Tales From N17

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 21 March 2009.

In many ways a lovely day out – great weather, great friends, a close game – but also an awful day out.

I left my Somerset village at just after 9am. The clusters of snowdrops in the hedgerows have now given way to thousands of daffodils in my village. It’s a picture. The weather was beautiful on the drive up to London. This was the first Chelsea game in my new car ( Vauxhall Corsa, black, wheel in each corner ) and I was just loving the drive. I had bought a Juve air freshener in Turin and I now have a Juve and Chelsea one on display. It just looks right. My head has been full of the CL draw, full of our plans to get tickets for the FA Cup semi final and full of plans for the summer tour. I am trying to talk Judy into coming with me. Judy likes the buzz of Chelsea – however, she doesn’t know there’ll be a baseball game thrown in for good measure. I will try and convince her that she’s a lucky girl! Watch this space.

I realised that there was a rugby game at Twickers and so again came in via the M25 and M4. Caught a tube from West Brompton and the warm weather surprised me. I eventually reached Liverpool Street and was soon outside The White Hart with Alan, Gary and Whitey. There are three pre-match boozers at Liverpool Street and the White Lion seemed the less busy. There was a mix of Spurs and Chelsea at The Railway Tavern, but there was a big mob of Chelsea at the Hamilton Hall. We spotted Rosey Cheeks and his colleagues keeping an eye on us all.

I only had time for a small coke before we caught the over ground train to Northumberland Park, just a few minutes to the east of Tottenham’s ground.

Ah, Tottenham…our biggest London rivals. Some would say our only rivals. While Spurs seem to reserve their most bitter rivalry for their North London rivals Arsenal, Chelsea certainly do not get on with Spurs. People tell me that this rivalry became intense after the 1967 FA Cup Final, but I just about remember the League Cup battles of 1972 and of course the relegation battle at Tottenham in April 1975. We lost that day and the Second Division beckoned…maybe oblivion. Two other games stick out…the 1-3 loss at The Bridge in November 1978 when the fighting was intense off the pitch, the football even worse on it. Then the 1982 FA Cup loss really hurt.

However, since then, we haven’t done too badly eh? Let’s never forget that massive long unbeaten league run against them. As if we could ever forget that.

What’s my take on this Chelsea / Spurs rivalry? Until the last ten years, I always perceived Arsenal to be the biggest club in London, but also the most staid and boring, with a predominantly middle-class support. Chelsea and Tottenham, though – at least in my childhood – seemed to be eerily similar…good in cups rather than the league, a mix of hard-nosed working class support but also the “glamorous” angle too with celebrity fans of both clubs. The hooliganism always seemed to be prevalent at Chelsea vs. Spurs games. There has always been that “edge.” I always used to revel in the perceived view that Spurs fans were very fickle back when I was younger. Not like us – not like Chelsea. No cups but rock-solid support! To be honest, I am fascinated by these subtle differences between sets of fans.

Strangely, when I was cutting my teeth as a football fan in around 1971, I used to favour certain players of other teams and specifically I used to like Clyde Best of West Ham, Steve Highway of Liverpool and – rather worryingly – Alan Gilzean and Pat Jennings of Tottenham. I’m sure other fans were the same. How many football fans could have resisted Peter Osgood and Charlie Cooke? Going way back to that era, I used to have a little “football book” of my own in which I used to write down team line-ups from the TV games. I also memorably remember writing Chelsea and Tottenham results over a two month period and hoping that Chelsea would fare better than the lilywhites, as they were known.

So – Chelsea and Tottenham. It goes deep.

We arrived at White Hart Lane just after 2pm. Al and Gary bought some chips and we sauntered towards the away end on Park Lane. We soon saw that something was up – the police had blocked the road as an unattended van was parked on the road. There were obviously concerns that this could be a bomb threat. I wondered that if it went off, it would cause £10 worth of damage. The area around Spurs’ ground is far from salubrious. Both sets of fans stood together, though the Chelsea fans tended not to wear colours. However, we were allowed in at 2.45pm with the news that the game would start at 3.30pm.

We had good seats in the upper tier. Noted a lot of familiar faces, including Gerry Kelly, who Cathy has spoken about. Before we had a chance to get into our game, news came through that Scholes had been sent-off at Fulham and Fulham were 1-0 up. The perfect start, eh?

This was only my ninth ever visit to Tottenham. I have been put off from going throughout “the run” in case I jinxed it. The last time I came away from Tottenham tasting defeat was in August 1987 when about 8,000 Chelsea invaded Tottenham hoping to see us stay at the top of the league. In truth, Chelsea had only ever lost once in the league in those 22 years, that narrow 1-2 loss a few years back.

As Gary said during the game, he can’t remember us ever playing so poorly at Tottenham. Modric bossed the midfield in the first-half and Spurs had the best chances, despite a promising start from us. I was surprised that the Spurs support was so quiet – it has been louder in days past. Maybe their recent couple of triumphs over us has extinguished that fire.

“We won 6-1, we won 6-1, we won 6-1 at The Lane, we won 6-1, we won 6-1, we won 6-1 at The Lane.”

We’ll always have that!

Yes, we were really poor in the first half. The formation was again quoted as 4-3-3, but I thought that Anelka and Drogba played quite close in the first twenty minutes. In that spell, it resembled a 4-4-2. Essien played well, but the rest of the midfield went missing.

It was a steak through the heart when Modric drilled home on fifty minutes. At last the home support showed some life. I was confident that we would push on throughout the remainder. Alas, we only really sprang to life late on. We couldn’t fathom how Ballack stayed on throughout the substitutions – yet another awful 90 minutes from the Number 13. We presumed that Essien just hit a wall and had to be replaced. To be fair, Quaresma and then Malouda ( of all people ) did OK in that last period. We pushed on and had a few half-chances. News of a second Fulham goal made things worse, not better.

Yet again, Frank’s set plays were terrible. Can somebody else please take them? No variance in his corners…always lofted so slowly with back spin. Whip it in man!

The game was on a knife edge, but thankfully Spurs did not score a second. That Gomes save from JT and the Alex header onto the bar just made it all the more frustrating. I was getting wound up, shouting my annoyance, yelling my support, getting more irate by the minute.

It wasn’t to be. The Spurs support roared and I felt sick.

I thought it was going to kick-off outside when I saw a Spurs fan in his ‘forties with brushed back hair eyeballing Whitey and me…

We slouched back to White Hart Lane station – Northumberland Park was off limits – and we quietly boarded a train into London. A day of lost opportunities, no mistake. I chatted for a few minutes with Mark, a mate I have known since that 1983-84 season. We talked about a couple of friends who no longer go and had an impromptu post-mortem on the state of the team and the club. Neither of us could fathom how Ballack and Malouda are favoured by every management team we have. Simply baffling. It was good to chat with Mark – with a smile at our predicament, it was a perfect Chelsea way of dealing with our under-achievement.

I said my goodbyes to the boys and headed west on the central line. I resurfaced at Earls Court and walked past a boozer just as Ireland’s dropped goal won them the Six Nations. I couldn’t care less to be honest.

I called in for a meal at Salvo’s. He was pleased to see me. He had been watching the Chelsea game on Italian TV with three Chelsea fans, then the rugby…he was rather merry, to say the least. A couple of Peronis, some sardines and a pizza later and I was in a better state of mind. I was even able to watch the first-half of the Roma vs. Juve game.

A day completely devoted to football.

What else are you going to do on a Saturday?

Tales From A Sunny HQ

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs Manchester City : 15 March 2009.

Liverpool’s surprising win at Old Trafford set things up nicely for our game against Manchester City.

Four of us – Glenn, PD, Dave and myself – set off for London at 9am. It looked like it would be a very pleasant day. I wore my new sky blue Robe di Kappa pullover, purchased at Turin airport, and I was reminded that Glenn wore a sky blue top for the game at Eastlands in the September sun. Maybe this would turn out to be a good luck charm.

Unfortunately, things took a worrying turn at my place of work on the Friday after my return from Turin. I aired a few thoughts with Glenn on the drive up to The Smoke. Let’s hope that my job is safe for the foreseeable future…at least as far as Rome in May and then America and Canada in July. Maybe I will have to cut back on games next season – I certainly can’t see myself keeping this pace up for much longer. There was an England rugby game at Twickers, so we came in around the M25. I was reminded of a day about ten years ago when we stopped at Fleet Services and I asked some rubgy fans “is there a game on?” just to wind them up.

They bristled with indignation – “Yes. England are playing.”

“Oh, right.”

Ho ho ho. I am not fond of rugby fans as a lot look down their noses at us.

This was to be Farmer John’s ( mgoblue06 ) last game of his stay in England. He wanted to make a special day of it and so I ‘phoned Salvo to see if he could open his restaurant early. We made good time and were able to pop into the Lillie Langtry at about 11am for a livener en route to Salvo’s. We arrived dead on 11.30am. There was seven of us in total – Farmer John, his two Dutch college mates ( Matt, Arnhem and Nils, Groningen ), Glenn, Dave, myself and Larry ( New Jersey, one of the New York Blues ) who was watching his second ever game at HQ. I handed out some photos from my trip to Turin as we ordered some Peronis. Parky was running late and didn’t make it unfortunately.

As the pizzas were ordered ( for me – I made a nod towards my usual pre-match breakfast by ordering a four seasons with an egg in the middle ) I made a toast once again.

“Friendship and Football.”

The green beer bottles clinked against each other.

The pizzas went down well. Larry told a nice story – he was at Newark airport on Thursday and noted a chap talking in a strong Eastern European accent. It turns out this bloke was Eugene Tenebaum’s best mate and Larry had a good chat with him. Small world.

We then raced over to The Goose for two more pints – how I hate these early kick-offs with no time for much of a pre-match. Everything was so rushed. My lot were in the beer garden and we were soon settled though. Dave and Lovejoy had spares which we managed to palm off to two more of Farmer John’s mates. I handed around my photos ( a third of the 275 I took in Turin! ) for Andy and Alan to look at. Al dropped them all and I had to refrain myself from having a “Rainman” moment.

“Oh no.”

I’m a bit obsessive about my photos!

We heard about the two Chelsea lads who were so pointlessly attacked in Turin. One only received surface wounds and was able to see the game. The other was more seriously hurt and our thoughts go out to him. One wonders why this never got any media attention. The pre-meditated attack by some Roma ultras on an Arsenal bus was reported though. As much as I love Italy, some of their fans are cowards. They always have to resort to blades.

