andy from LA, the Gloucester boys, Big Rich, George from Prague, Charlotte, Donna and Paul from Somerset, Skippy from Brisbane, the famous Druce brothers.
The drinks flowed. Smiles and laughter. We stayed around two hours.
Andy led the march to a cab rank and we hopped in. Andy, now a family man, used to be ever present at games at the Chelsea pub in Orange County but can’t attend so many these days.
“I miss the sticky floors.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
It took forever, maybe forty minutes to travel just a few miles. We were dropped off outside the Red Bull Arena to the west of the city centre with about forty-five minutes to go before the game was to begin at 6.45pm. This would be the second Red Bull Arena that I would have visited after the one in Harrison in New Jersey in 2015.
The Red Bull franchise, for the want of a better word, has many enemies in the world of football. Since taking over at Austria Salzburg in 2005, the club changed colours from violet and white to red and white – a sure way to upset existing fans, eh? – and have hoovered up titles ever since; thirteen since 2005.
A breakaway club – SV Austria Salzburg – was soon formed and there are factions within the current sporting landscape of the city.
I was reminded of a conversation that I had in a Viennese bar en route to Bratislava in 1997. I was chatting to an Austria Memphis fan – sponsorship has long been part of this nation’s football scene, this club is now known as Austria Vienna but was temporarily named after a cigarette brand – and he spoke of a pre-season tournament that used to take place between teams in Europe that played in violet, that rarest of football colours. The three teams that I remembered were his own Austria Memphis, Anderlecht and Fiorentina. I suspect that a fourth team was Austria Salzburg.
Reb Bull Salzburg fans hated the way Red Bull Leipzig stole some of their best players since its formation in 2009; seventeen all told. This can’t be how football will be run in future generations, can it? There is no more hated club in Germany than Red Bull Leipzig. The fans of Locomotive Leipzig must loathe the club like no other team.
I guess that Red Bull Salzburg are equally loathed in Austria.
I am sure it wasn’t by design, but we ended up virtually circumnavigating the stadium which was built in 2003. We set off outside the east stand, bumping into fellow Chelsea on the way, before finally ending up outside the away entrance in the south-western corner. A factory was pumping flumes of smoke into the bright blue sky near the stadium, and as we walked underneath the dark stands, walkways above allowed fans, presumably enjoying pre-match festivities in adjacent corporate blocks, to traverse into the seating area. They resembled skywalkers. There was something bleak and futuristic about this, almost dystopian, an odd image that I had to capture on film.
Fritz Lange’s “Metropolis” as a football game? Maybe. He was born in Vienna. Maybe he knew something.
Chelsea played a pre-season game against this team at this stadium in July 2019; a 3-0 win. I am sure nobody I know went.
We were inside with about half-an-hour to go. The Chelsea support was split into two. We were based in the rather dark and dingy lower corner at the southern end. I took many photos of friends as they waited for the game to begin.
I approached Tim, DJ, Neil and Pete.
“Not sure I am ready to do this game on my blog. I am bollocksed.”
The result of around five hours of solid drinking was having an effect.
The three of us spotted space where the Famous Five – Nick the Whip, Pete, Alan, Gary and Daryl – were stood so we joined them. There was rail seating and of course everyone stood. There was netting ahead of us, obscuring the view, with fences to the front and screens to the sides. We are so used to no segregation in the UK that it still comes as a slight shock to see what others in Europe put up with.
Before kick, the dimming of lights, the boom of the PA, then mosaics and a huge “Salzburg” banner at the opposite end.
I had again, as in Milan, opted on my pub camera for this trip. In this dark corner, I was sadly resigned to the fact that my photos wouldn’t be too great for this game.
Chelsea were wearing those poxy navy socks; why? The home team were in a meek and weak grey kit, like something from an Alex Ferguson dystopian nightmare, circa The Dell 1996.
Our team?
Kepa
Chalobah – Silva – Cucarella
Pulisic – Kovacic – Jorginho – Sterling
Gallagher – Aubameyang – Mount
Or something like that.
It was probably easier to surmise the shape upstairs in the other section. Very soon into the game I mentioned to Pete that we were exhibiting the exact same stance, leaning on the metal barrier in front, but with our fingers smothering our faces in fear of a misadventure.
An early chance for Kai Havertz. Reacting well to collect a miss-timed headed back-pass, he stretched but crunched the Salzburg ‘keeper Philipp Kohn who lay on the deck for a while.
Chances at either end were exchanged in the first quarter of an hour and it was an even game. Maybe Pete and I were right to be a little concerned. It had been a lovely trip this far, and although these European forays are never all about the football in itself, the onus was on us to secure a win here and, with it, our passage into the knockout phase in 2023.
The home fans were raucous. But we were in good voice too.
“And it’s Super Chelsea.”
The referee, from Switzerland (um, is that akin to us having a Scottish ref in charge at Chelsea, answers on a postcard…) was wearing a red shirt, black shorts and red socks. This elicited a super bit of trivia from Nick who has been going to Chelsea since the ‘fifties and always, always, has a cupboard full of interesting facts about our wonderful club.
“We wore those colours at Maine Road in 1966, the game when Osgood flicked some V-signs at the City supporters.”
“Love it.”
A Salzburg shot flew over the bar at our end.
A forest of wanker hands to the home areas, thank you very much.
On twenty-three minutes, a move broke down at the other end and the ball fell to Mateo Kovacic. With the quickest of reactions, our Croatian man guided the ball high past the Salzburg ‘keeper from twenty yards out.
What a finish. He gets too few goals, but they are often classy efforts.
Alan, to my right :
“Zey vill have to come at us now.”
Me :
“Come on meine kleine diamonds.”
Chelsea were 1-0 up.
Phew.
“He signed for Chelsea on a transfer ban.”
From a Conor Gallagher corner, a glanced header from Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang soon followed, but there was a sublime stretch and save from their ‘keeper. After a magnificent flowing move from south to north, Havertz set up Aubameyangr but our whole section groaned when the chance was spurned.
More chances were exchanged but Chelsea were in the ascendency, often with long passing moves aimed to find spaces in the packed Austrian defence.
A save down low from Kepa.
A save from another Gallagher cross and a meek Havertz header, close in.
Just before the break, our best move of the game thus far, with the impressive Havertz dancing in from the left touchline and the ball ending up with Aubameyang, but yet another fine save by their ‘keeper.
At the break, I had a little wander and began watching the second-half at the back of the section for a different perspective. The area next to the home fans to our right afforded such a poor view.
Soon into the second-half, Salzburg equalised when Junior Adamu latched onto a searching ball from out on their left cut out everybody. It was a fine goal and reignited the home fans.
Two quick chances followed for Aubameyang – another fine save – and Jorginho, a header swiped away on the line.
At the half-way stage of the second-half, Christian Pulisic twisted and turned the ball inside to Havertz, who dragged the ball back.
I shouted “Kai – SHOOT!”
He did.
His left foot conjured up some magic, the ball flying into what the Americans call the “upper 90.”
I hugged Daryl – I was now at the other end of our line – and we celebrated a really fine goal.
“It’s still nice to know that after all the years I have known you, and after witnessing so many Chelsea goals, it still elicits the same response.”
We were now 2-1 up.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek for the excellent Kovacic.
A fine save, now, from Kepa down low. A clearance from Thiago Silva off the line. Phew.
Armando Broja for the frustrating Aubameyang.
A few more chances came and went, with Kepa now the busier of the two ‘keepers.
Two late substitutions.
Hakim Ziyech for Sterling.
Mason Mount for Gallagher.
Thankfully, there were no late scares. With us winning 2-1 and Milan beating Dinamo Zagreb 4-0, our qualification for the next phase, and holiday roulette, was secured. A first-place finish is teasingly close.
Right after the match, we sped outside, over a grass verge and straight onto a waiting bus that took us straight back to the centre of the city. As the bus reached its destination, there was a spontaneous round of applause for the driver. This was just excellent. What great organisation.
Five of us, Team Druce and us Three Chuckle Brothers wandered off into the city. We hoped to get some food, but two places were shut. We caught a cab after a drink in the first restaurant of the day and ended up a few doors down from the “Shamrock” in the old town, or rather right on the very edge of it.
“I saw more of bloody Salzburg in 1977 with my parents.”
More “Steigls”, more laughs. The night continued on. We stayed for two hours. At around 1am, it was time to call it a night. We got a cab back to Ausstrasse and soon fell asleep.
I was awake at around 9am on the Wednesday with not the slightest hint of a hangover. I just love those Austrian and German beers.
We wandered down to the city centre, killed some time with some food, alas no wursts, and caught the train to Munich at midday.
At Munich Hauptbanhof, there was an hour wait. Our pre-printed itinerary said that our return train to Nuremburg would depart at just after 3pm from platform 25, this one on the northern edge of the main station.
At just before 3pm, we saw a train marked up for Nuremburg pull in to platform 22.
We hopped on it.
Easy.
Well, not quite.
After an hour or so, with me trying but failing to nod off, I noticed we were making very slow progress. We were on the wrong train.
This one, instead of arriving at 4.45pm ahead of our 7.50pm flight home, would get in to Nuremburg at 6.16pm.
Bollocks.
We had obviously missed an announcement about our booked train, much faster, leaving from another platform.
From 4pm to 6pm, we sat still and silent, consumed about our plans once we hit Nuremburg. It was the slowest two hours of my life. The train tantalisingly stopped right outside the final destination for ten minutes.
Tick tock, tick tock.
It eventually pulled in at 6.25pm.
I almost expected a German army officer in plain clothes to wish us “good…luck.”
We hurriedly raced out into the evening air and I shouted to the first cab driver.
“Flughafen. Schnell. Schnell. Schnell.”
As I said it, I knew it sounded ridiculous.
Thankfully, the cab only took ten minutes to reach the airport and by 7pm, we were through security and waiting for our – now typically delayed – plane. We were there with an hour to spare.
I heard the theme to “The Great Escape” in my head.
“And relax.”
But still no German sausages. Damn it. Next time.
The flight left a little late, but we were back at Heathrow in good time. We left there at just before 10pm, and I was home just after midnight. It had been the easiest part of the entire trip home.
This had been a lovely trip.
And I have enjoyed writing this one.
Why does its title reference a train station in Germany, though?
Because it’s Munich. I just like talking and writing about Munich.
My friend JD always lists the number of stadia that he has attended seeing Chelsea games outside the UK, and the one in Salzburg was number seventy-six. That’s some number, eh?
While I am in the mood, and everyone knows that I love a list, my current foreign experiences with Chelsea are as follows (and I include games in Scotland, Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland here as these countries are outside of our home league which includes England and Wales) :
An away trip to Southampton early this season meant that we were repeating three of the last four away games of the last campaign in the first three matches of the current one.
Last season we lost to Everton 1-0; this season we beat them 1-0.
Last season we beat Leeds United 3-0; this season they beat us 3-0.
Last season we beat Southampton 6-0; surely not?
