Tales From A Sunny Saturday In SW6

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wigan Athletic : 9 April 2011.

With our Champions League game against Manchester United on Tuesday looming large, the game against Wigan Athletic seemed suddenly way less important, maybe like an irritant in the way of the bigger picture.

But, every game counts.

This would be a simple Chelsea Saturday for me. No special plans, no frantic pre-match with visitors, just an old-fashioned day at football. With a 3pm kick-off to boot.

I set off from my home at 9am. Parky was on board at 9.30am. This was always going to be a lovely, sunny day, but the morning began with a slight haze. On the drive up the M4, we passed the Swindon Town team coach. They were on their way to Brentford. For the first hour or so, Parky and I were chatting away; a constant stream of interlinked football stories, which helped the time pass.

Millwall 1984 : “I had my crutches just after the bike crash and I was only about eight stone at the time, so Les picked me up on his shoulders and ran with me through the streets to get away from the Millwall.”

Stockholm 1998 : “And there were about 300 Chelsea in the middle of this main road, doing One Man Went To Mow and we all just sat down. The locals loved it, mate. They were cheering us. And there were these office girls looking and they took their tops off to give us a flash.”

As we passed the towns of Slough and Windsor, Parky delved into his little bag of tricks and pulled out a CD for our final approach into London.

New Order’s “Waiting For the Sirens’ Call.”

New Order is the perfect band for an exhilarating drive. The weather outside was magnificent. Blue skies with a few wispy clouds way up high.

A right turn at the lights onto the North End Road and we were soon parked up. Then, a quick breakfast. By midday, just three hours after I had left my house, we were in The Goose.

Lacoste Watch.

Parky – lemon
Chris – lavender
Andy – lime

We were, of course, stationed in the beer garden for the duration of this pre-match. For a change, the team got a mention. Andy and myself spoke a little of the recent failings, allied with pragmatic comments about the fans’ role in the support of the team. Familiar ground, nothing new. Thoughts tended to centre on the game at Old Trafford on Tuesday. I am taking another half-day, so will probably be up there at about 4.30pm. My plan is to hit the Salford Quays and maybe pay another visit to the Lowry art gallery before the tribal warfare begins in earnest. The lads were discussing the logistics of the game; Daryl and Rob were driving up to Nuneaton, then two cars taking eight up from there. Andy spoke about some of the old photographs from past years that I have recently been uploading on to Facebook. The memories were stirred. After one particularly boozy end-of-season pub crawl in 2000, he spoke of The Youth, who was so inebriated that he left the game against Derby at half-time, thinking that the game had ended. Oh boy – that’s some achievement. At that same game, Bryan – from Frome – was similarly affected and slept the entire game. We soon presented Bryan with a T-Shirt which proudly stated –

“No Sleep Till Kick-Off.”

Wes – remember him? – joined us at about 2pm. He has now fully settled in our nation’s capital – living in Putney and teaching at a school in Ealing. I did give him a load of playful banter, though, about his non-attendance at Chelsea this season. This would only be his fourth game. He is soon off on a mini-Euro tour, taking in the lovely cities of Prague, Munich, Vienna and Salzburg – and he spent a few moments asking for my views on each of those great places. Looking back, my tips centred on beer and football (and past Chelsea trips to Vienna), but there you go.

Wes was sitting next to Alan and myself in The Sleepy Hollow for this game. We arrived at our seats just as the teams were lining-up. The first thing I spotted was the huge quadrant of empty seats in the south-east corner. Yet again, Wigan had failed to bring the numbers down to Stamford Bridge. There were around 100 in a small section in the upper tier and around 200 in the lower tier. I did not a few empty seats dotted around where I was sat, too. I think a few Chelsea fans had decided to give this game a swerve. I hope these very same fans won’t be demanding a ticket for Wembley should we get to the Champions League Final.

There was a photograph of Fernando Torres on the cover of the match day programme. Torres was on the bench for this game against Wigan. John Terry and Michael Essien were rested; Ivanovic was moved to the middle of the defence, with Paolo slotting in at right-back. Mikel came in for Essien.