The weather was great throughout the game. I arrived a couple of minutes late and so missed the offside goal from Frank. To be honest, I almost missed Essien’s goal. I saw Frank over the ball, looked up at the away fans, then saw the ball flying towards the goal from the “D.” I couldn’t work it out, but who cares? Essien really impressed me so much throughout the first half. He has so much energy and drive. How we missed him. We gave Wayne Bridge a magnificent reception and he clapped us on more than one occasion. He will always be loved by us at HQ. we passed the ball around well I thought, but City were awful…Robinhio especially. Just a bit annoying that we didn’t score more. I noted a lovely “one-two” between Frank and Essien, something that Ballack would never be able to do.

I had to laugh when Malouda came on. Our mate Tom, a spritely 72 year old, said “Ah – the Malouda Triangle…he goes missing.”

The only other high spot, apart from a Belletti shot which hit the post, was a defensive clearance which resulted in the match ball ending up a few feet from me. Glenn got hold of it in his two hands and threw it down to Frank Lampard. I was praying that a goal would result – Glenn would claim that assist for the rest of his life.

So, despite Liverpool winning 4-1 at Manchester United, they are still looking at our arse.

I said my goodbyes to Farmer John outside The Goose. He has certainly packed a lot in to his ten weeks in the UK – he has visited Dublin and Paris and will be off to see Rome, Florence and the French Alps on a skiing trip…but I am sure he will admit that the highlights were his five Chelsea games.

See you in Montreal, John.

Tales From The Game Of My Life

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Juventus vs. Chelsea : 10 March 2009.

“Tales From The Game Of My Life” – what else could I call this?

This was just a brilliant trip to the Piedmont city of Turin. As I sit here with enough memories to last a lifetime, my only concern is getting this report finished before I have to leave to go to the next game.

Let’s get started.

On Sunday afternoon, I re-watched “The Italian Job” ( set in Torino, 1969 ) to get my juices flowing. It was the perfect appetiser.

I left home at 1.30am on Monday morning and made great time heading up to Stansted airport to the north of London. I had only flown from this airport once before – my first ever Chelsea euro away to Viktoria Zizkov in September 1994. On that trip I bumped into Andy and Neil – two Chelsea lads from Nuneaton. I actually began chatting to them on Wenceslas Square in Prague. As fate had it, I had learned that Andy and Neil, plus Jonesy and Jocka, were to be on this flight too. We bumped into each other at the departure gate. Handshakes all round.

Our Ryanair flight to Torino left at 7am. I had already been awake since 12.45am, so tried to nab a little sleep on the plane. As luck would have it, Torino was featured in the in-flight magazine and it highlighted a couple of places I would later visit. Ex-Tottenham manager David Pleat was sat a couple of rows behind. I wondered if he would be visiting Torino’s pavement society. Maybe that would be shrouded in mystery.

Due to high winds, we circled over the hills to the east of the city for about thirty minutes before the pilot getting the nod to land. We caught a few glimpses of the city on a pristine clear morning. We descended and flew over the city from the south and I was able to point out the Lingotto factory featured in “The Italian Job.” We landed at 9.15am and caught a slow moving bus into the city centre. I spotted the roof supports of the Delle Alpi to the west, nestling beneath the stunning snow-capped mountains. To my east, the Superga basilica, high atop a hill, welcomed me to the city once again, like a beacon.

The bus stopped outside the Porta Nuova train station, where I had arrived in Torino for the very first time in 1987. We stayed about 90 minutes in a tiny, cramped bar, drinking a variety of beers, the owner feeding us nuts and crisps. My – it was great to be back. I texted my friend Tullio to say I had arrived. I had collected two tickets at HQ on behalf of Joe from Chicago and he arrived at about 1.30pm so I could hand over the tickets. He looked very happy. Andy and his mates were staying several miles south, but we had time for one more beer in a quiet bar, before we went our separate ways. In those two bars, we spoke about the team, our football this season, our players, our hopes, our concerns…there wasn’t a stone left unturned…a real, intense session, which is quite unlike us really. Towards the end, we chatted about various bands – of our youth – and as I left them at about 3pm on Via Sacchi, Andy bellowed out a Slade song at me.

I walked east over the Po river and located the youth hostel where I was staying for the first two nights. I had stayed there in 1989 for the Juve vs. Fiorentina game, plus one night in 1990 too. I booked in and decided to sleep for an hour. All my mates are experienced euro travellers and we often cat-nap for an hour before hitting the town. I awoke and showered, quite refreshed. I got changed and re-traced my steps into the city. Unfortunately, Andy’s lot had overslept and then took a tram to the wrong station.

“Porco Dio.”

While I waited for them to arrive, I scouted out a good pizzeria and decided to head into the foyer of Hotel Roma on Piazza Carlo Felice. Who should be in there but Dutch Mick plus Paul and Trizia. I had a beer and then my mates arrived. We made a beeline for the restaurant on Via Lagrange. I ordered a pizza with gorgonzola and onions, plus beers and more talk about Chelsea and music. Towards the end of the meal, we noticed a gaggle of Italian men get up from their table, quite agitated ( one looked like Bruce Buck )…we realised that they had spotted Momo Sissoko, sitting quietly with his wife and little daughter. This wasn’t a posh place – my pizza was eight euros – so we were gobsmacked. He had hurt his leg in the Toro vs. Juve game ( il derby delle Mole ) on Sunday, so wouldn’t be playing. Jonesy took a photo of him with me. I said to him “sono tifo de Chelsea.” He smiled and was pleasant and affable. We were drinking some Birra Moretti – who knows the significance of this in the story of Chelsea and Juventus?

At about 11pm, we slowly walked up to the cobble-stoned Piazza San Carlo, Turin’s “Drawing Room, and this is the epicentre of the city…a few neon adverts in one corner, a massive screen in another. The boys weren’t taking much interest in my tour guide comments and wanted some beer. We headed into a very nice pub called “Jumping Jesters” – thankfully devoid of Chelsea. Nice to just be with some locals. The beers were on offer for two for five euros. Bargain. Neil and Jocka were drinking Guinness but didn’t fancy using the “whole in the ground” toilets. It was like a game of human kerplunk! They lasted, despite several pints of the heavy brew, until they got back to their hotel. I texted Cathy, who I knew was arriving late. After a few texts, Cathy and Dog arrived and joined us for a few late night beers. Cathy was full of gorgeous tales from the past, too many to mention.

It felt great – top level Chelsea chat in a foreign city with some Chelsea legends.

We were kicked out at 3am. I dropped into a bar called the “Texas Ranger” on a slow walk back to the hostel. One for the road. Lo and behold, who should be in there but two blokes who were sat in front of me at Coventry, one of whom – Digger – was at Beth’s 50th birthday bash. They were bollocksed. I soon departed. As I crossed over the Po, I phoned Beth and had a boozy chat!

I retired to bed at 4am. I hope I didn’t wake anyone up.

Set the alarm for 9.45am. Game Day! A shower. Thankfully no hangover. Bonus!

I dropped into a café, a familiar haunt from past trips. “Un cappocino, per favore.” How perfect these little cafes are – lots of polished wood, frothing cappocino machines, baskets of Panini and brioche. I was falling in love with the city once again. Alan, Gary, Walnuts and Whitey were coming in from Milano – where they had enjoyed a San Siro tour – and were due in at 11am. I had arranged to meet up with them in their hotel and so hobbled along Corso Vittorio Emanuelle but took a cab from Porta Nuova.

My mate Rob was staying at their hotel too and by 11.30am we had all met up. Handshakes and hugs all round – a special welcome to my mate Walnuts who, like me, has been a Juve fan for many years. The weather was phenomenal – clear skies, the Alps never looking clearer. Rob lead us from the hotel near Porta Sousa through the middle of Torino. We reached Piazza San Carlo, bumped into Chicago Joe and Michelle, saw a few Chelsea dotted about.

Our one aim for the day was to visit the Superga basilica and we caught a tram from Piazza Vittorio Veneto ( the largest square in Europe with no statue, it was hosting the annual Chocolate Festival – the aroma was amazing! ). We reached Sassi, but the funicular railway was shut on Tuesdays. While we waited to catch a bus to the top of the hill, I chatted to a Stone Island wearing Chelsea fan from Halle in the former Eastern Germany. He goes to about 25 games a year – respect!

We spent around 90 minutes high atop the Superga hill. Everyone seemed to appreciate the views, if not the long time it took to reach the summit. We were soon at the site of the Superga air crash which wiped out the 1949 Torino team. The understated memorial, with the script written in Torino burgundy ( or granata / pomegranate to be more precise ), was laden with Torino scarves and wreaths lead close by. I wished I had brought a CFC scarf to lie alongside the other tributes. The air was solemn with respect.

From there, we spent a few minutes taking in the magnificent panorama of Torino below us. The Alps appeared to float above the city. It was a truly wonderful moment. Torino’s grid streets were visible as were a few landmarks including Il Mole Antoniella ( once the tallest building in the world, for which the the Juve vs. Toro derby is named ), Stadio Delle Alpi to the north, Stadio Communale to the south.

My love for Italy is a real story running through my life and it was a joy to be back at Superga. I last visited it in May 1992 and I vividly remember not wanting to leave the summit, a long drive home through France ahead of me. I have that trip on film and there is a real look of sadness on my face as I look out at the city. Seventeen years on, I still didn’t want to leave.

One song was rattling around my head throughout this trip, one by Everything But The Girl, which came out in April 1988, just after I had returned from a month in Italy and it summed up my dilemma at the time. After I had left college, on three occasions I sold football badges outside stadia in Italy. For a while, I contemplated another life, based in Torino, selling badges for a living, but England – or Chelsea – was in my head.

“So here we are in Italy
With a sun hat and a dictionary.
The air is warm, the sky is bright
Your arms are brown, you’re sleeping well at night.
But England calls.”

And so it continues – in moments of quiet contemplation, I often wonder what would have happened if I had decided to live in Italy. Well, I wouldn’t be up to 700 Chelsea games, that’s a fact.

I returned back to the hostel, showered, changed into my game wear, recharged my camera batteries, picked up my ticket and headed out into the clear evening air.