The Famous Five left Melksham at around 3.15pm. I was driving again, and my fellow passengers were PD, Parky, Sir Les and Glenn the birthday boy, celebrating his fifty-fifth birthday a day before he was to begin a new job.
Southampton away is a breeze. At around 5pm, I was parked up in the small car park outside the city’s Central train station.
The evening heat surprised me.
“It’s nice out” I said.
“It is yes, but put it away, someone will see it” replied Parky.
The others dashed off to “Yates” for a pre-match tipple while I decided to grab a bite to eat in a nearby Italian restaurant. There were a couple of familiar Chelsea faces in there – “alright, boys?” – and I soon sat down for a pizza. This is standard for me. I reckon we could play in Kazakhstan, Bolivia or Zimbabwe and I’d still order a pre-match pizza.
I joined up with the lads in the pub, but none of us were keen to stay for any longer. There was a quick “hello goodbye” to a few troops before we set off to walk the twenty minutes or so to the stadium. The three Norwegians – four actually, I neglected to mention Jon in the Leicester City report – had been spotted in the pub. A couple of local lads were there too.
“Good trip down, Chris?”
“Oh yeah, easy.”
“Did Les come with you?”
“Yeah mate. But with PD in the passenger seat and Les sat behind him, the car kept veering to the left. It took me three attempts to get out of Melksham.”
We were down at the stadium as early as 6.15pm. It felt odd being there so early. I had to sort out a ticket for Young Jake, who none of us had seen for ages. We thought that his last game with us was the Norwich City FA Cup game at Carrow Road in 2018. There was time to chill out a little and relax. I shot off to take a few shots of the stadium.
“It’s no San Siro but surely there’s the chance to take a few decent photographs?” I thought to myself.
There wasn’t.
St. Mary’s is as bland as bland can be.
Talking of the San Siro, we – PD, Parky and I – are booked to head over in October, but we will be staying in Turin for three nights and will be joined by Dave who now lives near Nice and was last seen before the Tottenham away game late in 2018. I will be driving in to Milan on the day of the game. A version of “The Italian Job” perhaps? In a Fiat Chucklecento maybe? No, too much of a tight fit for four of us. Why Turin? When I returned home from Chelsea on Saturday night, it seemed that all the cheap flights to Milan had gone. The accommodation looked expensive too. I have no qualms about returning to Turin once again; it’s my favourite Italian city and far more interesting that Milan. As for the other Champions League aways, we are not going to Zagreb but I suspect that a trip to Salzburg is likely.
This was my second game in two days. On the Bank Holiday Monday, I drove to Bath to see Frome Town wallop local neighbours Larkhall Athletic 4-0. With the upcoming game against West Ham now taking place on Saturday, I am forced to miss Frome’s home FA Cup tie against Tiverton Town.
Now is a good time to slip into the conversation my second memory of the 1982/83 season. On Saturday 28 August, Chelsea opened up our fourth consecutive season in the old Second Division with an away game at Cambridge United’s Abbey Stadium. Did I go? No. I was still at school and would only go to four games that season, the same as in the previous campaign. On that particular afternoon, Frome Town got my attention as I watched a 0-0 home draw with Wellington in the old Western League – “a terrible game” says my diary – but I would have been no doubt elated with a 1-0 win.
Chelsea finished mid-table in 1981/82 and only the most optimistic of Chelsea fans would have hoped that we would make a sustained promotion push in 1982/83. Our only real outlay throughout the summer had been the almost laughable acquisition of much-travelled Bryan “Pop” Robson, who was thirty-six when we bought him. I for one, was not impressed.
The team that day?
Steve Francis in goal. Gary Locke and Chris Hutchings the full backs. Micky Nutton and Micky Droy as centre-backs. Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Mike Fillery in midfield. Colin Lee, Clive Walker and Pop Robson upfront, with Paul Canoville as a substitute.
Interestingly, Pates, Chivers, Bumstead and Canoville are currently employed by Chelsea to this day as match-day hosts in the corporate areas.
Even more interestingly, my friend Daryl spotted Pop Robson near Red Square before the Champions League Final in 2008, presumably on some junket with a UEFA sponsor.
Our match winner forty years ago?
Bryan “Pop” Robson.
I was to eat my words, for one game at least.
The gate was 8,124, and I am sure that around half would have been Chelsea.
Back to 2022.
Jake soon arrived and there was the chance to chat to a few friends from near and far. The “Ticket Man” arrived on schedule at 7pm and we were in the stadium just after. Down in the darkened but spacious concourse, more chit-chat with some and a few “nods” to others. With plenty of time to kick-off, I swapped tickets with PD and sat next to Glenn towards the back of the away section, right behind the goal. I usually watch from down low so this made a nice change.
Glenn is often with us at Southampton. There were a few games at The Dell and he was also with us in August 2001 when we opened up the new stadium with a 1-0 win. I have seen all of our fourteen games against the Saints at St. Mary’s – minus the COVID ones – and I kept saying to the lads “we’ve only lost once down here, the Benitez spell in 2013.”
As we waited for the game to start, there were a few half-hearted flames in front of the stand to our left. A brass band appeared, walking towards us, left to right, and they played “Oh When The Saints” as a large banner surfed along from right to left.
I turned to Glenn and said “I always remember a game here in 1994 when you were excited about starting a chant in the away end.”
We were in the seats along the side and Glenn began bellowing “Dennis plays for England” which the rest of the Chelsea support joined in with. Glenn’s recollection was that Wisey scored a late winner. Looking back, it was actually Paul Furlong on eighty-nine minutes. Perhaps Glenn had mentally confused the two moments.
To my surprise, Billy Gilmour and Ethan Ampadu were among the named substitutes.
The team drew a few shocked reactions.
Mendy
Dave – Silva – Koulibaly – Cucarella
Loftus-Cheek – Jorginho – Mount
Ziyech – Sterling – Havertz
No Reece James, no Trevoh Chalibah, we presumed injured.
The teams entered. As at Leeds United, we played in dark blue socks and I wondered why. Surely we have some royal blue socks knocking about somewhere. The home team’s kit was a shocker. Hummel brought out some absolute killers back in the ‘eighties and Saints even had their copy of the half-and-half Denmark kit. This current shirt – predominantly white – misses by a mile. The shirt of the Keegan era would surely have looked better; predominantly red with a broad white central stripe rather than the current version. I wasn’t even sure I liked the white socks either. Very odd.
The home areas took ages to fill up and there were quite a few empty seats dotted around. I saw no unused seats in our allocation of around three thousand. We took a while to get going but the songs soon boomed around the away end.
It was a muggy night in the Northam Stand.
As is so often the case with away matches in Southampton, the home team enjoyed the best of the early exchanges. We then began to get a foothold on the game. The pitch, usually excellent, was worn in many places, as if it was a mid-season game.
Our chances, or half-chances, started to stack up. Raheem Sterling scuffed a shot right at the Saints ‘keeper Gavin Bazunu. A chance for Hakim Ziyech came and went. Sterling looked as lively as any player on the pitch and on twenty-three minutes, a lovely move down our left involving first Kai Havertz and then Mason Mount set up the central striker. Sterling appeared to lose control of the ball on the six-yard box but was the first to react as it spun loose. He stabbed the ball in and wheeled away in delight.
Phew.
I suspect that this is just the sort of goal that is practised ad infinitum on the practice pitches at Cobham; all movement, all together.
The away crowd soon responded.
“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel.”
Not long after, Ziyech played in Havertz in the inside-left position. He got his shot in from an angle but the shot was hit right at the Saints keeper.
From that moment, our play drifted.
Just five minutes after we had scored, Dave decided to whack the ball out for a corner rather than play it back to Edouard Mendy to deal with. At the time, I understood that call.
What were we always told at school?
“Safety first.”
Sadly, the resulting corner fell to an unmarked Southampton player – Romeo Lavia – who was loitering with intent outside the box. He took one touch and lashed it home. Glenn was raging. Only a few minutes earlier he had spotted two Saints players unmarked at the back stick at a previous corner.
Of course the home fans roared.
Our play deteriorated as the home team became stronger. I lost count of the number of passes that Ruben Loftus-Cheek misdirected. One run out of defence by him seemed to be in slow motion.
“Ross Barkley is a big unit but even he had a burst of pace” I moaned to Glenn. “Ruben makes Micky Fillery look quick.”
Our midfield in general – without a midfield general – looked so poor. Dave was caught out of position on a couple of occasions. We had no bite. The only plus point was watching Thiago Silva scoop a few balls up and over the heads of the advancing opposition out to the right wing. I could watch that man play football for hours.
Glenn was getting frustrated further : “no tackles!”
There was an awful moment when I thought that I had been transported back to the early nineties under Ian Porterfield when there seemed to be a never-ending sequence of head tennis on the halfway line. This was rotten football.
With the home support energised, it turned into a temporary Pompey Hate Fest. Mason Mount was deemed public enemy number one.
With the half-time whistle approaching – “blow up ref, let’s regroup at the break” – a laughably poor attempt at a tackle by Jorginho failed dismally and Southampton advanced with speed and purpose. As the move progressed I repeatedly shouted two words :
“Too easy! Too easy! Too easy!”
The ball was smashed home after a fine move by Adam Armstrong.
Too easy.
Two-one to Southampton.
“Oh When The Saints” boomed around the home areas.
Fackinell.
The referee blew for half-time almost immediately.
I turned to Glenn at the break : “this has been a timid performance.”
We both wanted Tuchel to bring on Armando Broja for the miss-firing Havertz. Towards the end of the half-time break, with the grass getting an extra dose of water from the sprinklers, we spotted Tuchel chatting with Mateo Kovacic on the pitch. The manager then sat alone on the bench for a number of minutes.
I just found all of this a bit odd.
One presumes that he had said enough to the players in five minutes and didn’t need ten. Personally, I would have taken fifteen.
“Oh, before you go back out on that pitch, just be aware that there are supporters out there who have travelled down from the north of England, from the Midlands, from East Anglia for tonight’s game and they won’t get home until about 2am in the morning but will need to be up again for work within a few hours, knackered, and they will do it all again and again and again…”
I saw him studying some sheets in a folder.
It almost raised a wry smile.
“Never mind the first-half stats, pal, just fire some fucks into them.”
No real surprises, Tuchel replaced Loftus-Cheek with Kovacic.
“Kovacic, Our Croatian Man…”
Soon into the second-half, Southampton broke down our right and a shot from close in was blocked on the line by Cucarella. Mendy made a fine reaction save to tip over the follow-up effort.
The home fans really turned up the heat on Mason.
“You skate bastard. You skate bastard.”
“Mason Mount, we fucking hate you.”
We struggled to get things moving. Oh for a playmaker, oh for a Cesc Fabregas.
On the hour, there was a loud, proud and defiant “Carefree” from us followed by derisory applause from the home fans.
Sadly, our play stagnated further. I saw little movement off the ball and the mood in the away end was falling fast.
With twenty minutes or so left it was all change, three substitutions :
Ben Chilwell for Jorginho.
Armando Broja for Dave.
Christian Pulisic for Havertz.