After just 35 seconds, Didier had a strong run and laid the ball into the path of Frank Lampard. His shot was scuffed and was heading well-wide of the far post. Ironically, it ended up in the path of the onrushing Ramires, but I think it caught him by surprise. He didn’t really connect with the wayward shot and the ball continued on its path out of play. In retrospect, that early move set the tone for the entire game.

8 minutes – a Drogba pass through to Florent Malouda, quite central, but a heavy first touch and the shot was very well saved by Ali Al Habsi.

14 minutes – a Drogba free-kick, blazed ridiculously high.

16 minutes – a Florent Malouda shot wide from an angle.

Wigan then enjoyed a prolonged spell of possession, with the ball being moved around at will. This caused understandable frustration amongst the home support. To be honest, this game was being played out in such a quiet atmosphere that it felt like the last game of the season, just like that game in 2000. I looked around to make sure nobody was napping. Mid-way through the first-half and there had been no rousing song from the terraces.

33 minutes – a great show of strength from Drogba, down in that far corner in front of the 300 away fans, but a cross to the far post was not met by a Chelsea forward.

38 minutes – a Petr Cech hoof – we don’t always go for a direct approach – was flicked on by Didier to Malouda, but again saved.

43 minutes – a delightful turn and spin from Drogba, but a left-footed shot over the bar.

Ex-Chelsea player, captain and manager John Hollins was on the pitch at half-time and he looks really well. He is at number three in our list of attendance makers.

Ron Harris 795
Peter Bonetti 729
John Hollins 592
Frank Lampard 500
John Terry 495

At the break, Yossi Benayoun took over from Jon Obi Mikel and his reintroduction into Chelsea blue was met with loud applause. How ironic that this should is now the case. Joe Cole has floundered at Liverpool and now, many Chelsea supporters are looking at Yossi to help unleash the potential goals from his erstwhile Anfield team mate Torres. So, Carlo had changed it. I had to do something, too. I’m not overly superstitious at games, but I pulled out my trusty New York Yankees cap and wore it for the rest of the game. I spoke to Wes about a little superstition that I had back in the ‘seventies. My parents and I always used to sit in the East Lower from 1974 to 1980 and I always used to take Wrigley’s gum to games. If we were losing – and if I was chewing gum – I would spit it out. If we were losing – and if I wasn’t chewing – I would start chewing. My success rate is not known, only the memories of this little ritual.

53 minutes – a nice, neat move found Frank Lampard who spun on himself and hit a firm shot which flew past the far post.

On 59 minutes, the Stamford Bridge crowd reacted positively with the introduction of that man Torres for Nicolas Anelka. The majority of us haven’t given up on The Boy From Fuenlabrada. At last, there was some noise.

61 minutes – another Didier Drogba free-kick, deflected by a member of the defensive wall. The ball looped up, but fell suddenly. The Wigan ‘keeper did very well to tip the ball over.

64 minutes – a tricky dribble from Fernando Torres, but a weak shot at the ‘keeper.

65 minutes – a Drogba corner, right into the centre of the six-yard box. A mad scramble. There were lots of Chelsea bodies in the mix and I was optimistic that somebody – maybe even Torres – might connect. In the end, the ball came out to Florent Malouda. He struck it home.

I watched as he ran, arms outstretched, towards to East Lower. It was a great scene, reminiscent of JT against Aston Villa in December. We don’t often celebrate over there. The players soon joined up with him and you could see their jubilation. Great stuff.

On 73 minutes, it was lovely to see Alex back on the pitch. He replaced Paolo – who had been steady – and Ivanovic moved over to right-back. It wasn’t long before we were demanding that Alex should “shoooooot!”

82 minutes – a chance for the Wigan substitute Franco Di Santo (last seen scoring for us in Arlington) who had a header from quite a way out, but Petr Cech did ever so well to turn it around the post.

88 minutes – a Chelsea break. This is what we used to do so well. Yossi played in Torres with a little reverse ball behind him. Torres was through…one on one…the whole ground was mesmerized…he poked at the ball, but Al Habsi easily saved.

To be fair, we rallied behind Torres all game and I think I saw a small smirk of appreciation at one stage.

90 minutes – another chance for Franco Di Santo, but his whipped shot was again saved by Petr Cech. Phew.