This is it Chris.

As I crossed the Po once again – let’s freeze that moment in time – I realised what a lucky man I was.

“The meet” was going to be at “The Huntsman” near the station, but I heard singing from outside “Café Lumiere.” All of the World and her Dog was there…Rob, Alan, Walnuts, Gary and Whitey had just arrived. I popped in to get a 5 euro beer and noted loads of Chelsea faces, all old school, battle-worn veterans, the old school on tour…I had to laugh when I saw Rosey Cheeks chatting to an ex-Headhunter as if they were the best of friends. Dutch Mick was there. Up Norf Malcolm. Rousey. Stan and Mo. Cathy was throwing crostini at me. The bar had laid on free nibbles. The bouncy was going on in the bar.

By some strange coincidence, the date of the game was the twenty-fifth anniversary of a pivotal game in Chelsea’s 1983-84 promotion campaign, but also a pivotal moment in my life. My good friend Glenn and myself travelled up on the Chelsea special for the away game against Newcastle United on March 10th. 1984. Despite a few away games in Bristol, this was my first “proper” Chelsea away game. My parents drove us up to London – they disappeared off to the Ideal Home Exhibition for the day – and we caught the train from Kings Cross at 9am. This was to be a phenomenal away game – Glenn and myself had been looking forward to it for ages. I always remember walking through the centre of Newcastle en masse, feeling part of something, part of something bigger than I had ever witnessed. Police cars were jammed up against pubs to stop locals getting at us. What a feeling.

Memories of the game? We went ahead through David Speedie and the 5,000 Chelsea went berserk. I was quite near the front and climbed the fence, gesturing my elation towards the home fans, but was pulled down by a fat Geordie copper who pushed me against the fence. I was a bit shaken, but OK. Newcastle equalised through McDermott and the Geordie fans erupted. Never have 36,000 fans made more noise. Another clear memory was of about 100 Chelsea casuals perched on top of that fence, a row of beige Pringle pullovers, yellow, blue and white Tacchini tracksuit tops and many Nike Wimbledon trainers. Wedge haircuts. Attitude. Just brilliant.

The train was bricked on the way out of Newcastle and it broke down at York. However, on the journey south, a very important event took place. I was dozing and Glenn went off to the buffet. He came back, bouncing, and said he had met some Chelsea fans from Brighton.

Fast forward – the next home game against Fulham and these lads were sat in front of us on the benches. Their names? Alan and Paul ( aka Walnuts ). We have been friends ever since. I told this story to Alan and Walnuts and they remembered meeting Glenn and couldn’t believe it was twenty-five years ago.

Just like in 1984, March 10th 2009 threw up another Black And White away game.

I was buzzing. Tullio was on his way and I was so excited.

As he approached, I shook his hand and then we embraced. I turned, opened my arms towards the scene behind me, and said “Welcome To My World.” Tullio was able to meet – and personally thank – Cathy for getting him his ticket. It was in the expensive seats and he was overjoyed. He met Alan and the boys, but it was soon time to make our way to the stadium. We all made our separate ways. Tullio and myself avoided the “Chelsea Coaches” and caught a bus and a tram to the stadium. As luck would have it, Tullio bumped into his Juve mate Mimo, who had been at the game at The Bridge. That was Mimo’s first euro away game since the sadness of Heysel in 1985. Mimo was a typical Juve fan – he came from the South and it was a pleasure to meet him.

At 8pm, we arrived at the ground and we took some team photos. “Ciao” to Tullio and Mimo. I didn’t go straight in, but wanted to savour every last minute of all of this. I headed for the road adjacent to the home end – the old Curva Filadelfia – where I had first sold badges at the Juve vs. Panathinaikos game in November 1987. I bought a scarf. I could hear the Juve tifosi singing inside the ground and I fought away some tears of happiness. Get a grip, man.

A little mob of Drughi were still outside…I edged past them. I noted what appeared to be a pool of blood on the road – there had been a couple of ambulances leaving the scene as I arrived. We later learned two Chelsea had been stabbed. I was blending in though, no colours.

“Axon!”

I turned around and Jocka, Andy, Neil and Jonesy were behind me. They had seen the blood too. Time to get in. No body searches at the gate – I was in at 8.30pm.

The scene which greeted me was spectacular. I filmed my entrance to the Chelsea section on my phone and soon decided to position myself atop some steps at the front of the middle tier. After a few moments, I realised Les from Melksham was near and he came down to stand next to me all of the game. Right down below me, Chicago Joe and Michelle. Cathy and Dog came in and watched right from the front. Chelsea fans brought in a Lazio and a Toro flag to wind up the locals. The fans in the Curva Nord to my right had been issued with Italian flags. At the other end, I noticed two massive sections of green and red shiny mosaics. As the CL anthem played, the tifosi in the home end, got to work, unfurling three massive banners which said “YES WE CAN.” However, much to my amusement, the last flag got caught up and so was never fully exposed. Felt like singing “No You Can’t.” As it turned out, this failed unfurling proved to be a metaphor for the night.

At 8.45pm, The Game Of My Life began – Juventus vs. Chelsea. Just seeing those two words together makes me go all goose-pimply. After a few minutes, Andy and Smithy arrived behind me…bizarrely, Smithy got in without having to show a ticket. This was great as I saw him in Rome but he had been delayed and so missed the game. Poetic justice! To be honest, I thought we were pretty poor in the first period. That opening goal from Iaquinta was on the cards and our World crumpled. Don’t do this to me! My worst fears were starting to come to life. Juve moved the ball around well but we defended OK. We just couldn’t seem to create anything, though. I remember one wild shot from Ballack, who was particularly poor.

The first-half ended in a blur of confusion and then elation. Please excuse my memory, but I may have got these moments all a bit messed-up. With the seconds ticking away, that Drogba free-kick ( ? ) looked to be saved by Buffon, but then a roar, a Chelsea player near the goal with arms raised and we went wild. Much celebration, but then – wait – we saw that the game was continuing. What happened? Dunno. What seemed like a minute after, a scramble in the Juve goal – did it come back off the bar? – and Essien poked it home, but I wasn’t sure it was in.

It was. GET IN. From my viewpoint at the front of the middle tier, I watched as the Chelsea fans in the lower deck ( the more “wild” of the 1,700 ) go amok, running towards the Juve fans to my right…or rather the plexiglass screen. Much singing, shouting, arms pointing. The Juve fans responded with a bizarre mixture of arm signals.

Juve now had to score three to go through. My evening was now looking good, very good in fact. We played better in the second-half, with Frank very busy. Chiellini was sent off half-way into the second period but then Juve seemed to dominate. We were all impressed with the substitute Giovinco. A Belletti handball presented Del Piero with a penalty which he coolly slotted away.

It was now “Game On.” The Juventus fans to my right were at it again. One fan in particular – a man in his late fifties, very much like Claudio Ranieri – was very graphic. In one memorable moment he seemed to suggest that, with a tremendous show of agility with his tongue, that we were all fans of oral sex.

Mate – who isn’t?

The game continued on a knife edge. However, throughout the game, I did find it hard to concentrate on the action. On many occasions, I found myself drifting back to my four previous visits to the stadium between 1987 and 1989. The stadium was 80% all standing in those days and even lie unused from 1990 to 2006. I continually read all of the black and white Juve banners which adorned every inch of balcony space. I found it hard. It was too incredible for words.

Late on, a fine move down in front of me and Juliano found Drogba with an inch perfect pass. Seeing the net bulge was a pure moment of joy. I was filled up, but remained calm enough to take about ten shots of the resultant celebration. The scream, the leap, the players joining in…the Chelsea fans down below me going crazy, climbing the fence, so reminiscent of that game in 1984.

We were in full voice.

“We Are Chelsea In Turin.”

“We Hate Tottenham In Turin.”

“We Are Bouncy In Turin.”

I’m afraid one moment was not met with my approval. A 50 year old old-school Chelsea “face” mimicked the fans getting crushed at Heysel to the viewing Juve fans. To all those that glory in our shared hooligan history, a wake up call. This was not clever.

At the final whistle – relief and euphoria. We were now in great voice. The players came over and we serenaded them. Joe was loving it down below me. We gave Tiago a brilliant reception and he looked visibly moved. He was the last off the pitch. I met up with Alan, Walnuts, Rob, Gary and Whitey just as Dave Johnstone was getting some stick as he tried to sell his fanzine.

“It’s A Euro In Turin.”

“Hurry Up In Turin.”

So – into the last eight and out into the Turin night. We caught buses back to the city centre. Skinhead John was on our bus and was wearing a Torino shirt. He demanded that I help tie up a Toro flag to taunt the Juve fans. He’s quite a formidable character – I wasn’t going to argue. Thankfully the police got it taken down. I was right next to the flag – didn’t fancy getting stoned on the way back to the centre.

A few groups of Toro fans applauded us as we flew through the streets, police car lights flashing.

We regrouped at the same restaurant – a Sicilia pizza with anchovies this time – and were joined by Fiona and Ronnie ( Scooby Doo at the Coventry game ). No Sissoko, but the same gaggle of Italians ( including Bruce Buck! ) were there. We shook their hands as they left. Nice times. We again stayed at the “Jumping Jesters” until 3am…nice and easy, though, nothing mad.

Back to the hostel at 4am again. Phew.

The last day was another perfect one. I breakfasted at my little café on Corso Fiume again, this time with a copy of the pink “La Gazzetta Dello Sport” and tried my best to evaluate the Italian synopsis of the game. I walked over to Piazza Vetorio Veneto and waited for the boys to arrive. I had a gorgeous piece of chocolate cake from one of the stalls of the Chocolate Festival. The boys arrived at about 11.30am and a coffee. Gary, Walnuts, Alan and Whitey soon left for Milano, but I stayed with Rob for the rest of the day.

More blue skies. We sat at the café for three hours, more coffee, a coke, some gnocchi. It was heaven. Ronnie and Fiona joined us, but Rob and myself had one last bit of sightseeing to do.

We visited Il Mole Antoniella and this was a great way to view the city. A lift rushed us up within the shell of the building and we were soon overlooking the red roofs and grid-like streets of the city. Just spectacular.

We then walked – or rather hobbled in my case, my football injury was getting worse – back to the hotel. I stopped off to get some stuff from the Juve shop on Via Garibaldi. Rob was taking a late flight that night, so I wished him well.