I expected a ripple of applause for Broja from the home fans; there was nothing, the ungrateful sods.
We all revelled in the great rush into space from Broja and his strength in twisting and turning past two players. He left them for dead before sending in a cross. This augured well for the rest of the game or so we hoped. In reality, despite his more aggressive movement and enthusiasm, his only other noticeable action involved a header near a post that never looked like troubling the ‘keeper. Kovacic added a little burst of energy too, but this soon petered out as moves slowed down and died. Pulisic looked remote and uninterested wide on the right. My recollection is of him hardly bothering to go past players, but my photographs would prove otherwise. How Ziyech stayed on all game is a mystery.
The minutes ticked by.
From a corner, Silva was in the right place at the right time. The ball hit him on the line.
I fully expected us to lose another goal.
3-1 would not have flattered them.
In a scene that was reminiscent of the Leicester game, Mendy appeared in the opposing box for a late corner or two.
When the ball was hoofed up field, one of my photographs completely captured our night, with Cucarella nervously falling to head the ball away, being pressured by a Saints attacker, the goal open and vulnerable.
I spent some of the last minutes of the game watching that fucking dachshund on the “Vitality” advertising boards trot around the stadium at roughly the same pace that our team had been doing all match.
The final whistle blew.
Southampton 2 Chelsea 1.
We got what we deserved, no doubt.
A posse of young Southampton fans to our right spent many a minute goading us as we waited to drift away into the night. I was pragmatic about it.
“Bollocks. Let them enjoy themselves, the little twerps.”
Some other Chelsea supporters were a little more hostile.
It was all a pantomime show to me.
In days gone by, there is no doubt that Chelsea would not have taken such a defeat well. Recriminations would have been enacted outside the stadium as fans would have sought revenge.
“We’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose.”
We all met up outside and slowly trudged back to the car. That walk always seems twice as long when we lose.
There was a small scale altercation.
A mouthy young Southampton fan wearing the hugely odd combination of a bar scarf and a Stone Island sweatshirt was heard to shout “Chelsea Rent Boys.” This was like a red rag to a bull to one or two in our support. The youngster escaped into the night with a warning.
All five of us were at a low ebb. There really were no positives from the night. Only two or three players had average performances.
On a muggy night in Southampton, we were the mugs.
We stopped off at the always-busy “McDonalds” at the bottom end of the A36 at about 10.30pm. A couple of lads enjoyed a burger. I downed the inevitable coffee. Outside, the air still warm, I got a little philosophical.
“We are so unused to defeats. Over the last twenty years, we have had a magnificent ride. It’s all been massively good fun. But remember that ninety per cent of people who go to football in this country have no hope of seeing their team win anything. That’s quite something really. That so many go just for the love of their team. Quite admirable really. Not saying we should not get concerned about defeats, but maybe we just need to re-focus our targets.”
That reset button might have to be adjusted again over the next few weeks.
The immediate reaction out there in Chelsea Land was split. Some want Tuchel gone. Some want to persevere.
Me?
I’m fucking looking forward to the San Siro in October I know that.
Our FA Cup quarter final tie at Middlesbrough’s Riverside Stadium would necessitate our first visit to Teesside in over five years. PD and I had enjoyed the last one; we stayed the Saturday night and got to witness the joys of a night out in Middlesbrough before our narrow 1-0 win on the Sunday evening in late 2016. PD liked it so much that he has been using the photo of him in the first row of the away section as his cover photo on Facebook ever since.
This time, Parky was joining us. Although I swore blind that I’d never drive up and back to Middlesbrough ever again, after doing this for a match in 2008, due to a variety of reasons that are just too dull to explain here, I was damn well doing it again.
In the build up to this game, it still felt that we were at the centre of a massive storm. However, we did not help ourselves. The club’s pathetic request for the game to be played behind closed doors drew warranted disdain from all quarters. At a time when we should have been quietly going about our business, on and off the park, this just gave others the chance to label us negatively. It was a massive PR own-goal. Sometimes the actions of those at our club defy description.
After a tough few days at work – our office was hit with COVID and sickness – at last the weekend arrived. Parky and I are away season ticket holders but PD’s presence was in doubt. Thankfully, a spare became available from a usual source and the three of us were headed to Middlesbrough. We would be part of, surely, our smallest domestic away following in decades. There were games at Luton Town in the mid-‘eighties when away fans were effectively banned, but a few Chelsea – OK more than a few – still attended via a variety of means. I am unsure how many got in.
I also remember a game at Anfield in the autumn of 1994 when The Kop was closed and I believe our official away allowance was ridiculously small. I watched that game with a Liverpool mate in the main stand that night. From memory we only had about four hundred.
Around seven hundred were due to get in at Middlesbrough. Not for the first time did I feel blessed to be able to attend.
I am a lucky man.
Middlesbrough, eh?
Smoggy Land. The Smog Monsters. The Smoggies. Ironopolis. The huge ICI plant. The ‘Boro. Pak Doo-ik of North Korea scoring against the Italians in 1966. George Camsell and Wilf Mannion. Don Revie and Brian Clough growing up mere streets away from each other. The Ironsides. The 1973/74 promotion team of Jack Charlton. The white bar on the chest of their jerseys. The players Frank Spraggon, Alan Foggon and John Craggs. An industrial wasteland in the ‘eighties. John Neal and Tony McAndrew. The locking of the Ayresome Park gates in 1986. The team of Gary Pallister, Bernie Slaven, Stuart Ripley and Tony Mowbray. The play-offs in 1988. Juninho and Ravanelli. The Wembley games. The Zenith Data, the FA Cup, the League Cup. The Riverside. Roy Chubby Brown. Their League Cup win and the Europa Cup journey under Steve McClaren. The Transporter Bridge. Bob Mortimer. Chris fucking Rea. Club Bongo. The chicken parmo.
I called for PD at eight o’clock and LP just after. A journey of exactly three-hundred miles was ahead. My fellow travellers came armed with a few tins of cider for the trip north. I thoroughly enjoyed this drive. The weather was magnificent; clear blue skies to start, hardly a cloud appeared all day, dry roads, a great feeling of freedom. We stopped for some breakfast bagels at Strensham on the M5 at 9.30am and I was soon hurtling around Birmingham on the M42. The half-way point was reached as I neared the M1 just south of Nottingham. I stopped to refuel at Woodall Services, then headed straight up the A1. The road into Middlesbrough, with the North York Moors visible past Thirsk, and then the approach into Smoggy Land.
We chatted away. But there were the inevitable periods of silence when I was left alone with my thoughts.
The very first time that I saw us play Middlesbrough was that infamous play-off game at Stamford Bridge in 1988. I have detailed that game at legth previously.
My first sighting, though, was a little nearer home.
In 1986, Bristol Rovers were turfed out of their Eastville stadium, never to return, and began playing at Twerton Park, the home of Bath City. Before I returned to college in Stoke in that September, my school friend Steve coerced me to attend a Rovers game against Middlesbrough in the then Third Division. It was a midweek match and I believe less than 4,000 attended. ‘Boro themselves were going through a very rough time, the worst in their history, and were limping along financially from one game to another. I watched from a side terrace as ‘Boro won a decent game 2-1. The one thing that I remember from that night was that Graeme Souness – himself ex-Middlesbrough – and the new Rangers manager had been spotted in the seats above. That he had travelled down from Glasgow – probably by car in those days – on a scouting mission blew my mind. He was no doubt keeping an eye on Gary Pallister.
I hated Middlesbrough in 1988. They spoiled my life, or at least that summer. While many football fans were getting all loved up on ecstasy, I was depressed, so depressed, and fearing life in Division Two. Again.
I have only ever met three Middlesbrough fans outside of match days in my entire life.
My college mate Chris is from nearby Thornaby and I shared digs with him from 1984 to 1987. A distant branch of his family – “Dickens” – sponsored the ‘Boro shirt in those tough times of 1986. Keith was a work mate in Trowbridge at the time of the 1997 and 1998 Wembley games who got undue stick from me. Then, weirdly, there was a lad called Andy from Saltburn, who I first bumped into at a youth hostel in Washington DC in 1989, only for him to come strolling into a bar in Orlando a month later. This football world is a very small world indeed.
I was parked up at around 1.15pm. Not only was my spot equidistant between pub and ground, but also free. After a couple of text messages, we met up with two Chelsea mates in “The Resolution” – which we visited in 2016 – and formed a little Chelsea enclave in a solidly home crowd. It felt like the whole town was buzzing. ‘Boro were enjoying a decent season and were undoubtedly “up for the Cup” on this sunny day. Many ‘Boro lads were in their finery; the boozer was awash with Adidas trainers, Armani jeans, Paul & Shark tops, CP sweatshirts and the ubiquitous Stone Island patch was everywhere. But despite all this, the locals were welcoming.
We chatted to Matty – a dead friendly local from Darlington, er Darlo – and a few of his mates. Pride of place went to Robbie, yet to miss a ‘Boro game in forty-two years. That meant that he was at Twerton Park in 1986. Respect.
With an hour and a half to go, we set off for the stadium. It was only a twenty-minute walk. While the others headed inside for a bevvy, I circumnavigated the stadium for the first time. Statues of Camsell and Mannion proudly stand next to those very same gates from Ayresome Park that were locked by bailiffs in 1986 with the club’s future on a precipice.
I especially wanted a photo of the blue steel of the famous Transporter Bridge over the Tees. I was able to frame this impressive structure within the circles of a couple of public art installations that resembled dream catchers.
The ‘Boro faithful were dreaming of Wembley again as they rushed past me.
The waters of the river lapped the banks as the stadium was bathed in sun ahead of me. I slowly made my way to the away turnstiles. I passed a photo of old Ayresome Park on a section of the perimeter wall with a row of seats from the old stadium in front. Sadly, I never made it to Ayresome Park, nor Roker, and friends tell me it was a fearsome place in other decades; the play-off game in 1988 especially. With hindsight, the two stadia of Sunderland and Middlesbrough – despite being the two lesser clubs of the north-east behind Newcastle United – were far more impressive than St. James’ Park.
I made my way in and soon chatted to some of the 677.
DJ outside.
Al, Gal, Andy, Tim in the concourse.
Others inside the seats.
Waves and thumbs up to a few.
This was my fifth visit to the Riverside. It’s OK, but oh so bland. Five visits and three different sections for us away fans, being pushed east each time. Our small section was above a corner flag.
The other four games were easy wins. I hoped for one more.
Oh yeah, the game. Other matters had dominated my thoughts until then. The sun shone brightly before eventually falling behind the west stand roof. It was a warm evening on Teeside.
The PA was ridiculously excitable.
“The Chelsea team are now in the tunnel.”
Shocker.
“The ‘Boro team are now in the tunnel.”
Bloody hell. You need to get out more, mate.
As the teams entered, red and white shiny mosaics to my left. Lots of noise.
“Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag.”
The Chelsea team?