The final whistle went and there wasn’t much celebration…more a case of “thank God that is over.” What were my main feelings from the game? Ramires continues to impress. His constant snapping away at loose balls, his running, his strong tackling and his enthusiasm were the one major plus. With effort like that, I can forgive him a few wayward passes. Frank Lampard continues to struggle, though. His place in the team at the moment is purely down to reputation. I am genuinely concerned for him. He is off the pace and sluggish. Drogba was hot and cold – nothing new there.

The other results – wins for Manchester United and Tottenham especially – were confirmed, but the day was massively overshadowed by Tuesday’s summit meeting in Salford.

I made a great early exit from Chelsea and we even had time for a lovely pint in a country pub, The Pelican, on the A4 between Hungerford and Marlborough. A gorgeous evening drive home, through the quaint Wiltshire downs, past thatched cottages, small market towns and with some more classic music on the CD.

“This is the life, Parky.”

Even when the football is bad, it’s bloody brilliant.

Tales From An Evening At Chelsea

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 6 April 2011.

Late on Tuesday evening, my Italian friend Mario sent me a greeting on Facebook, saying that he would be watching “the derby” on TV on Wednesday. This confused me a little, but he elaborated further –

“The Derby of England.”

Ah – that made sense now. In Italy, they always call any Juventus vs. Internazionale game “il derby d’Italia” in light of the nation-wide fan base of those two giants. Mario now lives in Germany and, during our little online chat we briefly talked about meeting up should Chelsea get past Manchester United. Mario lives in Bergisch-Gladbach, no more than 60 miles away from Gelsenkirchen – the home of Schalke 04 – and the thought of meeting him for the first time in 23 years thrilled me. When we first met, way back in 1975 (he is actually my oldest friend, anywhere), who would have thought that Mario, the Juventus fan, would be watching my team in European competition on TV – and not vice versa.

We’ve come a long way, baby.

I had booked a half-day holiday, but this just meant that I had to squeeze in 8 hours work into 4 on Wednesday morning. I was very busy and didn’t think too much about the game. My closest work colleague, Mike, is a United fan and it was on his computer that we saw the Champions League pairing of our two teams a few weeks ago. We quickly shook each other’s hands and wished each other the “best of British.”

I picked up Lord Parky and then raced home. A change of clothes later and we were on our way, heading east on the A303 and M3 for a change. The weather was truly glorious. We stopped for soft drinks in a little village on Salisbury Plain just before we shot past Stonehenge. We made great time. As we drove through Bagshot Heath, with the yellow gorse bushes so vibrant, we put some Depeche Mode on the CD player and all was well with the world. I learnt to drive relatively late – in 1991, when I was 26 – and I always seemed to be playing Depeche Mode tapes in my car on those first long journeys to Stamford Bridge in the 1991 to 1993 period. In those days, my pilgrimages to The Bridge were solitary affairs. My mate Glenn didn’t go to Chelsea too often in those days – he had other distractions – and so I would tend to drive up from Frome alone. Hearing those Depeche Mode songs brought back memories of bombing around the M25 on my way to Chelsea, to be entertained by players such as Andy Townsend, Vinnie Jones and Bobby Stuart. I used to bump into Alan occasionally, but more often than not, would go to Chelsea alone. I met Daryl in 1992, though, and used to meet up with him in the 1992-1993 season. When things were going badly – under Ian Porterfield, they often did – at least we had the Yankees to talk about.

So, twenty years ago, my trips to The Bridge were somewhat lonely affairs. This was a big contrast to today, of course. Over the past twenty seasons, I have accumulated Chelsea fans at an ever-increasing rate and I’m in a great position to have so many mates from near and far. I seem to be collecting acquaintances of a Chelsea persuasion as quickly as we have garnered trophies since 1997. I wonder if the two are linked.

It certainly seems to be a small world with Chelsea right now, with the internet bringing us ever closer. As we approached London – magnificent blue skies overhead, the best day of the year by far – I spoke to Parky about the newest Chelsea friend I had met on Facebook. It turned out that this bloke used to live no more than 100 feet away from me, in the next street, when I was at college in Stoke. How about that? Small world alright! On the M4, we passed an executive coach from Manchester and we both peered in as we drove by. United. No colours. But United.