“See you Sunday.”

There was one more treat in store for me. Tullio picked me up from the hotel at 6pm and I was soon in his new apartment, to the south near Moncalieri. I met his wife Emanuela again, but also his daughters Sophia and Lucrezia for the first time. Sophia presented me with a Juve scarf. We had a few appetisers as the sun set behind the Alps. Magnificent.

We dropped in to see Tullio’s parents for a few moments – I was just so very pleased to be able to see them again and we spoke of the old times in Diano Marina. More appetisers. Tullio spoke of his grandfather’s love for Juve. He apparently saw Juve’s first ever game at Campo d’Armi, a stadium just to the north of Stadio Olimpico.

Tullio and myself then searched for a place to park before going into a lovely Piedmontese restaurant for a great meal. Talk about work, our families, our plans to meet again. The meal was rounded off with a perfect chocolate pudding.

When in Torino.

Tullio remembers me saying to him in around 1988 that it would be my dream to one day see Chelsea play Juventus. Deep down I knew this was never going to happen. What did I know, eh?

We bade our farewells to each other back at the hotel. We hugged. My last words to Tullio were –

“I’ve seen your team play many times before, for you to eventually see my team play means the World to me.”

“CIAO CIAO.”

After a peaceful night’s sleep at a hotel near Porta Sousa, I awoke early and was soon knocking back some coffee at around 6.45am in the hotel breakfast bar. The hotel radio jumped to life with a song which was coming to its end and it just made me smile. It was Louis Armstrong and “What A Wonderful World.”

Perfetto.

As I walked out to catch the airport bus at about 7am, I just wanted to put my arms around the city one last time. The Alps still looked stunning to the west and there was Superga, to the east, ready to welcome me back next time.

Tales From A Walk In The Park

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Coventry City vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2009.

Coventry.

What can you say about it? Apart from featuring in the opening line of “Football Factory” ( the book, not the film…), what is there to say?

A rather nondescript Midlands town, tagged onto the eastern side of Birmingham, badly bombed during the war, formerly the home to a sizeable automotive industry and formerly the home to a top flight footy team. I only visited Highfield Road about four times with Chelsea…City now play in a purpose-built stadium a few miles north of their former home.

I was pretty happy they defeated Blackburn in the last round as this meant a less-strenuous trip than another awayday in the North-West…it also meant a new ground for me.

I collected Lord Parky from Parky Towers at 8.45am and was soon heading up the old Roman Road of the Fosseway. I last drove along here en route to Hull in November and it’s a great road. Through some familiar towns, the chat never stopping – we spoke about alsorts, but never mentioned the game once.

Chelsea had 5,200 tickets for this game and they went like gold dust. Daryl, Ed, Alan and Gary were driving up from London. The time flew past and we were parked up in an “official park and walk” car-park at just after 11am. What with Parky on crutches and myself limping from my football injury, we looked a right couple of crocks. We decided to head straight into the stadium and get a couple of beers.I made the mistake of paying over-the-odds for a Wimpy burger with cheese…the picture above the counter gave the impression of a mouth-watering treat. The reality was far from it. There was a square inch of lettuce on the burger. Still, more fool me for buying it in the first place.

Into the bowl of the stadium and first impressions were favourable…a nice, clean stadium, spoiled only by the horrible beige paint used in and around the “corporate deck” of the main stand. Why not sky blue? The much maligned Jimmy Hill – player, chairman and TV presenter – put Coventry City on the map in the ‘sixties and made a great deal of the Sky Blue theme running through the club. Why the paintwork did not match the team’s colours seemed strange.

The atmosphere was OK, with 90% of the home support coming from “The Kids In The Corner Bit” to my right. They made a fair din to be fair, but our support more than matched them. Only in the second-half, with their spirits waning did “TKITCB” relent and turn their attentions to making aeroplanes out of the hundreds of sky-blue cards given out at the start of the game.

I had a good seat, right behind the goal.

What a lovely finish from Drogba to give us a 1-0 lead…a trademark goal from him. From there, we didn’t really look back and I never felt troubled. Coventry had a nice shape, but never really bothered us.

The addition of Quaresma added a bit more sparkle to our play and he capped a nice contribution with the pin-point cross which allowed Alex to thunder home.

Braziliant.

On the drive home, I tried my hardest to get the Quaresma name into a Que Sera Sera chant, but failed miserably – something to work on I guess.

Parky and myself listened to the opening exchanges of the Fulham vs. United game on our drive south…no surprises how that ended-up.

Home at just after 6pm, a nice early finish – and Chelsea into the FA Cup Semi-Finals.

I commented to Parky that when we reached the semis for the first time in my memory in 1994, it warranted a pitch invasion and wild hysteria…this was on the day that “The Blue Flag” first appeared at HQ. In 2009, on the final whistle at the Ricoh, I applauded briefly but hardly even smiled. That’s a shame – I should cherish these moments, but it just goes to show how far we have come as a club.

Juventus next!

Tales From The Rear Of The Milton End

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Portsmouth vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2009.

This game almost snuck under the radar.

My head has been full-to-bursting with all of this Juventus / Chelsea stuff going on and we all have the excitement of a first-ever visit to Coventry’s new stadium for the FA Cup game at the weekend. Of course, I visited Fratton Park back in September for the League Cup game – another midweek fixture. With all of these things together, Portsmouth away didn’t really fill me with much joie de vivre, so to speak.

As I set off from work at 4pm, with a black cloud on the horizon, my lack of enthusiasm hit me and I found it quite shocking to be honest. This game definitely had a “heads down, just show up, get in, get out” feel to it. I am usually excited by away games, but as I headed east along the M4 with the rain increasing, the drive to Pompey just seemed to be too much of a tiresome task. The weather was rotten the entire trip. I headed south at Newbury on the A34 and passed through undulating countryside, silver birch trees each side of me. Throughout the trip, and especially near Southampton, gorse bushes seemed to be everywhere. I was playing Morrissey’s new album on the CD player and I had a feeling that this would be the trip that would stick in my mind every time I’d hear the album in the future. Funny how that happens…”Eden” by Everything But the Girl takes me back to travelling through France in 1985, “Treasure” by the Cocteau Twins reminds me of a walk back to South Kensington tube after a game at Chelsea in December 1984 ( see my avatar! ) and there are many other examples of me tieing in albums with places. “Years of Refusal” will remind me of thunderous skies on the way to Pompey I am sure.

I had chatted to Cathy and Lovejoy, while at work, who both had spares for the game. I had tried to entice Farmer John ( mgoblue06 ) along but he had just got back from France, where he had been throwing his arms around Paris…he couldn’t make it, unfortunately.

I was feeling pretty tired as I drove the last twenty miles from Southampton to Portsmouth. I had forgotten to take some coffee, the car heaters were on full tilt to keep the windscreen clear and the rain was teeming down outside. I was feeling tired and weary. My mate Daryl had been visiting his daughter, who is a fresher at Portsmouth University, but was already in “The Good Companion” at 6pm. Daryl used to run a New York Yankees fanzine and it was a full year after our first correspondence that we realised we were both Chelsea fans. I turned off on the approach to Pompey but was then stuck in very slow-moving traffic. As I mentioned in my September match report, Portsmouth flows into Southsea on Portsea Island and the traffic was horrendous. I drove past a large pub to my left – the first one in the city – and who should be out on the porch, phone in hand, but Lovejoy. It was as if he was welcoming us all to the city

Ever the gentleman, Daryl sent me a text –

“Text me when you are 2 mins away, will get you a beer.”

I replied –

“I’m 10 away, can you get me 5?”

I found somewhere to park along a side road and made my entrance in the boozer at 6.30pm, some 100 miles from my Chippenham departure point. It’s a good pub and the clientele was half and half. Gulped down a pint of Becks Vier. Soon spotted Chopper from NYC but he went off to chat to Cathy and Dog, plus Jim and Jane, who I vaguely know from Chicago 2006. Tim from Bristol, with his daughter Georgie, soon arrived…funny, Tim had been working a mile away from me in Chippenham all day. We spoke about our plans for Turin. I went off to get more beers and bumped into my Pompey mate Rick…I did wonder if he had been lurking to see when I was on the way to the bar! He’s a mate from schooldays, but lives a mere mile from the ground now. A bit of chat about a few things, mainly football. Go figure. Just before we gathered enough courage to leave the pub, Chopper reappeared and bellowed out

“The New York Blues are full of booze
The New York Blues are full of booze.
We’ll shag your beer and drink your women –
The New York Blues are full of booze.”

I had played my first eleven-a-side game for ages on Sunday, but had hurt my right knee ligaments again…I think I made a pitiful spectacle as I hobbled my way to Fratton Park, the rain absolutely lashing down. Rick disappeared off into the home stand and I joined Alan and Gary behind the goal. We were three rows from the rear, right next to the home fans. Unfortunately, there was a gap in the stand wall just behind us and the rain seemed to head straight for us. More rain! It never stopped, coming in from the south in massive swirls.

We were somewhat surprised to see Malouda and not Anelka starting. Anelka has been impressing me more of late – his ball retention if nothing else. Malouda started brightly but soon resorted to type.

Chelsea and Pompey exchanged blows in the first quarter, but we then became stronger in the first period. The game was of note for the two or three spills by the Portsmouth ‘keeper. David James – you were good in your time, but I think your days are numbered. The shots reigned in on James, as we got rained on, but our shooting was really woeful in that first half.

It was an average game really. Daryl – who had been getting soaked near another exit – joined us for the second half. The plus points? Frank’s energy, Cech’s amazing saves…Mikel was steady. However, Drogba had a pretty quiet game and appeared disinterested. Ballack and Malouda pretty poor, as always. Kalou began well but drifted. JT made a few errors and had Big Pete to thank when Nugent shot tamely at our great ‘keeper after a JT error. We heard that the Micky Mousers were 1-0 up and we hated it. I expected a few Liverpool texts coming my way.

Our support was alright – nothing special.

The addition of Quaresma lifted us. I can’t say he changed the game, but he did well. I’d like to see him and Stoch used ahead of Kalou and Malouda. But you knew that, right? Into the last part of the game and we looked a bit tired. Thank heavens, then, for that fine drilled shot from Drogba which won us the game and kept us in second place. Our end erupted.