Mendy
Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Silva – Sarr
Kovacic – Loftus-Cheek – Mount
Ziyech – Lukaku – Pulisic
There was applause for Ukraine. There was no silliness from the 677. Phew. Matty had told us all about the ‘Boro right back Isaiah Jones, who was evidently one to watch. Funnily enough, I remembered him from a Queen of the South vs. Hearts game I watched on BBC Scotland last season. Don’t ask.
So, Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea and 30,000 vs.677.
I was pleased to see ‘Boro still employing the white band on their jersey. It’s their thing.
The game began. It was warm enough for me to take off my coat and top; just a T-shirt would suffice until the second-half. I was stood next to PD and Parky. From getting out of my car at 1.15pm, I would be standing until well after the game, gone 7pm.
We began brightly. We used space well as we attacked and the mood inside the away section was positive. There were songs from the start though none immediately, for Roman Abramovich. Matty had told us that their weak link was their goalkeeper Joe Lumley and he was getting tested early on. The home team responded with a few corners.
On the quarter of an hour, the ball broke to Hakim Ziyech down our right. I saw Mason Mount itching to be found.
“There’s the pass. Mason wants” I yelled and I am positive that my voice was heard.
Ziyech pushed the ball into space perfectly. Mount advanced and spotted the fine run of Romelu Lukaku. The cross was perfect, low and fast, right on the money. Lukaku swept it in.
Get in.
We were one-up early on and the 677 roared. I leant forward and shared some positive stuff with Eck.
“Perfect move that. A ball into space. A great run from Lukaku. We don’t do that enough.”
Of course Middlesbrough were guilty of leaving their defence exposed but it was so good to see us executing a classic counter-attacking move. Beautiful.
The home team did not lie down. They almost constantly attacked us down the right via that man Thomas. A few more corners, with Lukaku going all Drogba and heading away on one occasion.
There was a good election of songs emanating from the 677. We were holding our own.
On the half-an-hour mark, we watched as Mateo Kovavic broke purposefully in that urgent way of his. He spotted Mount, breaking square, and the ball was then pushed out to Ziyech. The winger came inside.
A shout from Eck.
“Hit it Hakim.”
He did. And how. The shot dipped and swerved and away from Clumsy Lumley and into the net.
GET IN.
Were we safe? It absolutely felt like it. Time for more celebrations and the continuation of more songs.
“Kovacic our Croatian man. He left Madrid and he left Milan. He signed for Frank, said fuck off Zidane. He signed for Chelsea on a transfer ban.”
Lukaku almost made it three from close-in, but was denied after a ‘Boro defender cleared his goal bound shot off the line.
“How did that not go in?”
It had been a class first-half. Thiago Silva was calmness personified. Rudiger attacked every ball, and sometimes every defender, as if his life depended on it. Eck and I agreed that Mason hasn’t really pushed on this season in quite the way we had expected but was enjoying a fine game. The home fans were occasionally quiet and when these moments happened, we seized our chance to be heard.
It was a pleasure to see Shari and Skippy from Queensland in Australia around the half-time break.
“Bonzer.”
As the second-half began, my Lacoste top was zipped up. The night was getting a little cooler now. The second period promised much but delivered little. I fancied more goals from us, but we rarely hit the free-flowing stuff of the first forty-five minutes.
To be fair to the home fans, they dug in and absolutely sang their hearts out as the second-half got going. I think we were all impressed.
For a while, they sang a song and we did our version. They were our cheerleaders. Minus the pom poms.
But there were also reminders of 1997.
“When Wise Went Up.”
“One Di Matteo.”
And then a new one.
“We’re on our way, we’re on our way. To Paris, we’re on our way. Seven seater, car or train. Tommy’s gonna fly the plane. All I know is Chelsea’s on our way.”
And then as an answer to “Pigbag.”
“Fucking Useless.”
I remember little of the second-half apart from the banter between away fans and home fans, with the occupants of the BBC studio to our left getting a few hefty helpings too. I could hardly believe it when 677Steve in South Philly texted me to say that he couldn’t hear us on the TV broadcast.
Luke was leading a new chant :
“Chelsea’s got no money, we’re gonna win the Cup.”
Four substitutions from Tuchel.
Timo Werner for Pulisic.
N’Golo Kante for Kovacic.
Kenedy for Ziyech.
Harvey Vale for Lukaku.
Only in the last ten minutes were there audible chants for and against Roman.
Chelsea : “Roman Abramovich.”
Middlesbrough : “Fuck off Abramovich.”
Timo had a couple of late chances and as the game petered out, Mendy made his first real save of the night. The home team had been poor, but we had shown commendable spirit throughout.
The pounding that the club has received from outside of late has undoubtedly engineered a magnificent team spirit with Tuchel now a much loved, much admired and respected leader.
After a period of me struggling to warm to him, I am now resolutely a paid up member of Team Tuchel.
We are privileged to have him.
We slowly walked back to the car as the night grew colder still. The car park was grid-locked so we spent a while in a local “Pizza Hut” where we bumped into Roy – Brighton, Palace – and Margaret yet again. After almost six hours on my feet, I could relax. When I eventually set off at 9pm, the traffic was clear. While PD and Parky slept, I drove south. I was diverted on the M1 into the outer reaches of Leeds.
Ah, 1970.
I refueled my car at Tamworth Services. A couple of Red Bulls got me home.
Ahead of the game with Malmo, we had assembled in “Simmons” as per our normal midweek match at Stamford Bridge. When we arrived at around 6.15pm, it was pretty quiet. For once, Chelsea supporters were definitely in the minority. In fact, with most of the Chelsea fans present being of around the same age, not only were we outnumbered, we felt a little out of place too. The rest of the fellow revellers were in their teens. Since school desks make up a fair proportion of tables in this cosy bar, I had a wry smile to myself. There was a Guernsey reunion – an old school one at that – with my friends Daryl, Neil, Chris and Simon meeting up for a few beers, along with Simon and Daryl’s two lads. This was the first time I had seen Neil since before lockdown in 2020 and it was great to see him again. Daryl and Neil, brothers, went down to Kingstonian in the afternoon to watch the Chelsea and Malmo under-nineteen teams do battle, a game that Chelsea won 4-2 after being 2-0 down.
Daryl said that while he was at the game, our Europa League match against Malmo in 2019 was brought up. Rather sheepishly, he admitted that he had forgotten that the score was a 3-0 win. I smiled and replied that I had completely forgotten the score too.
How is it that we can remember scores in games against Notts County and Luton Town in 1980, but not from a few years back? I had a similar – brief – conversation with Nick The Whip on the walk from “The Goose” too. Nick is in his ‘seventies – though looks younger – and has a fantastic encyclopaedic knowledge of all the Chelsea games that he has attended, and I am always staggered by his memory. In the brief few minutes we spent walking along the North End Road, he mentioned a couple of games we played against Bury.
Yes, he’s that old.
“But I can’t remember last season’s games.”
Me and Nick both.
My very vague memory of the Malmo game was of their fans. They made a very impressive din, full of noise, and I remember flares too. We wondered how many of their fans would show up in London on this October evening. Surely more than the twenty or thirty Zenit fans in the first group phase game.
I guess it’s only natural that some games remain in the memory more than others. This would be my one hundred and fourth European game at Stamford Bridge. So many fine games. So many battles. So much emotion. Seven have featured Barcelona, five against Liverpool, four against Valencia, Porto and PSG. It is so annoying that the one visit of Real Madrid was played in a vacuum last season.
But here’s a quick exercise in memory recall. Off the top of my head, I would name these ten games as my favourites, in chronological order, not to prove any particular point but to stir some lovely memories of some magical nights under the lights in SW6.
Chelsea vs. Viktoria Zizkov 1994 : the first-one, a hand-shake with Matthew Harding in the pub beforehand, a wet old evening, but an absolutely wonderful occasion.
Chelsea vs. Bruges 1995 : a very noisy night as we swept past Bruges and some say the noisiest in modern times at Stamford Bridge despite a gate of only 28,000.
Chelsea vs. Vicenza 1998 : another wet night, but a stunning performance with three goals from Poyet, Zola and Hughes sending us through to our first European Final since 1971.
Chelsea vs. Milan 1999 : our first Champions League group phase game at home and despite a 0-0 draw, a very intense atmosphere and an equally impressive display against a crack opponent.
Chelsea vs. Barcelona 2000 : we were soon 3-0 up amid hysterical scenes and the noise was again on another level. But oh that away goal.
Chelsea vs. Barcelona 2005 : probably my favourite ever game at Chelsea in terms of excitement, pride and enjoyment. Nights hardly get any better.
Chelsea vs. Liverpool 2008 : a superb win, and the drama of Frank Lampard’s penalty, as we made it to our first ever Champions League Final.
Chelsea vs. Liverpool 2009 : the ridiculous 4-4 draw, just a crazy night against our rivals, that had us all checking our calculators to see how safe we were.
Chelsea vs. Napoli 2012 : another stupendous night, and an incredible recovery considering we presumed ourselves dead and buried after the first leg.
Chelsea vs. Eintracht Frankfurt 2019 : a surprise choice, but a big night for me since I had gambled on us getting to Baku. My elation after Eden’s penalty was off the scale.
I first saw Malmo in the flesh on a stag-weekend in Dublin in 1991, but as I have already recalled that game on two separate occasions, I’ll pass this time.
We were in the ground at around 7.45pm. There had been light queues at the turnstiles and for the first time this season, nobody had bothered to check my COVID19 status. I looked over at The Shed and was impressed with the 1,000 away fans and their decent selection of banners. Many were draped in team scarves.
How cute.
This was a game that we had to win. After the loss against Juventus, there was no other option available. I had no problems with the manager’s team selection. Both Timo and Romelu needed goals to get themselves back in the groove, so I had no issues with them starting.
Mendy
Christensen – Silva – Rudiger
Azpilcueta – Kante – Jorginho – Chilwell
Mount – Lukaku – Werner
Another near full house, and a superb effort from all involved. This was another busy spell with five games in fifteen days.
I loved the atmosphere at the start of the match, and it’s not always the case for these group phase games. Although I could visibly discern that the away fans were bouncing around and singing heartily, the sound didn’t carry particularly well. There was, after all, only a thousand of them. The Matthew Harding was in very fine form, even if we overdid the “Champions of Europe” thing a bit. The noise rattled around Stamford Bridge and, who knows, maybe it helped the team because we certainly began well, with plenty of attacking verve.
A few chances had threatened Dahlin in the Malmo goal before, on nine minutes, Thiago Silva crossed from deep into the box. Andreas Christensen did well to adjust and stab the ball in. A first Chelsea goal for our great Dane against the Swedes.
The rain started to fall heavily.
PD leaned over : “another wet walk back to the car?”
On twenty-one minutes, a swift break found the quick feet of Werner, who played in Lukaku. The Belgian toyed with his marker as he advanced into the box and was just about to take aim on the edge of the six-yard box when his legs were taken from under him. A definite penalty. But Lukaku was on the floor for ages after the foul.
We all wondered if Jorginho would deviate from his Plan A. Deviate he did; rather than a stop, a skip and a prod to his right, the ‘keeper went to the right as the ball went central / left. Easy.