We were parked-up at 4.30pm and – for a change – we decided to try a new restaurant, rather than walk the half a mile to Salvo’s. We dipped into “Ole Mexico” on the North End Road and had a couple of cold beers and a selection of spicy food. We were the only ones in there, but the décor was great and the food excellent. Then, a few minutes later, we were back in The Goose and Mark and Kerry from Westbury were at the bar.

“What are you drinking, lads?”

Outside in the beer garden, there were groups of friends chatting away and enjoying the late afternoon sun. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Blue Heaven. It was a day for jackets to be discarded and for more summery attire.

It’s Been A Long Time – Crocodile Watch Is Back.

Jokka – sky blue
Chris – buttermilk

We worked out that the towns of Frome, Westbury, Trowbridge and Melksham were represented by twelve Chelsea fans. Happy with that. It was a marked difference to my solo trips in 1991 where I might bump into a couple of local lads in The Black Bull if I was lucky. Plenty of chat with Alan, Gary, Daryl, Neil, Rob, Simon, Ed, Milo and then Tim from Bristol. Les from Melksham was after a lift to Old Trafford next Tuesday.

“No worries, son.”

Neil was off to Thailand on the Thursday and was taking out a complete Chelsea kit for a school team in a village way up in the north-east of the country. Spreading the word, spreading the gospel. We heard the team news; Drogba and Torres upfront, with Zhirkov in place of the struggling Malouda. No complaints really, though we knew that the loss of David Luiz would be huge. To be fair, we didn’t talk too much about the game. The weather was still lovely; great vibes.

I set off for the ground a bit before the rest as I wanted to take a few photographs of the match day experience outside the stadium for a change. I bought a programme and took some shots of the Champions League banners hanging down either side of Ossie.

Peter Osgood – The King Of Stamford Bridge.

In the match programme, there were a few pages detailing the famous 21-0 aggregate win against the tinkers, tailors and candle-stick makers of Jeunese Hautcharage in 1971. Ossie scored eight goals over those two games.

I was in the ground at 7.30pm and it always feels strange to see the top five rows of the MHU empty for home CL games. The United fans were in a typically boisterous mood. As always, I scanned the balcony for new United flags and I wasn’t disappointed.

“Forza United”

“MUFC – Poland – On Tour”

“One Love – MUFC”

“Sent To Me From Heaven”

“United & City – Joined By Geography – Separated By Success”

“Once More Than England – MUFC – World Champions Twice”

“Viva John Terry”

Alas, the flag which said “Half Our Asian Fans Used To Like Liverpool In The 80’s” was missing. The banner berating England is typical of the United match-going hard-core. Ever since the Beckham fiasco in 1998, United have grown apart from the national team, even to the point of singing “Argentina” when Gabriel Heintze was in their team. You never get a MUFC flag at England games.

I’m not bothered by this. Personally speaking, I’m more club than country myself.

Anyway, the Mancs were making a racket. The “Viva John Terry” chant was getting a solid airing – that big white flag was draped from the balcony all night – and when Neil Barnett read out the teams, John Terry’s name got a massive cheer from the United fans.

We countered with songs of Doubles and England Captains.

School ground high-jinks played out on a larger stage, with a global TV audience listening in.

Mario was right – “The Derby of England.”

As the teams entered the pitch, I again went mad with the camera. That’s just a photogenic moment, the teams walking past the CL flag. John Terry led the team out, but Frank Lampard looked particularly animated, gazing at the MHU as the two massive flags passed each other, pumping his fists at the supporters.

It would be Frank’s 500th game for Chelsea Football Club.

A magnificent achievement for – possibly – our most valuable player ever.

I always remember where I was when I heard that Frank had been signed by Chelsea. I was on holiday in NYC, June 2001, and I had phoned Glenn, from deep in the bowels of Penn Station. I remember being pleased, but shocked at the price. Ten years on, money well spent.

At kick-off, there was a lovely pinkie / violet hue to the sky. We began well and took the game to United in the first ten minutes. Fernando Torres had two early chances, a lunge at a cross and then a neat run and shot at Van der Sar. On 18 minutes, Ramires played a gorgeous ball into Drogba in the inside-right position. He unleashed a screamer which the United ‘keeper touched over.