“You are my Chelsea
My only Chelsea
You make me happy, when skies are grey
You’ll never notice how much we love you
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away

LA LA LA LA LA
LA LA LA LA LA

OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH

Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away

LA LA LA LA LA – OOOOOH!
LA LA LA LA LA – OOOOOH!

OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH

Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

At the final whistle, I quickly excused myself and headed out of the stadium. I noticed an elderly Chelsea pensioner, in red tunic, being lead out of the Chelsea section and I had a sudden rush of pride.

I walked back to the car and got more soaked. As I opened the car door and manically took my drenched coat off, the rain turned to hailstones. Great timing! It took a long time to eventually get out of the traffic jam. I was on the M27 at 10.30pm, though. I listened to Danny Baker on “606” and slowly made my way home. I was feeling tired and so stopped for an espresso and a biscotti ( thinking of Turin ) at 11pm.

The loneliness of a long-distance football fan, eh? It’s no problem, I’m OK by myself.

Eventually reached home at 12.15am and the rain hadn’t bloody stopped all afternoon and evening.

Phew.

Tales From A Quiet Stamford Bridge

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wigan Athletic : 28 February 2009.

Thank heavens for our blue brothers, John Terry and Frank Lampard.

Glenn drove up to HQ for a change. Plenty of Chelsea-related chat with Glenn, Dave, PD and Terry from Radstock, whose normal lift was unavailable. I’ve known Tel for about twenty years and last saw him at passport control at Gatwick on the way to Moscow.

We were soon parked up on an overcast morning and were banging on the side door of The Goose at 11am. Bob from California joined us for the first pint of the day, plus an all day breakfast which went down well. I had to rush down to HQ, though, so I excused myself. I got to the area outside the hotel at 11.45am and met a few people…Chopper from New York ( with his daughter’s bloke Shawn ), Rory from Fort Lauderdale ( with three Londoners ) and Jeff from Orlando ( with his brother in law ). I pointed out that Peter Bonetti was in close proximity and so they all rushed over to get photographs and autographs. We had just missed Ron Harris, though. I picked up my Juve away ticket and bumped into Hoss, who was still reeling from the excitement of Wednesday’s game. I stopped to chat to Mark and Dave at the CFCUK stall and Dave wanted me to do an abridged version of my personal journey into Italian football so he could print it in the next fanzine. Cutting 3,500 words down to 1,000 will be a challenge.

Chopper, Shawn, Jeff ( flrr100 ), Mick and myself had quick pint in The Wellington, presuming Cathy would soon show up. However, Cathy was running late and would meet Chopper elsewhere. This was my first ever visit to The Wellington and it seemed fine. We are so well blessed for pubs and bars around Stamford Bridge, you know. Walking down the North End Road and up the Fulham Road alone, you could have a nice pub crawl from the Seven Stars, The Elm, The Oak, The Goose, The Arbiter, The Cock & Hen, The George, Belushi’s, Havana’s, The Malsters, Brogan’s, Bar 6, The Slug and The So Bar. There must be just as many in the King’s Road. We’re lucky – you go to places like Leeds and there are just a couple of pubs near the ground. I had a nice chat and it was good to meet Jeff for the first time – this was his first game at The Bridge in about fifteen years.

I excused myself and headed on back to The Goose for three more lagers. It was another busy one and there was the usual assortment of friends in our corner. I had left Bob my recently-completed photo album of the 2007-2008 season – it’s bloomin’ heavy and full of around 200 Chelsea photographs. I have been doing these for each season since about 1984-85, apart from the 1990 to 1993 period when I didn’t take my camera to every game. I think I would come out in a cold sweat should I forget my camera these days, though I do have a camera phone should that happen. I popped out into the crowded beer garden to have a few words with Dutch Mick. He told me that the Turkish airlines plane crash at Schipol on Wednesday had caused massive flight delays and so he decided to drive from his home in The Netherlands, through Belgium, to Calais and over on a ferry, not arriving to Chelsea until 6.30pm. A fine effort!

I was chatting with Bob and my mate Rob from Essex. For those of you who have not realised yet, we’re all into the gear at football even after all these years. Both Rob and myself were sporting Lacoste polos…for Bob, these past twelve months have been a personal voyage of discovery – and he was wearing a nice newly-acquired olive green CP shirt. Just don’t tell his wife how much it cost. Rob pointed out that there was a flier doing the rounds which was advertising a ( wait for it ) Chelsea versus Millwall golf day to be hosted by Ron Harris and Terry Hurlock. The mind boggles – forty Chelsea and Millwall loons playing golf…let’s hope that the clubs are only used for their intended purposes!

As usual, 2.30pm came around way too fast and it was time to make a move. I walked down past the street market on the North End Road with Bob and we said our “goodbyes” by the West Stand. I’ll see him in Seattle, hopefully, though neither of us has ruled out the chance of seeing each other in Rome in May. That’s beyond our control, though. Our destiny in the hands of others.

As predicted, Wigan’s away following was pitiful – about 300 maybe. They’re still intrinsically a small club. However, never mind that, they gave us a hell of a run-around in the first thirty minutes. We couldn’t seem to get in and amongst them. We were lucky not to be losing in fact. And I was lucky I saw our goal. I had presumed that Frank’s over-hit free-kick was off out for a goal-kick and so I made my way to the gents…I looked up and saw the ball was still “live” so stopped by Gate 10. The resultant corner was knocked out and JT marvellously scissor-kicked the ball back into the middle of the Wigan goal. The finish was a little similar to Poyet’s goal in 1999.

From then until Kapo scored a deserved equaliser for Wigan, we seemed to drift along with no real desire to increase our lead. Is our fitness really that bad? Very worrying. We all enjoyed the mad dribble down below us from The Captain. But, really, a lot of poor performances throughout. Yet another bloody hopeless show from Michael Ballack, always playing the easy ball, never dominating. When he broke though late on with a quick burst down the left wing, I thought it was Lampard and was totally gobsmacked to see the number 13 on his back.

We upped it in the last ten and although we should be grateful that we found that extra spirit to dig deep, isn’t that really frustrating? We should have killed the game off earlier. Steve Bruce was moaning about an alleged push on Mario, but Frank’s leap looked fine to me. The ball looped in and we went ballistic, but I soon settled my nerves to take about five shots of the boys celebrating down below us, fifteen yards away. With both Liverpool and Arsenal dropping points, we are looking good for a second place now. Wigan must hate us – they have given us nine tough games since they came up in 2005.

The atmosphere was generally quiet, but the MHL and MHU was stirred to life in the second-half when the PA asked the fans in the MHL to sit down…there was a barrage of booing and “stand up if you love Chelsea” and the place was bubbling along nicely for about five minutes. We ought to get the same bloke to do this every game! It goes without saying that the Liverpool result was met with roars too.

On the drive out of London, I texted a couple of Liverpool “fans “ ( ten games between the two of them ) and then fell asleep, as Glenn battled the traffic.

Not a great game at all, but another three points nonetheless.

Tales From The Last Sixteen

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Juventus : 25 February 2009.

A lovely evening at HQ, but there is still a nagging doubt that our 1-0 lead may not be enough over the two legs.

I had booked a half day holiday. I had a dental appointment first thing and then worked 9.45am to 2.15pm. Well, I say “worked” but it was very quiet indeed. I had been “working” on my account of my personal journey into Italian football for Dave Johnstone’s “CFCUK” and I fine-tuned it in the morning before submitting it. This is my first article for this fanzine and I just knew I had to do it. Just had to share it with the Chelsea Nation. Glad I completed it just in time for the game. “The Game Of My Life” just about sums it up. I submitted this on CIA, too, so that I can refer back to it once I get to write up my recollections of Torino in March.

Parky was collected from the pub opposite and we set off for Chelsea. There was the usual banter flying around on the drive east, but he was quiet for the longest ever time in living memory as he read through my recollections of Italy. We both agreed that the internet is a wonderful medium to share such things with people around the World. I am sure Parky could tell a few tales, so to speak. Best not encourage him though.

Before we knew it, we were parked-up just off Lillie Road at about 4.15pm. This was always going to be a extra special game for me, but I had planned an extra level of enjoyment by arranging for Ohio Silver Lining / Farmer John / mgoblue and a mate, Bob / unagi1 and two stalwarts from across the pond ( Chopper and Hoss ) to meet me for a meal at “Dall Artista” at 5pm. Bob was already settled with a pint in the Lillie Langtry as Parky and myself strolled in. Bob had visited Barcelona since Villa on Saturday. Then two phone calls in quick succession. John was on his way and needed directions. Then my friend Tullio in Torino called, but he was off work with a high temperature. I wished him well and said I would see him in a fortnight.

I met John’s college mate Greg, a guy from Salonika in Greece and a Juve admirer. We sunk the first beer of the evening and I was buzzing. Chopper was on his way too. We walked past Brompton Cemetery which sits behind the East stand and arrived at the restaurant bang on 5pm. A big hug from my good friend Salvo – who has met Teri and Starla – and also a hug from Hoss, who was already there. I first met Hoss in Chicago in 2006 and he now lives in Missouri…he’s over for two games. He told us of a great deal he managed to strike up at the Chelsea Hotel, paying about £48 a night! Introductions were made and the air was full of chat and laughter with everyone chipping in with comments about Chelsea and life…there, that’s profound, eh?

I made the point that if my life could be distilled, with all the nonsense and irrelevancies turned to ether, this is what it would be…sat around a table with close friends, jabbering away like fools about all sorts of Chelsea chat.

“And then, in about two hours’ time, we are going to watch our eleven heroes play for us.”

We raised a toast.

We asked for the menus just as Chopper, his daughter Kelly and her Chelsea-debutant boyfriend Shaun arrived. Happy days. More beers please Salvo. Parky was in good form and we were having a good laugh. Because of the differences in the sense of humour between us Brits and North Americans, I often feel we need to put on a bit of a show for our guests and Parky is my ideal partner for this, full of wisecracks, plays on words and sideway glances to camera! I last saw Chopper in NYC in June and it’s always good to see him. I phoned Beth and was pleased she was able to join in our little party.