And this was easy.
Lukaku hobbled to the half-way line and I hoped he could run off his injury but he was quickly replaced by Kai Havertz, the hero of Porto.
Malmo would only have one real attack and one goal attempt during the first-half. We completely dominated. I hoped that the away fans had enjoyed their sightseeing in London during the day because I doubted that they were going to get any pleasure from their team. However, to their credit, their fans never stopped singing and offering encouragement. Fair play to the fair haired ones.
A Rudiger run from deep sent us all dizzy with excitement – “shoot” – and this is now his trademark. I love it.
Behind me in the Matthew Harding Upper, I heard an Arsenal chant.
And it annoyed me.
“What do we think of shit?
“Tottenham.”
“What do we think of Tottenham?”
“Shit.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s alright.”
I glowered. For fuck sake. This must not continue.
Go to your rooms.
A shot from Chilwell, a shot from Havertz, we were all over Malmo.
We heard that Manchester United were 0-2 down at home against Atalanta. This engineered a related song from the lower tier.
“Chelsea boys are on a bender. Cristiano’s a sex offender.”
Late on in the half, Timo Werner pulled up and we collectively grimaced. He was replaced by Callum Hudson-Odoi, who joined Kai and Mason in a rather lightweight attacking trio. I could hear all the internet nerds getting high and mighty.
“See. I told you Tuchel should not have started Werner and Lukaku. Where’s my Playstation?”
As the half drew to a close, I commented to PD and Rich from Edinburgh “we should be more than two goals to the good here.” And it was true. We had completely dominated. Malmo looked poor, so poor.
At the break, the Malmo manager said “move over, Dahlin” and replaced the ‘keeper with Diawara.
Lo and behold, the second-half began with a rare Malmo break. As the move broke down on our left, the ball was played to Our Callum, who ran and ran and ran. He avoided an easier ball into the middle to Mount and instead found the overlapping Havertz. With the pink clad ‘keeper out of his goal, a delicate dink sent the ball into the goal off the far post.
Silky.
Diawara had not yet touched the ball.
We were three-up and I was hoping for six.
From the Matthew Harding choir :
“You’re shit but your birds are fit.”
We continued to dominate, and on fifty-seven minutes a great bit of “nibbling” from Rudiger wrestled the ball from a Malmo midfielder. The ball ran to Haverzt, who played it back to Rudi. An industrial challenge gave the referee no option but to award another penalty.
Jorginho stepped up, and again the spot-kick went centre / left, although the skip probably sent the ‘keeper the wrong way. I think it is safe to say that after mixing it a little of late, opposing ‘keepers had best throw away their notes on Jorginho’s penalty techniques. Because nobody knows what he is going to do now.
Meanwhile, United had clawed it back to 2-2 at Old Trafford.
Shots from Hudson-Odoi and Kante were smashed goalwards.
Saul Niguez replaced King Kante.
Marcos Alonso and Reece James were late substitutes too.
Instead of six goals, or even five, the chances were squandered and it looked like no further goals would ensue.
Bastard Ronaldo had scored and United were winning 3-2.
That’s for all those in the lower tier, tempting fate earlier.
When that man Rudiger blasted into row ten of the Matthew Harding Upper, many spectators upped and headed for the exits.
At the final whistle, Chelsea 4 Malmo 0.
“We should have scored seven or eight.”
I had enjoyed the game. It was another tick on my journey back to football.
It was just a bit ironic, though, that on a night when Tuchel was hoping to kick-start the Lukaku and Werner scoring tandem, it was last season’s top scorer Jorginho who led the way with two penalties.
Outside, the spectators scurried away into the night and – yes – we got soaked once again.
Fackinell.
On the drive back home to the West of England, PD battled against torrential rain, huge puddles of surface water, debris on the roads, and fallen trees. I eventually made it home at about 1.30am.
We play Norwich City at Stamford Bridge on Saturday and I’m bringing my boots. With our lack of a decent strike force, I fancy a shot at leading the attack.
It seems that for every single Chelsea vs. Everton match report, I trot out the same key statistic of them not beating us in a league game at Stamford Bridge since that Paul Rideout goal gave them a 1-0 win during 1994/95. That match turned out to be as equally an inauspicious start to the unveiling of the first new stand – the North – since the previous time in 1974/75 when Carlisle United defeated us 2-0 as the East Stand made it’s bow.
But this year. This year felt a little different. Although the entire club was buoyed by the excellent FA Cup win against Liverpool, Everton were undergoing a relatively bright spell under the control of our former manager Carlo Ancelotti. And it felt, to me at least, that a tough game was on the cards. But could the accumulative effect of twenty-four seasons of hurt for Everton in SW6 – I have seen them all, won thirteen, drew eleven – impinge itself once again on Everton’s collective psyche?
I bloody hoped so.
“Funny team Everton.”
And so while they have really suffered at Chelsea over the years, they have had the upper hand over us at Goodison Park for quite a while now.
Which Everton would show up?
I suppose, deep down, I knew all along.
My preparations for the Sunday afternoon match began the previous evening in a local vllage called Kilmersdon, where a fellow Chelsea season ticket holder – Sue – was celebrating a “surprise” birthday party. Her daughter Chelsea and husband Stuart sit in the same section of The Shed Lower as Parky, and although I do not know the family that well at all, I thought it would be the height of bad manners for me not to make an appearance. Our two villages are, after all, just four miles apart.
I strolled into the village pub, spotted the three of them, but also my old Chelsea mate Terry, from Radstock, a few miles further away. I have known Terry since the 1984/85 season when I used to very occasionally catch the Yeovil Supporters Coach to games. In truth, I think this only happened twice (vs. QPR in 1984/85 and vs. Arsenal in 1985/86) but I also remember the Yeovil coach calling in at Stoke so I could piggy-back a ride up to Old Trafford in 1985/86 too. I can remember taking him up to a few games c. 2003/4 when I worked in Chippenham. He used to have a ST in the Matthew Harding Lower. I had not seen Terry at Chelsea for years, but saw him at a “Buzzcocks” gig in Bath a couple of years ago in addition to one or two at “The Cheese And Grain” in Frome. We share the same tastes in a lot of music.
Very soon into our conversation, Terry enquired “did you hear about Swan?” and I immediately felt that I was in for some sad news. Swan was also from Radstock, and used to sit with us on the famous Benches from 1985 to maybe 1987. He was a bit of a lad, a Jack the lad even, and with his curly perm, moustache and heavy frame he used to resemble Ian Botham. He was a good lad, and was certainly on those three coach trips that I have mentioned. In 1986/87, his attendance tailed off, and none of us had seen him for ages. He used to work in an office in Bath, near the bus station, and I have a feeling that the last time I saw him was while he was on a lunch break in the city centre in around 1987. We had heard he had gone to live up north; Leeds or Sheffield or somewhere.
Sadly, Terry was to tell me that Swan had recently passed away. This came as a real shock. He was surely no older than fifty-two or fifty-three. I texted Alan and Glenn, and a couple of other of the lads who sat with Swan in those halcyon days.
These photos show the unfurling of a Union Jack before our game with Tottenham in April 1985. Swan is at the back, sporting a grey, red and black Pringle if memory serves. Glenn is all smiles with the bubble perm, Alan is central with a ski-hat, as is Walnuts and Dave, while Rich is wearing an England one. In 1984/85 and 1985/86, ski hats were all the rage. And when I say benches, I mean concrete slabs. The Tottenham game was the first game that we had to endure those. But more of that another day.
In “The Jolliffe Arms” on Saturday, Terry and I raised a glass in memory of Swan.
Rest In Peace.
With the game against Everton kicking-off at 2pm, we had to be on our toes early on so that we could squeeze as much out of the day as possible. Glenn picked me up at 7.30am, and we were inside “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham at about 10.15am.
For the best part of three hours we had a blast. Tom was visiting from New York – sorry, New Jersey – and arrived in good time. He settled in seamlessly alongside PD amid tales of his planned trip to Cologne and Berlin after this little visit to London Town. On Saturday, he had seen Brentford dismantle Sheffield Wednesday 5-0. It would be bloody lovely if Brentford’s first season in their new digs could be in the Premier League.
Glenn joined us after parking his van.
Then the Jacksonville Four – Jennifer, Brian, Jimmy and Eugene – joined us. It is always a pleasure to see their smiling faces, even if Eugene was wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, and they were excited about being back in “The Eight Bells” once more.
From Jacksonville to Axonville.
Jimmy and Eugene had chosen Leyton Orient’s game against Cambridge United. I love it that Chelsea fans take a look at lower level football while in London. Top marks.Two lads from the days of Swan on The Benches arrived – Richard and Simon – and I noticed that our former player from the glory days of the early ‘seventies Alan Hudson was in the pub too. He very kindly stopped by for a photo call.
These photos show how much fun we had.
[inside my head : “fackinell, these Americans love their Chelsea scarves, eh?”]
Inside Stamford Bridge, Everton had their usual three thousand. We had learned that, perhaps unsurprisingly due to our large injury list, Frank Lampard had chosen the same starting eleven as against Liverpool, apart from young Mason Mount taking over from Mateo Kovacic.
Flags, flames.
The Evertonians took off their dull tracksuit tops to reveal their bright pink shirts.
Blimey.
I was surprised to see King Carlo on the touchline; I had presumed that he would have been banished to the stands after his recent indiscretion. Ten years on from the double season, Carlo stood ten yards from Frank. They had embraced on seeing each other and I remembered hearing Frank Lampard speak so sweetly about his former manager when he talked to a packed bar in Manhattan in 2015.
“Jose Mourinho is the greatest manager that I have played for, but Carlo Ancelotti is the nicest man that I have ever met in football.”
We began the game well, with Willian teeing up Mason Mount to volley from just outside the six-yard box. There was a fine reaction save from Jason Pickford.
Unlike most away fans who visit SW6, Everton were hardly a riot of noise.
In the first ten minutes, a first. The ball was hoofed clear and it made its way up to the very front row of The Sleepy Hollow. There were a few cheers, a few jeers, and I found myself getting far too excited about it.
“That’s the first ever time, right?”
There had been shots that had ended up in the more central portion of the Matthew Harding Upper, but no ball had reached the corner section.
Fuck, I need to get out more.
Not long after, a move developed down our left. Alan had just been out to turn his bike around, and I looked up and moved to let him sidle past. With that, in the corner of my eye, I saw that Mason Mount had smashed a goal home, the lower corner.
Boom.
Oh well, I don’t miss too many.
Alan : “THTCAUN.”
Chris : “COMLD.”
The goal was replayed on the TV screen. It was, undoubtedly, a fantastic strike.
There had been a rare, weak, shot from Richarlison, but Barkley played Willian into space down the right but his shot, from an angle, was palmed away down low by Pickford.
On twenty minutes, a neat interchange of passes between Gilmour, Giroud and Barkley – with a slide-rule pass which pleased us all – sent Pedro racing free. He had both sides of the goal to aim for, and it always looked like he would score. He chose the right side and score he did.
GET IN.
Thankfully there was no VAR annulment.