Then, United had a great spell, with Rooney causing havoc. He is some player when he is on form. On 23 minutes, a long ball over the top and Jose Bosingwa was caught napping. Ryan Giggs – who was playing for United twenty years ago – neatly spun past the Chelsea right-back. I clearly saw Rooney unmarked – I was in direct line with the ball which Giggs played – and the resultant shot crept in off the far post. It was a great spot by Giggs, but where was our marking? It was a surreal moment – it seemed to happen in a vacuum, no Chelsea participation, the deathly hush from us as it bounced over the line. Sickening. Even more sickening was the roll on the pitch and then the celebratory salute which Rooney provided for the MHL.

Rooney had taken loads of abuse from the whistle and he must have loved it.

The United fans raised their volumes and we didn’t retaliate. As the game grew older, the Chelsea support lessened and lessened. United’s midfield – not great on paper – closed us down and it felt like we were second to every ball.

I commented to Alan – “we’ve got nobody grabbing the game by the balls.” Our midfield, Ramires apart, was woeful. Lampard was missing. Essien was poor, too, and only had one surging run down the left to show for his efforts. Zhirkov too – poor. Upfront, Drogba and Anelka were struggling to hit it off. Our laboured approach was too slow for Torres.

Then, just before the break, Drogba struck a cross cum shot into the box from the left. It was aimed at Torres, but the ball continued on untouched until it struck the far post at knee height, with Van der Sar beaten. The ball rebounded out to Frank, who smashed the ball goal wards. I was up celebrating – had to be a goal! – but the United ‘keeper miraculously kept it out. I had immediate memories of Luis Garcia at Anfield in 2005. Was it over?

It wasn’t. The Bridge collapsed with frustration.

Moans and grumbles at the break – we’re good at that.

Neil Barnett briefly brought Gianfranco Zola out onto the pitch at the break and it is very likely that 5,000 Chelsea fans shouted “get yer boots on, Franco!” Ed came down to talk to me at half-time and we agreed that we couldn’t be as bad in the second-half.

Soon into the second period, Didier did ever so well to keep fighting for a ball on the far touch line and zipped over a great cross, but Ramires headed over. After another poor Lampard corner – yes, I know, I’ve said it a thousand times – the ball was played back in and Drogba attempted an overhead kick which flew narrowly over. All of our other shots – usually from distance – ended up being aimed straight at Van der Sar.

Sure, we had a lot of the ball, but we never looked convincing. Apart from an offside goal and a few rare breaks, United were content to defend, which was quite unlike them. Torres was trying his best, but with poor service. Balls were pumped up to Drogba, but there tended not to be much interplay between our front two. Even in this one game, Drogba was splitting our support…some were applauding him, some were not so keen. At the back, at least JT was playing like a man possessed once again. He is having his best season for a while. He’d get my vote for Player of the Year.

On 70 minutes, Carlo changed things, with Anelka and Malouda on for Drogba and the very disappointing Zhirkov. Soon after, I captured that great Torres header on film. He arched his back and strained to reach the ball, looping it up and over Van der Sar on purpose. But what a save from their ‘keeper. Oh boy. More frustration.

On 81 minutes, typical Chelsea. Four players – Essien, Malouda, Cole and Lampard – stood by a free-kick. In a scene which reminded me of the bizarre plays in American football, three of them ran over the ball on dummy runs and Frank Lampard struck the ball – guess! – straight at Van der Sar.

Brilliant. Let’s do that again.

That was all captured on film too.

Mikel on for Bosingwa. Essien – just like in Moscow 2008 – moved to right-back.

Our shooting was rubbish. In fact, I lost count of the number of shots which meekly ended up bobbling along the ground, straight at the Manchester United goalie. On 86 minutes, Nani – the substitute – had a break and we all thought “oh no, two-nil, that’s it”, but he took one touch too many and Petr Cech was able to smother the ball. Looking back, Cech didn’t have to make many saves.

Then, it all went crazy in the last ten minutes. Nicolas Anelka headed over from close range and then followed it up with a weak shot at the near post. On 90 minutes, the game’s defining moment; the ever busy Ramires burst through the middle and ran with the ball alongside Evra. I was just anticipating a shot, when he fell to the floor. It happened so quickly of course, but – trying desperately hard not to be biased here – it looked a certain penalty. I glanced at the onrushing referee.

No.