I had brought up a few photographs from the ‘eighties of myself with my friend Mario, his parents and some shots of his home town. It is Salvo’s home too and I suppose – in the light of things – it came as no surprise that he recognised Mario’s father Franco. It turned out that Salvo played for the same town football team – Dianese – in the ‘sixties as Mario did in the ‘eighties. We ordered our pizzas – an Americana, how appropriate, with anchovies – and more beer, Salvo! I had to put the brakes on though…four small bottles would be my limit. In a quiet moment, I asked Salvo if he was excited and he said he hadn’t been able to eat all day! Bless him.

Henry, who I met in NYC in June, but was now back home in Blighty, popped in and this was a surprise for us all. Fantastic.

It was 6.40pm and we really needed to move on. We marched down to The Goose and joined the milling throng. Unfortunately, we lost Chopper’s lot but Salvo, Parky, John, Greg, Bob and myself were soon chatting with Alan, Gary, Walnuts, Russ, Daryl, Ed, Simon, Milo, Rob, Andy and Lovejoy.

Bada bing!

At 7.15pm we set off for The Bridge and I called Mario. After meeting on that beach in 1975, here we were talking thirty minutes before the first ever Chelsea vs. Juventus game. We wished each other well. It was lovely to hear his voice.

Then a text from Tullio…”tick tock tick tock.” The game was approaching. We were walking along on a tide of adrenalin as the lights of the stadium appeared. I bought Chelsea / Juventus scarves for Tullio and Mario, plus four programmes. Managed to lose Bob and Parky, but Salvo was close by as we entered the stadium.

“Welcome to my home” I said to Salvo, who smiled. Just as we entered the arena, a red Juventus flag was being carried around the pitch and met us in our corner. Salvo beamed. Into our seats in good time and the Champions League build-up began. John was down below me in the corner. The disappointing thing for me was that La Vecchio Signora were not playing in the famous black and white.

On many occasions throughout the game my gaze was centered on the 3,000 Juventus fans in The Shed. I noted the banners and tried to pick out any slogans. Juventus, like all of the Italian teams, have an array of various supporter groups, which tend to constantly evolve through time. The fan leader Beppe Rossi seems to be the Juve leader of note and I have a book at home called “Il Gruppo” which is a photographic record of the various factions since the first fan group in around 1973. Not all groups are hooligans, but it is safe to say that they are all “ultras”, that Italian definition of rabid support. I have lost count of the many Juve groups, but names include “Vikings”, “Indians”, “Black And White Supporters”, “Fighters” ( I have a scarf ) and the infamous “Drughi” and “Arancia Meccanica” ( literally Clockwork Orange ) inspired by Kubrik’s iconic film. There is an amazing photograph from around 1984 of around 500 Juve ultras at an away game in Milano wearing black bowler hats, in homage to Kubrik’s “horrorshow.” That must have been a spine-chilling sight for opposing fans. Juve, Inter, Verona, Atalanta and – most famously of all – Lazio align themselves to the political right, whereas Milan, Roma and Livorno are to the left…historically at least, maybe not quite so much these days.

The Juve fans made a fair bit of noise. I noted several held-aloft signs showing four silhouetted figures with the word Drughi below. One guy in white was the cheerleader, sitting on the balcony wall, looking back towards the fans and instigating the rhythmic singing. Italians often do this. You see it all over. Fans as an organic body, singing their allegiance. For many fans the world over, this is the real battle.

Never mind the game, just show up, sing and win the battle of noise on the terraces.

The game was a bit of a blur. My mind was racing, trying to capture some nice photographs, making sure Salvo was enjoying himself, trying to get some singing going, trying to make out how the game was going, texting a few friends. After some early pressure, I had my telephoto lens centered on the Shed goal. On twelve minutes, Drogba shot and so did I. I depressed the button and loved it as I saw his strike head towards goal… but was gutted when I realised the camera switch was off. I saw Drogba’s goal through my inactive camera! Not really mixed emotions – I was ecstatic we had scored so soon.

Get in!

I prayed we would be treated to more early goals, thus killing the tie off even before the away leg. I couldn’t be more wrong. Juve tended to increase their possession throughout the game. It turned out to be a fractious, nervy game and I was surprised how quiet the Chelsea support was in the main. I tried my best, but not even I was getting stuck into the singing. Thought Frank was lively and honest, moving the ball around well. Ballack? Another missing-in-action performance. We were solidly sticking to the 4-3-3, but I thought Anelka did OK, rarely losing the ball. It was a pleasure to see players like Nedved ( whose hair appears to live a life of its own ) and Del Piero ( or Bruce Springsteen, as Al called him…I can see the resemblance…he was born to run, too ). Not really sure why Malouda came on and not Stoch. Generally speaking, though, despite the win, I am rather worried for our future in the competition.

Not so much has the Fat Lady sung, but has the Old Lady sung yet?

Gutted to hear Liverpool won away in Europe again. You know the rest!

After the game, I received a congratulatory text from Tullio and we then moved onto “Barbarella’s” where I had arranged to meet my mate Buller. This is the little bar and Italian restaurant where a lot of the ‘seventies players hung out. As luck would have it, Ron Harris was in there…small world…and so I introduced him to Salvo, who appreciated meeting a Chelsea legend.

As we came out onto the Fulham Road, a little mob of around forty Juve ultras were being ushered along by the police. Not sure if we had missed some action or not.

Loads of traffic meant that I didn’t get home until 2am. Parky the Nodding Dog was away in some dream world for most of the journey, no doubt dreaming of more Peronis.

Tales From The Second City

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 21 February 2009.

That was more like it.

The games are coming thick and fast now and I didn’t have too much time to dwell on the first game under the tutelage of Guus Hiddink. I think he is the nineteenth Chelsea manager in my lifetime. They come and go.

I left home in good time to collect Andy and Parky from their homes in Trowbridge by 8.45am. Not too much to say about Trowbridge. It’s the county town of Wiltshire, but is pretty bland. Hugh Cornwall of The Stranglers lives nearby and has recently written a song tacking the Mick out of it. There is a sizeable Chelsea support in the town though.

Loads of banter on the drive up the M5 yet again…I’ve lost count how many times I have driven along this route for an away game this season. Barring an inevitable CL semi at Anfield, this would be for the last time, though. Stopped at Strensham for a coffee…loads of Villa milling around. Villa’s support does reach down the M5 corridor towards Bristol. I was meeting up with Bob from Fremont in California, who had reached Birmingham in good time by train and was already in The Yew Tree at 10.30am. Every time I drive to Villa, I head past The Hawthorns and arrive from the north…I got trapped south of Villa Park after a game in 1994 and vowed “never again.” Villa Park nestles between Aston Park and the cloverleaf intersection of the M6 and the Aston Expressway which we Brits call “Spaghetti Junction”. Birmingham is our Motor City, the old heart of our ailing car industry…and I can’t stand the place to be honest. So – anyway, I was parked up just before 11am, and my quick getaway route all sorted.

Parky – on crutches still – was moaning about the long walk to the pub and so I told him to wind his neck in! We noted the blue skies above the terraced streets and industrial units of Whitton. I had a jacket on and, despite a breeze, the weather was surprisingly warm. Eventually, The Yew Tree emerged like a vision on the horizon. It was opposite a canal, of which there are many in Birmingham.

Parky and Andy got the beers in – their payment for my driving – and I located Bob nursing a pint of lager in a sunny room next to a conservatory. Cathy and Dog were outside. We only had an hour or so before we needed to move on to the stadium. One of my football passions has always been stadia design and history. The doyen of this is Simon Inglis, who first brought out his “bible” ( “The Football Grounds Of England And Wales” ) on the subject around 1985. I have the third edition, enlarged to include Scotland, which came out in 1996, plus three more books by him too. I knew Bob was keen to read up on Archibald Leitch ( yep, him again ) and so I lent him two of my four Inglis books to read while he is over here. Simon Inglis is a Villa fan too, so it seemed only right that I should hand over the books on this particular day. I remember Inglis lamenting the demise of the ornate Trinity Road stand in around 1996. Bob has been bitten badly by the Chelsea bug…his first game was in Palo Alto. I remember briefly chatting to him in the pub before that game in 2007, but he has since flown over to Europe four times since to see the team. We chatted about a range of things – including plans for the tour in the summer, plans for Juventus on Wednesday – and the beers went down well. It was soon time to leave for the game.

The Chelsea section was the northern end of the Doug Ellis stand. There was quite a line at the turnstiles. I spotted Dave Johnstone and had a quick chat. I said I’d try to get something to him for CFCUK about my own personal story of why the impeding trip to Torino means so much to me. He seemed pleased. This will be my CFCUK debut. Looking forward to it I must say.

Whereas Bob, Andy and Parky ( not to mention a few more mates ) were in the lower tier, Alan, Gary and myself were way up in the Gods. Three more people ( Roy, Ian and Kevin ) who were at the pub in Palo Alto were close by. Bob was actually two rows from the front and I was two from the back. I got to my seat just before kick-off.

Villa Park looked a picture, bathed in the winter sun. I took my jacket off – phew.

My thoughts the entire game were that we were still playing with Anelka wide in a standard 4-3-3, but I have since read Hiddink’s comments about us having an extra man in midfield ( presumably he meant Kalou ). I was convinced that Anelka was wide left the entire game…OK, apart from his goal. Did anyone else think we were playing 4-4-2? We certainly began well, lots of possession. The Chelsea support appeared to be invigorated too, with constant noise. I have to say I was disappointed by Villa’s support.

When Frank received the ball on 19 minutes, I was convinced that he would struggle to do much with the ball as he was hemmed in by two defenders. I should have relaxed – Frankie danced away from his markers with a superb shimmy and put through a slide-rule pass for “Doves” to dink in. That was a fantastic goal – another one for the boy Anelka. The players celebrated down below and I quickly grabbed my camera from my back to snap away. I have the roar from Ballack captured on film. I like our movement in the first-period with plenty of thrust provided by Bosingwa and Kalou down below me. Villa had a few chances of course. I captured Ashley Young’s free-kick on film, the ball just leaving his foot on a swerving trajectory towards the goal. It rattled the bar and thankfully our usual nemesis Heskey couldn’t convert. The game ebbed and flowed…it was a nice game of football.