After a shaky moment from King Kurt, Richarlison broke and Dominic Calvert-Lewin wasted a good chance as his effort bounced wide, past Kepa in his all-black Lev Yashin kit.
We were purring in that first-half.
Great stuff.
Five minutes into the second period, I watched as a long passing move developed. It seemed to me that there was not one wasteful pass, every movement of the ball was purposeful. Eventually, Barkley played it to Willian, still some twenty-five yards out. He, like Pedro for the second-goal, had time to choose which side of the goal to aim for. Both sides were unprotected. His low strike flew in to the right of Pickford.
“Great goal.”
Willian slid into the corner.
Knees down Mother Brown.
Just three minutes later, Willian took a short corner, then slung the ball into the box. Olivier Giroud, showing a cunning willingness to get tough and get dirty, threw a leg at the ball as it curled down and past the Everton defenders.
Chelsea 4 Everton 0.
Beautiful.
Everton might have been playing in pink, but they certainly weren’t pretty. Off the pitch, there was disappointment too. There hadn’t been a peep out of the travelling Evertonians all game, and now some began to leave the away quadrant.
But did we make tons of noise? Not really.
The game safe, Frank fluttered a few cards from the pack.
Reece James for Mason Mount.
Tino Anjorin for Willian.
Armando Broja – a first-team debut – for Olivier Giroud.
Once or twice, the Matthew Harding sang “Carlo! Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!” but it was a rather underwhelming show of support for our former manager to be honest.
There were a few late flurries from us, and Kepa got down well to smother a cross from Theo Walcott, but no more goals were added to the tally. However, there was much to admire from our team on this Sunday afternoon. Billy Gilmour was just so pleasing on the eye. I love the look of him. He has a great mix of balance, vision, fluidity and tenaciousness.
He also has a wonderful footballer’s name.
Great work, Chelsea. Great work.
The Everton horror show at Stamford Bridge continued for one more season at least.
Chelsea were, as ever, dominant.
Played : 25
Won : 14
Drew 11
Lost : 0
For : 48
Against : 17
Bloody hell. I guess this was always going to be a home banker after all. A great performance, a reassuring one, and a much needed fillip after a few doubts among our supporters of late. More of the same please.
Right then. Aston Villa away on Saturday. See you there.
I have mentioned before that I would be quite happy, quite contended, not concerned, if I never went to Munich ever again. The Bavarian city is a gem, make no mistake, but I have visited it often and, after my last visit – perfection – there was a large part of me that would have wanted that last memory of Munich, especially the walk from the stadium to the nearby U-bahn station, to be my last. As days and nights go, Saturday 19 May 2012 will never be beaten. Any subsequent visit would pale by comparison, and might even take a little of the shine off that most beautiful of occasions.
It’s the geographical equivalent of Didier Drogba returning to Chelsea for one last, odd, season two years after scoring that goal and that penalty.
Some things are best left in the past.
Maybe.
But, as is so often the case, UEFA drew Chelsea with a familiar foe in the final sixteen, so Bayern it was. And, despite my above concerns, there was no way that I was not going to the away game in the middle of March. In 2012, it was from Bristol to Prague to Munich with Glenn. In 2020, it will be from Bristol to Prague to Munich with PD.
Frome will be represented again in the Nord Kurv of the Allianz Arena.
To be frank, there is a common view that our European adventures, which might even have passed many supporters’ expectations already, will come to an abrupt end in Munich.
So, one last European trip in 2019/20? It seemed like it from the off.
And I am sure that we will have a blast.
We are spending St. Patrick’s Day in Prague. I have briefly visited the Czech capital twice before but have not enjoyed a lengthy night out in its bars and restaurants. I am looking forward to that. I even want to squeeze in a visit to Viktoria Zizkov’s home stadium – our first European opposition in 1994 after twenty-three barren years – as their stadium is only a twenty-minute walk from our hotel. In 1994, our game was a Bohemian rhapsody in the small city of Jablonec due to fears of crowd violence. The only violence I heard about on that particular day was sadly between Chelsea supporters.
And I am spending another day in Munich. I have visited it in 1985, 1987 – twice – 1988 and 1990, in addition to 2012 – and I am relishing my first pint of Paulaner or Spaten or Lowenbrau in a city-centre bar.
But more of that in March.
On the drive to London with PD and LP, I again took advantage of the situation and drifted off to sleep for an hour. As I awoke, passing through Twickenham and touching Richmond, I looked out of the window of the car and was in awe of the evening sky, which was a deep purple, an angry colour, and I wondered if the thunderous hue of the sky was a foretaste of the evening ahead. But the sun was still shining, low down, in the west – behind us – and it highlighted the yellow bricks of the low-lying street-side houses and buildings in a scintillating fashion. It was, dear reader, a vivid and vibrant welcome to London. It was deserving of a Turner oil painting.
Colourful, atmospheric, emotional.
Maybe the upcoming game would be similarly described?
PD was parked at around 5.45pm. In “The Goose” we met some of the troops, including my mate Ben from Boston who last made the trip over to England in 2012. It was a pleasure to see him again. I think I saw him last in New York in 2015. We then trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with a different set of pals, but with some more mates from the US; Andy from Orange County, his mate Antony – we last saw those two together in Budapest – and also Jaro, from DC, who was running a little late.
By 7pm we were all together, a little “Chelsea In America” reunion. It was lovely. I first started posting these match day reports on the old CIA bulletin board in around 2006, and regularly so in 2008/9. In those days, these reports would open up conversations on the bulletin board and would often draw over one thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get two hundred.
The CIA Bulletin Board is really missed; I think in the same way that the old Chelsea Chat on the official website is missed too. It allowed me to make loads of new friends, and the conversations were well thought out and rewarding unlike some of the bitter interactions now prevalent on social media. This should, perhaps, be called unsocial media.
Sadly, CIA was hacked by ISIS – true story – in around 2013 and never really recovered.
It was time to head to the game. Jaro had spotted a few Bayern Munich supporters at Earl’s Court but I had seen none on the North End Road and the Fulham Road.
I was in with time to spare, and we had been promised fireworks – if not on the pitch – from the top of both the East and West Stands.
Season 1994/95 came into my head once again. For the Bruges home game in March 1995, the Chelsea Independent Supporters Association, who ran the Chelsea Independent fanzine – some of whose members were attacked in Jablonec by some supporters of Chelsea who held differing political views – had planned to set off some fireworks from the still-in-situ Shed (closed the previous May) but the local authorities were not able to offer the appropriate backing. A real shame. In the end we did not the extra push of fireworks; we won 2-0, Paul Furlong’s finest hour and the noisiest Chelsea home game that I can ever remember, attendance only 28,000.
In the pub, we had heard that Frank Lampard had selected the exact same starting-eleven as against Tottenham on Saturday. I was surprised that the European veteran Willian was not starting. But what do I know?
As promised, fireworks fizzed overhead for ten seconds or so, and I think the crowd were underwhelmed.
It’s just not an English thing, is it?
As the teams massed in the tunnel, the second of the evening’s “special events” took place. To my left in the main bulk of the Matthew Harding, blue and white mosaics were held overhead. Two banners – “OUR CITY – OUR STADIUM” – were held over the balcony and a large banner of the European Cup was unfurled centrally.
But then, typically, we got it wrong. Morons in the MHU decided to “crowd surf” the “OUR CITY” banner and it all went to pot.
10/10 for ingenuity, 3/10 for execution.
This was obviously a visual pun on the Bayern banner in 2012, but it filled me with gloom that we couldn’t get it right.
I sensed all of Europe thinking “Leave the displays to the Europeans. Never mind Brexit, you can’t even hold a banner up correctly.”
As ominous signs go, this was very fucking ominous, and this one was twenty yards in length and heading diagonally up the top tier.
Fackinell.
Jaro was sat next to me in the heart of The Sleepy Hollow. This had been a whirlwind trip for him, and after the game against Tottenham, we had a right old natter about football, and how – for many kids of our generation – the attending of games acted as a “rights of passage” that is just not the same anymore.
There is a book there, I feel.
In those days, pocket money was saved, concerned and cautious parents were told “not to worry”, it was pay-on-the-day in terraces without cover, there was a threat of trouble, the thrill of it all, the passage from boy to man.
These days, youngsters are priced out, attending a match – with stifling parents – takes on the planning of a military manoeuvre, and the thrill is surely not the same.
Jaro had spoken of his first-ever European game, back in his native Poland, in 1986. He had to get to the stadium for the Legia Warsaw game with Internazionale a good three hours before the kick-off to be sure of a good bench seat. My first-ever European match was a year later in Turin, Juventus vs. Panathinaikos, when I had to get to the stadium three hours before the start to be sure of a standing ticket in the less-popular Curva Maratona.
These days, everyone shows up with fifteen minutes to go.
Different eras, different times, different vibes, different thrills and different spills.
…”to be continued.”
I am not too wary of Bayern’s current team nor form, but three players remained from 2012.
Manuel Neuer
Jerome Boateng
Thomas Muller
Our Chelsea?
Caballero
Azpilicueta – Chistensen – Rudiger
James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Alonso
Barkley – Mount
Giroud
Bayern were supported by around 1,800. Not too impressed with that. They came armed with banners – RED FANATICS, REBELS – and many many scarves.
The game began.
Very quickly, a low shot and Willy Caballero dropped to save easily from that man Muller.
Off the pitch, in the stands, there were songs which reminded everyone of “that day in May.”
“One nil and you fucked it up.”
“Didier Drogba, tra la la la la.”
“One Di Matteo.”
“Champions of Europe – in your own back yard.”
Good noise. Good stuff. Heartening.
In the first ten minutes, we dominated possession and I was comforted. But there were two rapier breaks into our defence which certainly sobered everyone. The early shot from Muller was followed by a shot from Kingsley Coman that hit the side-netting. However, we had our moments. There were chances from Mason Mount in this opening spell and the mood was fine. And then, typically, Bayern upped their involvement. Caballero did ever so well to react and smother a break from Robert Lewandowski, right in the middle of the box. A fine save.
An effort from Olivier Giroud from a Reece James corner gave us hope.
Then Muller looked up, shaped, and curled a fine effort just past the far post.
Things were hotting up.
On the half-hour mark, with Bayern now in absolute ascendancy, the noise quietened.
Then, a cross from Mount just evaded Giroud. Not for the first time during the game would I lament the lack of bodies in the box. Call me old fashioned, but oh for playing with two bona fide strikers.
As on Saturday, Mount and Barkley were playing behind Giroud but were often in different postal districts. They are no second-strikers and lack the ingenuity and guile to be so. Upfront for Bayern, Lewandowski was ably supported by Muller, and others.
Muller contorted himself beneath the crossbar at the Matthew Harding and back-headed against the bar with Big Willy floundering. I slumped in horror at the memory of his header in Munich, and my body language changed instantly from terror to relief as the chance went begging.
This was turning into an engrossing game. We were second best now, but we were hanging on. The thought of taking a 0-0 to Bavaria was a dream, but we just might be able to do it.