The Bridge, remembering the Barcelona debacle of 2009, howled in anger but I just stood motionless, speechless, mortified. Words would fail me. I stood silent. Immediate texts from unbiased Chelsea fans confirmed that it was a penalty.

The final moment of irony – Torres booked for a dive in the box, just yards away from me.

Stamford Bridge – the place where Champions League penalty appeals die.

As I left my seat – “see you Saturday” – my mood was strangely not of doom and gloom. I quickly thought about the other games – Tottenham… out of it… Inter… out of it… Shaktor… out of it. We had not played well, but we had only lost 1:0. We must go to Old Trafford next Tuesday and give it our all. We’re still in this. It’s only half-time.

Walking out onto the Fulham Road, though, the mood amongst my fellow fans annoyed me. There was constant bitching – no doubt continuing on all over the internet still – but for 95% of the game, 34,000 Chelsea fans had been heavily out sung by 3,000 United fans. Where was our support? Where was it? It made me seethe.

I tried to be positive, though – at Old Trafford, there will be 3,700 die-hard away fans out-singing the home fans. You mark my words.

As I met up with Parky along the North End Road, I mused that this had been a game of inches. In the first-half, that Rooney shot went in off the far post, while that deft Drogba effort came back off the post.

Inches.

It got me thinking, you know…posts and Chelsea vs. Manchester United Champions League games – it makes you wonder doesn’t it?

Tales From The Wheatsheaf, The Greyhound And The Black Bear

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 2 April 2011.

Damn these international breaks; our game with Manchester City seemed ages ago. We only had four games in March and I was very impatient for this Stoke City away game to eventually come around.

I left home at 7.45am and soon collected Parky and Kris.

The weather was mild, but overcast. Grey skies accompanied us on our drive up to North Staffordshire.

As we drove past Stafford, my thoughts centred on Burger and Julie. I was really dismayed that they were unable to obtain tickets for our game at the Britannia Stadium. Although other reasons were responsible for their massive decision to leave Canada and set up a new life in England, I know full well that Chelsea played a large part in the decision-making process. Their new home in Stafford is but twenty miles from Stoke, yet they had not been able to get match tickets. It is with deep irony that if they had still been living in Canada, tickets – via CIA – would have been a certainty.

Sigh.

I will not dwell too long on this most familiar of routes; this journey up the M5 and M6 would be my eighth already this season. Lots of familiar sights, tons of memories.

This would be my fourth visit to Stoke City’s new stadium. I fully remember the first of these; an F.A. Cup tie during the 2002-03 season. This was memorable as being the coldest game I have ever seen. Stoke’s stadium is atop a ridge of land at Sideway and is very exposed. There is no shelter at all. I can fully remember walking up to the stadium from the car park with my mate Alan, with arctic winds freezing us both to the bone. It was truly bitter. Never have I been happier to get inside a ground early.

As we pulled off the M6 at 11am, I sped down to Trent Vale and onto the A500, the white stands of the Britannia Stadium could easily be seen up on the right. It welcomed me once again to the city of Stoke-on-Trent, my home from September 1984 to July 1987. My old college town. My old stomping ground. This was one of those days when I wished that the pre-match could last for around ten hours as I had lots of ideas flowing through my brain about potential options. I wanted to pay due respect to my old haunts, yet I knew there wouldn’t be enough time to pack it all in.

We had already taken a quick detour off the M5 for a quick McBreakfast, so there was no need to try and find a café. I drove straight into the town of Stoke. Remember that the city of Stoke-on-Trent is really the amalgamation of six separate towns – Stoke itself, Hanley, Fenton, Longton, Burslem and Tunstall. Stoke-on-Trent only received its city status in 1925. So, the area of Stoke itself, the most southerly of the six, is a bit of an enigma. It houses the city’s major football team (Port Vale is further north in Burslem) and gives the city its name, but its commercial centre is very small. Frome has more shops than Stoke. The commercial centre of the city is actually in Hanley at the top of a gradual incline.