I noted a few banners on the balcony at the Holte End…”AVFC Our Obsession” and “The Holte End – The 12th Man.” These are in a similar vain to out banners at Chelsea. A nice touch I think. You may not have seen it on TV, but there is a permanent message on the balcony at the North Stand…it details about twenty words uttered by the commentator when Tony Morley crossed for Peter Withe to score the winning goal in the 1982 European Cup Final. Again, a nice touch. At half-time, a platoon of soldiers, just back from Afghanistan, were welcomed onto the pitch and they walked the perimeter, shaking hands with fans from both sides. I expected them to get to our section and for the first one to ask “right – where’s Lovejoy?” Bob was about six seats away from Lovejoy and reported that he stayed awake all game.

Soon into the second-half, my good mate Alan pointed out past the North stand, to my right and said “blimey – looks like even the mascots have given up on the game.” The two Aston Villa mascots ( lions – no doubt called Rory and Leo I suspect ) were seen walking across the Villa car park…as bizarre a sight as I have seen for ages, like something from a Dom Joly TV show. I had to capture it on film – and once I get the photograph, I will run it as a caption competition. My submission is –

“Right, I’ll see you back home. Don’t forget the shopping – a tin of baked beans, some washing up liquid, a wildebeest and a couple of gazelles.”

Roars of laughter.

Villa had more of the game in the second-half and I had to note that on many occasions our central three of Mikel, Ballack and Lampard were too close to each other. We seemed unable to exploit space out wide. However, I thought Deco did OK when he came on. Villa had a few half-chances but their finishes were poor. JT had a great game alongside Alex, especially when they were faced with both Carew and Heskey.

Loads more photographs of the team celebrating together in front of the delirious away fans at the end of the game, too.

Well happy with the result. Fine singing from us, too.

I met up after with all my mates outside The Cap And Gown pub. Andy, Parky and myself were headed home, but the other members of The Bing ( Alan, Gary, Daryl, Simon, Milo, plus associate member Bob ) were off into the city centre for some beers. We will all meet again on Wednesday for the Juventus game. It was very warm on the trot back to the car – February for heavens sake! I overheard a few Villa fans grumbling to each other and inwardly smiled.

We were very happy to hear that the Goons had dropped points at home. The weather was beautiful as we raced south. What a nice day out. Just time for a solitary beer at The Black Horse in Trowbridge and we arrived just as United scored. We watched for half-an-hour, the pub full of plastic United fans. Parky looked like he was looking for an excuse to give a United fan some verbal, so I excused myself and left just before Ronaldo gave them the 2-1 win.

United will win the league this season, but I think we can push on and finish second.

I have waited thirty-four years to say this…”Juventus next.”

Tales From A Romantic Evening With 2,300 Close Friends

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Watford vs. Chelsea : 14 February 2009.

On the Friday night I went to the Bath Cider Festival. It was a good laugh, but I limited my intake to just three pints because it’s pretty lethal – and, of course, I didn’t particularly care to be hung over for the main event of the weekend, our game at Vicarage Road in the F.A. Cup fifth round.

The late kick-off allowed me to run a few errands in Frome. I bought a steak and stilton pasty and a Chelsea bun for my drive east and set off at about 12.30pm.

It felt pretty strange, I must say, to be heading towards London at such a late time. It didn’t feel right. I much prefer early starts on a match day. There’s just something about setting off as day breaks. I had planned to meet up with the usual crowd at a pub on Watford High Street. Alan was already on his way and offered these cryptic clues to his whereabouts between 12.45pm and 1.30pm.

Squeeze.

Che Sera Sera

David Elleray

Squeeze Part Two

As I drove past “Bunch Of Rocks” I replied to him. The drive was uneventful and pretty boring to be honest. Despite the hundreds of games in my locker, this was only my second ever visit to the delights of Watford. I don’t know, Watford never really appealed back in my youth. I used to cherry-pick other away games to be honest…I was never keen to travel down from Stoke to go to Watford. I suppose the finances came into play by the time I moved back home after my college years – I’d rather spend money on a trip to West Ham or Arsenal.

I listened to OMD and Depeche Mode on the drive up. As I headed north on the M25, I glanced across towards London and just happened to glance the Wembley Arch, some eight miles away. We were on the Wembley Trail and I wondered if this was a good sign.

I reached Watford after 115 miles on the road. I parked up, paid the £3 fee and headed towards the town centre. Watford is a pretty nondescript place, just inside the M25, not really far enough away from London’s inter-war sprawl to be regarded as a town in its own right. It’s a bit like the North London version of Croydon. The High Street is a pedestrianised strip of about 600 yards and hosts all the big players in the Super Pub category of licensed premises which have evolved in the past ten years. In close proximity, there is a Wetherspoons, an Oneils, a Walkabout, a Chicago Rock and a Yates Wine Lodge. Build ‘em big, get the punters in.

At 3pm, I joined up with Daryl, Ed, Rob, Bradley, Gary and Alan. They were sat infront of a large screen showing a rugby game from Rome, which we dutifully ignored. They had just eaten, but Gary had just arrived from a Saturday morning at work. He was a picture of concentration as he solemnly examined the bar menu for what seemed like ages. He went for the scampi. I slowly sipped on two pints of Kronenburg. I had a text message from Burger, who was drinking a few hundred yards away. All eyes were on the other TV screen, behind my shoulder, as the scores were coming in. Good to see Leeds losing, a draw at Swansea. We were joined by Andy, Jonesey and Jocka, three lads from Nuneaton, near Coventry. We made a few comments to each other about getting Cov away in the next round – they were winning 2-1 at Ewood. That would be nice…I suppose we should always want a home draw, but my mates are always desperate for a new ground to visit on such occasions.

There was the usual banter. I had a nice chat with Rob and then Alan about the trip to Turin in March. However, the arrival of Andy signalled the need for us to address the main talking point of the week. On Monday, a few of us had spent around three hours discussing the “Scolari problem” by email. We were all of mixed opinions. However, at 4.22pm on Monday, whatever we thought didn’t matter. The club had acted and another phase in the history of our club lurched into action. So, we spoke at length about this – and other linked subjects close to our hearts. We weren’t euphoric at Scolari’s demise. We were respectful. We just want the best for the club at the end of the day. We talked about how the inherent nature of our club has changed over the past ten years. We discussed its identity and how our relationship to it has changed. In some ways, we longed for the joyous football of the Gullit era, where our successes were pure fun and there wasn’t the possible taint of other fans sniping away with “you’ve bought your success” comments. We agreed we wanted our Chelsea back – the phenomenal away support, the closeness with the players, the noise, the sense of belonging – but we did note that should “our Chelsea” ( borne in adversity ) take precedence over the Chelsea of a fan of 12 years, who has known nothing but success? We acknowledged this dilemma.

It was a great discussion, heartfelt and interesting. I love my Chelsea mates – the inner circle – and when one of us makes a comment and it is met with nods of approval, it’s a great feeling.

It is this shared experience that makes supporting my club so rewarding.

As kick-off approached, coats were put on, collars were pulled up close to faces, beers sunk. We sauntered out of The Walkabout with the swagger that football fans who cut their teeth in the ‘eighties can only really understand. Ten lads in white trainers, wearing jeans and jackets, tottering through enemy territory on match day. You can’t beat it.

My lads walked on as I stayed to meet up with Burger, who was with Mark and Mick. I joked that there were about 15 OB outside the Wetherspoons – had they heard about Burger’s problems in Seville? The last two hundred yards of the approach to Vicarage Street is a junk food addicts’ dream. The roads are absolutely festooned with chippies, kebab shops, Indians, Chinese restaurants and burger bars. Cathy and Dog walked past. A tout tried to sell us a ticket – we contacted Lee, who was still ticketless.

Got inside the ground at about 5.10pm – it had only been a 15 minute walk from the pub. I was halfway back, to the left of the goal as I saw it. I noted that the TV cameras had switched sides and were now positioned in the middle of the three derelict stands, now unused under the Safety Of Sports Act.

Our away support was good, plenty of noise, plenty of variety. The two versions of The Bouncy got us going. I was sat by myself, but Burger was ten seats to my left, Andy six seats to my right. It’s lovely how we still honour former players through song. At Watford, we honoured Peter Osgood with a lovely rendition of “Born Is the King” and also songs in honour of Dennis Wise and Wayne Bridge. Long may it continue.

Of course, Michael Mancienne made his first team debut. I noted his squad number…number 42 and it made me smart. As a baseball fan, number 42 represents Jackie Robinson ( and – OK – Mariano Rivera until he retires ), the first black player in baseball. Let us all hope Mancienne goes on to an as rich and as storied career as Robinson.

It was a strange back-four to be honest. Mancienne began well. He seems confident going forward. We worked out a few openings in the first period but only Anelka really troubled the Watford ‘keeper. I noted that we were still operating a 4-3-3 and that Anelka and Drogba were taking it in turns to play the wide right role. At least they were passing to each other on a few occasions. We had most of the half, of course, but that succession of Watford free-kicks late on scared me. Lampard was full of honest endeavour. Contrast this with Ballack’s performance.

I was stood ( we all were, that’s more like it! ) next to two strangers, but we had a good old chat throughout the game. Good points well made by all three of us. It reconfirmed my faith in our support. We’re not all gobby youths or moaning minnies.

Off for a toilet break at half time…my God, 400 of us had the same idea…ridiculous. I saw that Lee had made it in. A few smokers were lighting up in the cramped gents…cough, cough.

More Chelsea pressure in the second-half, but no end result. The Ballack chance made me comment to the bloke to my right “It’s not going to be one of those games is it?” I turned around in pain, but was dismayed to see supporters right behind me laughing at Ballack’s miss.

I stared at them – what, one wonders, were they laughing at? I was stern, teeth gritted, agonising over every missed chance. It made me wonder for a few seconds, but I resumed my support of the team.

“Matthew Harding’s Blue And White Army – We Hate Tottenham.”

Of course, our World caved in with that one Watford move, which had followed a sustained amount of Chelsea pressure.

On 69, up the other end and we were licked. Well, I guess it was Valentine’s Day.

The groans inside the Chelsea end were soon replaced by songs of support, but deep down, I feared the worse. The ball which had lead to the goal seemed to be offside and yet, here we were, facing F.A. Cup defeat by a Championship struggler for the second year in a row. I looked across at Burger…he had been at the Barnsley game too. I wondered what he was thinking.

We serenaded Stoch and he came on. He looked keen.

Thank heavens for Anelka’s fine flick which lead to our equaliser. Within a few seconds, he had headed a second and we were transformed into a bubbling mass of humanity. Brilliant. Of course, soon after, a great block by Cech kept us ahead and then, as the game appeared to have run its course, Anelka’s fine turn and shot gave us a third. Fantastic.