Very often, I found myself bellowing –
“Reece. Just get past your man.”
Nearing the end of the half, Mateo Kovacic – our best player – pushed forward and played in Marcos Alonso with a lovely pass into space. Our left wing-back changed his body shape, his boots, his oil, his hairstyle, his religion and his underpants in order to address the ball with his favoured left foot as he broke inside the box. In the end, a weak shot was played too close to Neuer and our best chance of the half was spurned.
At the break, we agreed that we had rode our luck somewhat -” they could be three-up” – but we had enjoyed it. These European nights are on a different scale. There were nerves, but everyone was involved, everyone was agitated. It felt like a real game of football. And that, sadly, is not always the case these days. I wondered if Willian would appear as a second-half saviour, maybe even a second-half match winner.
“Forty-five minutes to go, boys. Come on.”
No changes at the break.
Very early in the second-half, Mount raced onto an early ball and found himself free. He struggled to get the ball completely under control and a combination of defender and goalkeeper snuffed out the chance. The ball rebounded to Barkley but he misfired at Neuer. It would prove to be, sadly, our last real chance of the match.
The game soon changed, and so quickly.
On fifty-one minutes, Bayern proved too strong and too physical in the midfield and, as Azpilicueta slipped, the ball was played through our ranks. The ball was pushed wide for Lewandowski to cross low for Serge Gnabry to slot home.
Bollocks.
Three minutes later, a move developed on our right once more.
A header from Levandowski and a pass from Gnabry. A ball back to Levandowski – “oh fuck” – and a subtle touch back to Gnabry – “oh fuck” – and (real fear now) a shot from the raiding Gnabry – “oh fuck.”
A goal of “three fucks” and we were down by two goals to nil.
Sigh.
This was mature, incisive stuff from Bayern and our team seemed smaller, without much direction, totally second-best.
The away fans unveiled banners in the Shed Lower.
“STOP CLUB’S PRICING INSANITY. TWENTY IS PLENTY.”
Well said.
Gnabry blasted over and we were well and truly on the ropes.
Jorginho – poor, really – was booked.
Some substitutions on the hour :
Tammy Abraham for Olivier Giroud.
Willian for Ross Barkley.
A rogue chance for Mason, but he looked tired as he snatched at it and the ball ended up where the “OUR CITY” banner ended up before the game.
The crowd was quiet now.
Ever the optimist, I kept whispering to Jaro that “a goal to us now changes this tie” but this was through blind hope than any rational thought.
This was – cliché warning – men versus boys. We were – ditto – chasing shadows. Bayern were a well-oiled machine and we slipped away. But then, a feint and a twist from Willian out on the right, and a heavenly bolt into the box, but Tammy just missed it. What was I saying earlier about bodies in the box?
Pedro replaced Dave. We changed to a four at the back.
On seventy-six minutes, the wonderfully-named Alfonso Davies broke at pace down his left and was able to square to Lewandowski.
3-0, game over, tie-over, see you in Prague.
Two final moments.
On eighty minutes, much hesitation from Tammy on a slow dribble in a central position. He redefined the verb “to dither.”
“Just hit it.”
An easy tackle robbed him of even a shot.
On eighty-three minutes, I saw Lewandowski go sprawling dramatically after a challenge from Alonso. The initial yellow was changed to a red. No complaints there, no complaints on the night.
We were second best.
All night long.
Sadly, this was our heaviest-ever home defeat at Stamford Bridge in European football.
Next up, on the face of it, a calmer match and a more peaceful trip to Bournemouth. It should be a much easier game, but we lost 0-4 there just over a year ago.
St. Patrick’s Athletic vs. Chelsea : 13 July 2019.
Back in the summer of 2003, just after Roman Abramovich took over the reins at Chelsea Football Club, I really wanted it to be like this.
All those summers ago, it felt rather odd to me – if nobody else – that our club suddenly had huge spending power. To put it bluntly, it didn’t feel quite right. There were noticeable feelings of guilt at the way we splashed cash, at times indiscriminately and without purpose, in those first crazy months. It didn’t seem – to use a much-used phrase in football these days – “proper.” Whereas some supporters loved every minute of every million-pound purchase, I can sincerely remember that I hoped that some of the obscure Russian’s monies would go towards a top level academy where we could grow our own in the footballing equivalent of The Good Life. I distinctly remember an interview with my biggest Chelsea hero of all, Pat Nevin, in which he hoped too that funds would be diverted to some long term vision of the club nurturing its own. It seemed a lone voice at the time. Others saw no harm in flashing cash on anything that moved. But it is what we did in those first few years, and with fearsome results. But now, in the summer of 2019 – some sixteen years later – we are presented with the sudden chance, through an imposed transfer ban, to turn away from purchases and instead look inwards, promoting from our cast of thousands. And here we are with Frank Lampard as manager.
Here we are.
I am sure our path to this point in our history was not planned. But it would be foolish not to embrace the situation that we find ourselves in. Maurizio Sarri’s short, sweet and sour period as Chelsea manager is over. In the circumstances, a transfer ban would probably prove detrimental in luring a top-level coach to our club. Yes, of course Frank Lampard’s arrival as Chelsea manager is probably a few seasons too soon, but in some ways it is the perfect fit.
Frank knows the club. He respects the club. He is adored by all. He will be given time.
It does, to be frank, seem to be all about him at the moment.
As the world knows, there are many aspects of modern football that are gently eroding my love of the game. There are the unstoppable ways that commercialism have taken hold over the past couple of decades, but that is accepted with a long deep sigh these days, as irreversible as ever. Other particular grievances seem to irritate me more and more. Shall I name a few? Kick-off times changing to the detriment of match going fans. Games on Monday nights up North. Matches at 6pm on Sundays. The omnipresent threat of the thirty-ninth game. The perceived notion by many fellow fans that our club have a negligent attitude to match-going fans. The farce of Baku, and the lack of any desire at all by the club to engage with its fans in attempting to help with the costs of match tickets or travel options. The first half in Baku, which was the most surreal atmosphere that I have ever witnessed. The farce of VAR – loathed by many of my friends – and the solemn realisation that we are in for a very tough season ahead as it eats away at our enjoyment of every single goal celebration. More than anything else, VAR could tip me over the edge.
There was a key moment during the summer. I genuinely felt more excited that my local team Frome Town had re-signed two former favourites Matt Smith – a complete midfielder – and Jon Davies – a very skilful forward – than I was when I heard that Petr Cech had resigned with Chelsea. Of course, the Cech return was no surprise. The return of Matty and Jonno were big surprises. I guess everything is relative. But it is worth noting for sure.
So, against all these horrible negatives, I regard the arrival of Frank Lampard as Chelsea manager as my one beacon hope.
Only you can save me, Frank.
No pressure.
There will be talk of Frank Lampard aplenty in these match reports over the next few months. But I will say one thing now. I was bowled over by his first press-conference as manager. He simply looked the part. He looked in control, he spoke intelligently and with purpose, emphasising all of the things that I hoped he would. He down-played the emotion of the return, and that was a masterstroke. He just impressed me so much. It reminded me of the times when Jose Mourinho spoke in that first season with us, before he disappeared into a bizarre vortex of torment.
I hung on every word.
It was just magical – a real thrill – to see him as our manager.
I shouldn’t get warm and fuzzy about such things. I have just turned fifty-four for fuck sake. But I felt a very real connection with the club once more.
Bravo, Frank, bravo.
The announcement of our two games in Dublin a few weeks ago proved difficult for me to resist. There was no way that I could afford to take three days away from work to see both, so I plumped for the Saturday game against St. Patrick’s Athletic instead of the Bohemians game on the Wednesday. I soon bought plane tickets – reasonable – and a night in a hotel – not so reasonable. For only the third time in my life – apart from layovers en route to the US in 2015 and 2016 – I was heading off to the Republic of Ireland.
And it would be my first ever Chelsea game on the Emerald Isle to boot.
I couldn’t wait.
I was up early – 4.30am – on the day of the game. I soon made my way over to Bristol Airport and the 8am Ryanair flight to Dublin left on time. In order to recoup some of the extra money that I was forced to pay the airline for my carry-on bag, I warned the air hostess and nearby passengers that I would be charging for small talk.
With time the essence – I would only be in Dublin for thirty hours all told – I caught a cab into the city. I chatted away to the cab driver and told him that the 2pm kick-off time was odd, and might throw out my pre-match pub-crawl timings. We can’t even seem to hit a three o’clock kick-off time for a friendly these days, damn it. But the cabbie suggested that the Dublin vs. Cork Gaelic football game at Croke Park at 7pm might have forced the early start for our game.
…mmm, now I was tempted. This game was only thirty-five minutes each way. I could easily zip over to Dublin’s north side for the evening game at Croke Park, but in doing so, would miss some long-anticipated Dublin nightlife. I had some decisions to make. I expected that the lure of a Dublin evening session would outweigh the second sporting fixture of the day.
I spoke to the cabbie of my two previous visits to Dublin in 1991 and in 1995, both for stag weekends for college friends Pete and Jim. Both visits had a slight sporting nature. In 1991, four of us decided to combat our hangovers on the Sunday afternoon with a visit to Dublin’s famous old footballing stadium Dalymount Park where St. Pat’s were to meet visiting Swedish team Malmo in a friendly. We stood on a sizeable side terrace and watched as the two teams huffed and puffed to a 1-1 draw. It was a horrific game of football. I wondered about my sanity at the end of it. My non-Chelsea photographs on this website are very rare, but here are four from that day to illustrate this piece. It appeared from the match footage from the Bohemians game on the previous Wednesday that much of Dalymount Park has stagnated since 1991. It is hard to fathom how it once held almost fifty-thousand.
In 1995, staying in a guest house in Drumcondra, two of us walked the ten minutes to Croke Park and took in an official tour. At that time, the first of the three huge stands had just been built. It was a snapshot in time; the lovely old wooden main stand, the towering new three-tiered stand opposite, the historic Hill 16 to the left, the Canal End to the right. Having heard the tour guide talk of Croke Park’s history, I never ever thought that it would one day host the English sport of association football.
My journey into Dublin continued. The steel of Croke Park was spotted just a few hundred yards to my left. We crossed the River Liffey. The cabbie spoke how it is often the case these days how people use the appearance of their favourite bands in far off and exotic places as an excuse – his word, not mine, but I soon agreed – to visit cities that they would never usually reach. That very weekend, the star of the 1991 weekend Pete was visiting the Italian city of Lucca to see New Order, with his wife Maxine. Last summer, they visited Turin to see New Order. On the Thursday after the Chelsea game in Dublin, I would be seeing New Order in Bristol with Pete and Max.
And indeed, this Chelsea game in Inchicore against St. Pat’s was a bloody good excuse to visit Dublin once more.
My last visit was twenty-four years ago, but as we drove south it felt like only five minutes had passed. Those feelings that I had for Dublin then – uniquely so similar but so vastly different to the UK – were being rekindled. We looked on at the riverside developments, where many trailers office furniture that I help plan have ended up over the years. Dublin, after a lull in 2008, is again a thriving city.