After heading through Stoke – I used to live right next to Stoke’s old home, the Victoria Ground – I headed over to the adjacent town of Newcastle-under-Lyme, a separate borough which abuts Stoke’s western edge. I had promised myself a quick dip into a famous menswear shop, now called “Pockets” (formerly “Review” back in the ‘eighties) to cast a glance at their wares. Back in 1986 and 1987, I bought two items from “Review” – a Best Company T-shirt and an EA sweatshirt. It was always a great shop. There was “Matinique” in Hanley too – I bought some Robe di Kappa gear there – and I once bumped into Adrian Heath, the former Stoke City midfielder who was playing for Everton at the time, in that second shop. In those days, the local Stoke lads used to look to the fashions which had evolved on the terraces of Anfield and Old Trafford rather than the more upmarket designer threads on show at Chelsea. I once bought a “Stolen From Ivor” sweatshirt from a shop in Hanley – I had seen Mancs wearing them at Euston in 1985 – and I was probably the only Chelsea fan with that particular brand on show at the time.

So, a Chelsea fan stranded in The Potteries – sartorially confused!

We only spent about fifteen minutes in “Pockets” and there was nothing there which tempted me to be honest. The usual suspects – EA, Boss, Ralph Lauren, CP, SI, Paul & Shark, Paul Smith – but no sale.

Not this time.

From Newcastle, we headed – in that most famous Stokie phrase of all – “Up ‘Anley, duck” to meet Cathy and Dog at a pub just to the south of the city centre. We stayed at The Wheatsheaf for about an hour and I was able to chat with Cathy about our individual plans for the summer tour of Asia. The Wheatsheaf was a rather down at heel pub and reminded me of the Flat Iron outside Anfield. There were a few Chelsea old school from days gone by and a few local lads. No hint of trouble, though. As the West Ham United vs. Manchester United game began in the other bar, we decided to move on. I had other plans.

I then drove south back towards Stoke and up to the very pleasant area of Penkhull. I parked outside The Greyhound pub and we spent a lovely time in the saloon bar. Back in my college days, we would often head up the hill to Penkhull and enjoy a few sherbets in The Greyhound. I remember one night in 1985 when we celebrated my mate Huw’s 21st birthday and a good time was had by all. Before that 2003 F.A. Cup game, Alan and I dropped into this pub during a hectic Sunday lunchtime and when I asked if we could be served, a barmaid curtly replied

“No. We’re busy.”

Maybe it was my Southern accent!

This time, it was lovely though. The saloon bar was a picture; wooden panelling, Rennie-McIntosh style tables and chairs and a row of daffodils in vases on the mantelshelf over the fire. I read a tablet on the wall, next to the dartboard, which said that the room that we were in dated from 1540. While Parky dabbled with a few tunes on the jukebox, I played pool with Kris and chatted to a couple of Stokies who were off to the game. We then heard that West Ham were two-up against United.

Well, this is lovely. What a great time.

On the jukebox, “Dreadlock Holiday” by 10cc gave way to “It’s My Life” by Talk Talk.

Outside, the sun was breaking through. Good times.

At about 2.15pm, we left The Greyhound and I drove down the hill towards Stoke and immediately spotted four red double-decker busses up on the horizon heading towards the Britannia Stadium. These, no doubt, would be ferrying Chelsea fans from the train station to the ground. It’s always a battle for the London lads coming up by train to avoid the police escort. Fans in the know come up early and splinter off, away from the train station. It’s no fun being treated like cattle. I then drove past the Commercial Inn – where we had the September 2009 pre-match – and over to the stadium (this drive is featured in the weblink below – Penkhull 0:07, The Commercial Inn 0:18, Stoke town centre 0:29, my old house on Selwyn Street 0:51, The Britannia 1:13)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tqxKHv-eyJ8

There were plenty of car-parking places outside the stadium, but many fans parked on the grass verges of the roads which approach the stadium. This was my choice too – ideal for a quick getaway. We then slowly walked the ten minutes up to the stadium, past a few hot dog and ice-cream vans and chaps selling Stoke / Wembley souvenirs. As we crossed a footbridge over one of the canals which were key to The Potteries’ industrial heyday, a barge passed by (featured in one of my five photographs from the day) and a Stokie was selling a copy of the fanzine “The Oatcake.”

By the time we had reached the away turnstiles, the weather had turned warmer, but we had received some grave news from Upton Park. Manchester United had turned things around and had recovered to beat West Ham 4:2. The lovely buzz of The Greyhound (United losing, their confidence low, Chelsea players listening in, spirits soaring, just right for this afternoon and then on to Wednesday…) seemed ages ago.