“That’s a great goal” I said to the chap next to me.

So – Anelka…the perfect hat-trick, one with his left, a header and one with his right. For the record, the best ever hat-trick I have seen at Chelsea was Hasselbaink’s perfect three against Tottenham in 2005. That was phenomenal.

Stoch impressed me. Our support for him was very gratifying. All that young lad has to do is look to go past defenders and he will have 40,000 people singing his name every week. He is a real threat, a real winger. Malouda doesn’t compare. I think Stoch and Mancienne are going to be great players for us.

“Che Sera Sera, Whatever Will Be Will Be, We’re Going To Wembley, Che Sera Sera.”

I waited for Burger and Mick to leave. We walked back to the town centre, our steps quick and joyous, lots of laughter.

“See you in April, mate.”

On walking back to the car, in the deserted High Street, I heard three lads singing “We hate Chelsea.” It surprised me…Watford’s support had been quiet all afternoon. As they passed me, I heard them talk to each other…in a Scouse accent. That explained it.

Great – if we are able to upset fans of Liverpool when we aren’t even playing them, job done!

I texted Andy, Daryl and Alan – “Cov away next?”

I pulled out of Watford at 7.45pm. I stopped at Fleet Services for a well-earned KFC meal and was home by 10.10pm. The highlights on ITV began at 10.15pm and we were the first game on.

Perfect.

Tales From The Ice Road

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Hull City : 7 February 2009.

I live in a small village in rural Somerset, nestled in a valley to the east of The Mendip Hills. Like most of the UK, the village has been hit with a couple of heavy ( for us ) snowfalls the past week. On the local news on Friday, the weatherman advised “if you don’t have to travel on Saturday morning, please don’t.” Icy roads were to be expected.

So – a bit of a dilemma for me? No, of course not. Chelsea were at home and I was going.

I woke up at 6.45am and peeked outside. The snow was still thick on the front lawn and the fields, but the roads just looked icy with no fresh snow. I had to park the car on the road on Friday night because the driveway was too slippery, or rather, too steep. Got my things together ( wallet, camera, coat ) and defrosted the car. I didn’t like the look of the roads. I set off for Frome at 7.30am and tentatively edged my way down through the village, the road completely covered in a sheet of ice. Apart from a spell at college and a ten month stint in North America, I have lived all of my life in Mells ( claims to fame…the home of Little Jack Horner, the final resting place of WW2 poet Siegfried Sassoon and the home of TV presenter Kirsty Young)…as I crept past the village pub and church, which date from the fifteenth century, I thought back to my first ever game, March 1974…and here I was, doing the same trip, thirty-five years on.

Up Wadbury Hill, made it…nice one… and down through Great Elm. Here, I was faced with a real dilemna, whether or not to go straight on to Mutry and chance a dodgy hill, or head through a country lane which was probably less risky. I took option B and drove slowly over packed ice. I made it to Buckland Dinham, home of my maternal grandmother, and gave a little “woop” of congratulations to myself. From there, down through Lower Street, past the homes of my two aunts, and out onto the clear A361. I had made it. Phew.

I collected Glenn at 7.50am although the roads on his estate were pretty bad… then PD and Dave at 8am. Karen was missing this one and Tuna The Fishy Boy was using her ticket. To be honest, the road from Frome to Warminster was surprisingly bad. I felt my wheels slide as I made my way through Corsley. We noted that some skiers and snowboarders had been busy on the slopes of Cley Hill, just opposite the gate to the Longleat estate. To be honest, the fields were a picture. Once onto the Warminster by-pass, down the clear A36 and then past Stonehenge on the old 303, the roads were fine. They had been gritted and caused no problems. I relaxed and could now enjoy the drive.

Burger had been in touch. The clans were gathering. I stopped at Fleet for a coffee, but was parked-up at Chelsea by 10.30am. Three hours of driving and I breathed a deep sigh.

“Made it.”

As always, our first port of call was The Yadana Café and their breakfast hit the spot. Glenn and myself walked down past the markets stalls on the North End Road and reached a sunny, yet cold, Stamford Bridge at 11.15am. Burger and Julie were spotted taking photos by the Chelsea mural. It was great to see them again – I have a feeling the last time our paths crossed was the debacle at Barnsley last season. They were visiting with Julie’s sister and her bloke. The ubiquitous Mr. Coden was there too. Trouble was – where was The Fishy Boy? Was he making his way inland from The Thames, flipping away madly? Where was he? He eventually emerged from The So Bar and we were all together for the first time since LA.

That sounds terribly jet-set doesn’t it?

We made a bee line for the hotel where I had hoped that Tuna and Burger could meet up with Mr Chelsea himself, Ron Harris. Thankfully, he was sat in a quiet booth with his brother Alan and Barry Bridges, both team mates from the ‘sixties. The legendary Mick was nearby too and Burger met him to discuss plans for Spain vs. England in Seville on Wednesday. Ron was his usual relaxed and charming self and posed for snaps. Luckily, Peter Bonetti soon arrived too and so more snaps. As Tuna stood with Peter Bonetti, both Burger and myself made a quip at the same time about “The Cat eating Tuna.” I could sense that they were both very happy to be able to meet these great Chelsea personalities. Job done and we headed off for a beer at The So Bar.

I was just about to suggest a team photo outside the megastore, when I heard someone shout “Chris” and of course it was Jordan, who was also in town. Good job he recognised me…he was in London with his girlfriend Christine and was looking forward to his first ever Chelsea match, although they had already been on the stadium tour. While the others headed for some beer, we went back to the hotel foyer. Unfortunately, Ron had disappeared, but Peter Bonetti was joined by top-scorer Bobby Tambling. Jordan and Christine were in luck and I was able to get them to pose for photos with Peter and Bobby. I also managed to mug Mick for a classy black and white photograph of Peter Bonetti so he could sign it for Jordan. I had a quick little chat with Bobby and his wife, who remembered me from the CPO event in November. A lovely time – the Chelsea Family, all together, smiling and laughing.

We dipped into The So Bar, which was stating to come to life. Had a little chat with Jon for the first time in a while. Things were a bit tight at his place of work and so I wished him well. Glenn was chatting with Tuna and I noted they were on the Guinness. Tuna, Glenn, Jordan, Christine and myself then walked back to The Goose, which was already heaving. In our little area, tucked next to the back section of the bar, there was over thirty people that I knew, all chatting away, drinking, partially-watching the City versus ‘Boro game on Sky. It was pretty manic and there was nowhere to move. Burger’s party soon joined us and the drinking continued apace…well, apart from me…of course I was driving. I explained to Jordan that The Goose was the cheapest boozer in SW6 by far. My home area was well represented, with eleven fans from Frome, Westbury, Trowbridge and Melksham…the others had travelled up by train. Wimps!

Parky was amongst the Trowbridge lot and we spoke about going to the Chelsea Old Boys game at nearby Swindon on Wednesday evening. Watch this space.

Jordan and Christine left early to make sure they could see the pre-match. They had seats in the Shed Lower. I went around to chat with Burgs and Julie, but there were conversations flying around everywhere. As is so often the case, the pre-match was the best part of the entire day.

Tuna and myself made our way to our seats in the Shed Upper and we bumped into CFC Cathy by the CFCUK stall. Perfect timing. Thank heavens, unlike the season opener versus Pompey, there were no queues at the turnstiles. We reached our seats just as the “Chelsea – Pride Of London” flag was wending its way along the Matthew Harding lower. It was a magnificent sight actually. We were pleased to see Ricardo Quaresma starting…but I am sure Glenn wasn’t. He was having trouble pronouncing his surname and I am sure I heard five different versions, ranging from Querro to Quasimodo during the day.

We began brightly and of course JT should have scored within the first few minutes. Quaresma looked lively, but we all found it bizarre he chose to cross using the outside of his boot on four separate occasions. The first-half was quite promising and I was enjoying being close to the action in the Shed Upper. It does afford great views. However, as the game progressed, I kept looking at the clock and couldn’t believe how quick the time was passing…a bit like the school holidays when the first two weeks are spent frittering away time and the rest is spent thinking how soon the end would be in sight. We frittered away too many chances in that first-half and later paid for it.

I phoned Andy so that Tuna could say a few words just as a “Zigger Zagger” began…this was probably the highlight of the entire game.

We were all dismayed that Q was taken off to be honest. He looked a threat. There was no change in tempo throughout the game. The midfield three didn’t dominate. Ballack drifted. Our defence, too, seemed to be disjointed and Hull so easily could have won it. Tuna was bellowing his disgust, but the atmosphere was again morgue-like. I felt for our guests from North America. At least Lovejoy stayed awake.

The post mortem?

I am going to find it terribly difficult to remain buoyant and positive about this. I am neither a champion of Scolari but neither a great critic of him. At this moment in time, it is obvious that things are not right within the club. However, I sincerely hope that we do not become a “slash and burn” club, with hirings and firings taking place every year. Of course, I am not convinced that Scolari has the stomach nor the skill-set to manage Chelsea in this league. However, at the moment, I feel we need to give him the full season. I loathe the idea of managers being fired ( Ince and now Adams ) after four or five months. If he goes, who can we get to replace him? No, let’s work through this. Supporting Chelsea was never easy and these things are tough, but let’s stay with it. Again, I think the entire club’s support has been spoilt since 2003 and the spectre of Mourinho looms large. I personally think United will walk it this season. Is coming second a reason to sack the manager? I don’t know…I really don’t know.

Set off from London at 5.30pm and – thankfully – no more snow. Infact, the weather had been quite sunny and a lot of the ice on the roads close to home had turned to brown slush. My three passengers slept for most of the drive home. I listened to England capitulate to 51 all out in the West Indies and Liverpool edge a win at Pompey with two late late games. It was one of those days.

Eventually home at 8.30pm after six hours of tiring driving. I must be mad.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2008-2009

Tales From N17

Tales From A Sunny HQ

Tales From The Game Of My Life

Tales From A Walk In The Park

Tales From The Rear Of The Milton End

Tales From A Quiet Stamford Bridge

Tales From The Last Sixteen

Tales From The Second City

Tales From A Romantic Evening With 2,300 Close Friends

Tales From The Ice Road