I dropped my bag off at the hotel.
At 10.10am – just an hour and fifteen minutes after touching down at Dublin International Airport – I was ordering a full Irish Breakfast at a bar on nearby Baggot Street Upper.
I thought about the past four seasons.
In 2015, it was at Bello’s Pub and Grill in Newark, New Jersey, with a smattering of Chelsea friends from the US.
In 2016, it was in a smoky Viennese bar, just myself and some locals.
In 2017, it was in the bar of the Capital Hotel in Beijing with Glenn and Cathy.
In 2018, it was at a pop-up bar overlooking Sydney Harbour with Glenn, newly arrived that day.
And now in 2019, my first pint – typically a Peroni – of Chelsea’s season was at “Searson’s” in Dublin.
I toasted us all.
“Cheers.”
The breakfast hit the spot and set me up nicely. It is worth noting, I think, that in the subsequent Facebook album of 116 photographs from this trip to Dublin, no photograph received more likes than the one of my Full Irish. You lot are easily bloody pleased, aren’t you?
Outside, there were clouds, but the sun was bursting to shine through. I knew that my whistle-stop visit to Dublin would simply be too short to see much sightseeing, and so I chose the line of least resistance. From 10am to 2pm, I would meander through Dublin’s city centre and stop off at a few choice pubs. For those who know this Chelsea blog, in fact at times it is a travelogue, this will come as no surprise.
I do love a good pub crawl.
I had visited the General Post Office on O’Connell Street and I had seen Trinity College in 1991. I had seen the Molly Malone statue and I had spent time close to the River Liffey in 1991. I had visited Dalymount Park in 1991. I had visited Croke Park in 1995. I had walked through the city centre around Grafton Street in 1995. In 2019, it would all be about the pubs of Dublin, with a little football thrown in for good measure.
“Any excuse.”
From “Searson’s” – a large and welcoming sports bar in the mould of so many in the US – I turned north. Without realising it, I walked right past a Bank of Ireland building on Baggot Plaza where some of our office furniture is still waiting to make its arrival – “delays at site” a typical operational problem – and then over the Grand Canal. Passing the grandness of the wide Georgian splendour of Fitzwilliam Street Upper to my left, I by-passed a few bars (although, if I am truthful, I wanted to find repose in every single one of them), I enjoyed a second pint of lager in the historic “O’Donoghue’s” on Baggot Street Lower. This was a small, dark bar, heavy on atmosphere, and an obvious hotspot for US tourists if all the dollar bills pinned everywhere were anything to go by. This is where The Dubliners were formed. I am not sure if I was being paranoid, but as soon as I ordered my pint, “The Fields of Athenry” was played on the juke box, a song heavily-linked to the national team, to Celtic, Irish nationalism and now to Liverpool too. I had a wry smirk to myself.
Time was moving on. I passed St. Stephen’s Green, and folk meeting for a morning coffee. In 1995, I remembered that Dublin was overflowing with coffee houses. There seemed to be a “Bewley’s” on every street. The rotunda at St. Stephen’s Green shopping centre reminded me so much of the entrance to Ebbets Field, the old home of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I turned into Grafton Street, located the Phil Lynott statue on Harry Street – and immediately started humming “there’s whisky in the jar-o” to myself – before disappearing into “McDaids”. This pub was our base camp in 1991 and I raised a pint of Guinness to Max and Pete. This was another splendid pub. Memories flew through my mind. In truth, in 1991 I was in a far from happy place. I was on the dole, eking by, not going to many Chelsea games, at a low ebb. Soon though, I would pass my driving test, get a car, a job, and some semblance of order would return to my life. I raised the pint to myself this time.
A lad that I first met out in Baku – “M” – texted me to see where I was. I replied that I was on my way to “Grogan’s” and I would soon see him there. This was good fortune, because this pub was on his list too. At around midday, I spotted him outside and we trotted over the road into the fourth pub of the morning. A good mate Kev, who lived in Dublin, not far from St. Pat’s Richmond Park stadium in Inchicore in 1999, had heavily recommended this central pub. It was another beauty. Scandinavian style wooden panels, artwork on the walls, a fridge full of ham and cheese toasties. And another sublime pint of Guinness. “M” is originally from Thailand, and now lives in England. He goes to games with a couple of mutual friends. It was good to chat with a fellow Chelsea fan, and we rambled away about Baku, about the pre-season, about the immediate future.
We caught a cab over to Inchicore at about 12.45pm.
In “McDowell’s Pub” right outside the ground, there were a few familiar Chelsea faces. There was time for one last pint of Guinness before the game and a photo with Cathy, Dog, Nick, James, M and Dave and the famous “Rising Sun” flag. In the beer garden, if you peeked over the wall, the stadium could be seen below. It was all very cramped, the feel of a lower league ground in England. It looked lovely.
It was time to walk around the corner and go to the game. I had purchased a general admission ticket since the blurb on the CFC website mentioned that there was no allocation. Imagine my surprise when I heard of a Chelsea area (rather than an allocation, I guess) behind the far goal. The game kicked-off just before I was able to take position along the side terrace opposite the main stand. The TV cameras were just a few yards above my head. It felt excellent to be able to stand on a genuine terrace at a Chelsea game for the first time in years.
Just as it should be.
There was a mix of supporters all around the stadium. I’d edge the number of supporters in Chelsea’s favour. And I did notice one thing; there were no other team shirts present. Just of the two teams. That felt right. There were Irish Chelsea fans crowded in around me on that thin terrace. There wasn’t much banter, nor noisy support from any section throughout the game, and the Chelsea section to my left never really pulled off many noisy songs.
But it was a very pleasant experience.
I checked our team.
Caballero
Zappacosta – Tomori – Luiz – Emerson
Jorginho
Mount – Kovacic
Barkley
Abraham – Batshuayi
It took me a while to get used to seeing two up front.
Chelsea absolutely dominated the first-period and if it was not for some heroic saves from the St. Pat’s ‘keeper Barry Murphy, we would have been well clear at the break. Obviously it was lovely to see Mason Mount – not an inch of fat on his body – for the first time in Chelsea colours, albeit in the horrendous new kit. I was so close to Davide Zappocosta at times that it felt like I could reach out and tell him how much he still reminds me of Grouch Marx. He is certainly not the most gifted nor admired of players, but Zappa was up and down that right wing as if his life depended on it.
Michy was the first to impress in front of goal, soon forcing a low save from Murphy. Soon after, a thunderous shot from our Belgian striker from outside the box smashed against the home crossbar. On a quarter of an hour, a lovely incisive pass from Mateo Kovacic found the run of Mount and the young midfielder did his best Lampardesque impersonation to flick it past Murphy. We continued to attack and the home team offered little resistance. Shots increased on the goal to my right. Ross Barkley smacked a fine shot against a post with Murphy beaten. On the half-hour mark, Emerson found a little space outside the box and, optimistically, left fly with a low shot. It surprised me that it nestled inside the far corner, and I suspect that the ‘keeper may have been unsighted.
The Chelsea section serenaded “Super Frank” and he waved back. He was the study of concentration all game long.
With us winning 2-0, I was sorely tempted to enquire of the home supporters “are you Arsenal in disguise?” but felt better of it. Their exact copy of the Arsenal kit gave the game an even more surreal feel. There were “oohs and ahs” around me when David Luiz tackled, lifted the ball up over his head, juggled it once then laid it off to a team mate.
It was again the turn of Murphy to take over centre-stage when he made a series of fine saves, including a high leap to deny Michy once more, and another from a Barkley free-kick.
The sun was beating down now and my forehead was starting to tingle.
At the break, Frank and the management team came onto the pitch and watched as some players – those who were down to take part in the second period – went through some drills. As with the game on Wednesday, there were wholesale changes before the game restarted. We lined up as follows.
Cumming.
Alonso – Zouma – Christensen – Azpilicueta
Bakayoko – Gilmour
Kenedy – Palmer – Pedro
Giroud
The second-half was more subdued. With the sun still beating down on me, I was beginning to rue not bringing a baseball cap along. It was great to see Billy Gilmour. What with Happy Gilmour and Happy Zouma on the pitch, it was perhaps time for the Chuckle Brothers to move aside. I was surprised how deep Gilmour often played, but he kept possession well and had a couple of neat runs. The pace of the game dipped, but at times our fitness levels put the home team to shame. There were occasional breaks, and a few shots on goal although that man Murphy was again the star. Pedro looked neat and precise. I thought we might never see Kenedy again at Chelsea, but what with the appearance of Lucas Piazon on Wednesday (Piazon has almost been on as many pre-season tours as me) I guess anything is possible. It was Kenedy’s precise cross out on the left that found a blatantly unmarked Olivier Giroud, who calmly volleyed home to make it 3-0.
Excellent.
It was still a scorcher.
I turned to the bloke behind me and said “who thought I’d come to Dublin for a sun tan?”
The home team made plenty of substitutes as the game wore on. Eric Molloy, who had scored a fine equaliser against us for Bohs on Wednesday, showed up in this game too, a second-half substitute. There was a “wag” standing alongside some fellow St. Pat’s supporters in the front row just down from me. A large man, and full of banter, he played up to his audience. When a rough tackle was carried out by Kurt Zouma, he pleaded “leave him alone, he’s only fourteen” which brought a few smiles, alluding to young Evan Ferguson who played so well against us on Wednesday.
In the closing moments, Giroud chased down a pass, and set off towards goal from a central position. He was forced wide, but aimed at goal from the corner of the box. It was a laser, and crept into the net past the despairing dive of Murphy and into the bottom corner.
St. Patrick’s Athletic 0 Chelsea 4.
Franktastic.
At the end of the game, the crowd cheered our new manager as he walked towards the centre of the pitch and applauded all four sides. It did feel that the whole game, the whole day, was about him. It is understandable, but I am sure that he would agree that it is now all about the players.
Outside, I was so glad to bump into brothers Tim and Declan, who I often see on my travels at Chelsea games. This was their home city. I would have felt bad not seeing them. I met up by chance with M and we agreed to share another cab back to the city. Cabs were a rare commodity, though, and the sun was still beating down. We spotted a pub – Pub Number Six – and popped inside the cool interior for another Guinness apiece. It took a while, but M spotted the “Rising Sun” flag out in the patio area.
Out we went, joining Nick and James, plus two German lads. Both were Chelsea, but one was Chemie Halle and one was TSV1860. The chat continued on. It was pleasing to meet the 1860 supporter since he soon confirmed that he was one of the 1860 fans who followed us around Europe in our 1994/95 ECWC campaign.
Respect.
So, there was no Croke Park visit on that Saturday night. However, I did watch twenty minutes of second-half action in the hotel bar at around 8pm. There was a sparse crowd present. I think that I had made the correct choice. Later, at various locations in the city centre, I would frequent Pub Seven, Pub Eight and Pub Nine. Dublin had done me proud. It really was a friendly city for this friendly game.
I have a feeling that Reading, the venue for my next match, will not be so perfect.
CHELSEA/esque 