Into the stadium – the Chelsea bar area at Stoke is always notoriously loud and boisterous – and a few handshakes with Alan, Gary, Andy, Ajax and Woody. The mood was of sudden gloom.

“Hey, we’ll do well to win this today.”

It reminded me of the day last season when United won at City and we struggled at Tottenham. Inside the ground, a large home banner was wending its way from the north stand to the east stand –

“The 12th Man – Loud & Proud.”

Just before the kick-off, Whitey appeared holding a large plastic cup of coke.

“Smell it” he said to Alan.

“Whisky.”

The news was that Fernando Torres was on the bench. I had predicted that his first Chelsea goals would come against Manchester United on Wednesday. So, Drogba and Anelka upfront, with Malouda and Ramires wide in a midfield four. Let’s forget about United for ninety minutes, let’s just defeat Stoke.

At kick-off, the sun was out and the sky was a lovely blue-and-white mixture.

We were in great voice and it is doubly ironic that we were in the middle of the David Luis song when he lost concentration and allowed Walters to break from just inside his own half.

“Oh David Luiz, you light up my life” – Stop!

He advanced and darted towards our box. Michael Essien (not sure where Bosingwa was…) raced over to cover, but he jumped in, allowing Walters to double-back and send Essien packing. A firm strike avoided John Terry’s lunge and the ball crashed into the net past Petr Cech.

The 3,000 Chelsea were silent. The Stokies went ballistic.

We responded with – “You Never Won F All.”

I had a wry smile…and said “well, the only thing they have won was the 1972 League Cup Final when they beat us!”

Then Stoke responded –

“Ashley Cole – He Shoots Little Kids” (though, with their accents, it sounded like “keds.”)

We replied –

“Ashley Cole – He Shoots Who He wants.”

After this awful start, we dominated possession and carved out quite a few chances.

A diving header from Ashley Cole was touched around the post, Florent Malouda hit over, a Frank Lampard volley straight at the ‘keeper, a nice ball from Anelka to Drogba and a volley over. After Luiz’ aberration, John Terry similarly lost Kenwyne Jones, but just about recovered in time to nick the ball before Jones could take aim at our goal.

I commented to Alan that we were obsessed with laying the ball out to Cole, Malouda, Ramires and Bosingwa when the better option might have been to take a run deep at the heart of their defence and take a shot. Just as I had finished speaking, Anelka spotted a superb run by Drogba and lofted a sublime ball into the box. Drogba dived full length and the ball flew into the net.

Get in.

Now it was our turn to sing.

We had pleasing possession for the rest of the half and Ramires was playing well again, staying out wide and giving team mates options. He wasn’t drifting inside and was keeping our shape. Top marks. There was a continued tussle between JT and Jones, one of many sub-plots in the game. Just on half-time, ex-Chelsea defender Robert Huth had a prolonged run deep into our box, but Didier Drogba stayed with him the whole way and poked a toe out to rob the ball. That’s more like it Didier. He was rightly cheered.

As the teams left the pitch at the break, the Chelsea thousands warmly applauded the boys. At the break, down in the dark area below the seats, Andy from Trowbridge was up to his eyes in a Wrights Pie and the gents’ toilets were so full of cigarette smoke that I had to turn my fog-lights on.

In the second-half, Stoke continued to give us a good game and I would suggest they had the better goal-scoring chances. Nico shimmied and hit wide, but then Jermaine Pennant forced a fine block from Petr Cech. Then, chances coming thick and fast, Ramires slipped the ball to Drogba with a delightful ball, but the resulting shot scraped the far post.

As the hour approached, Gary glanced over to our left and spotted Fernando Torres and Salomon Kalou jogging up and down the touchline.

“There’s £51 million of talent warming up there.”

I had to laugh; “More like 49, Gal.”

Of course, Torres and Kalou came on for Anelka and Kalou, but – despite an early run and cross by Torres – our shape was disrupted and we struggled for 15 minutes. I didn’t think Ramires should have been subbed. The other three midfielders were hardly shining.

Then two good chances from Stoke. A bullet of a free-kick from Wilson was nimbly touched onto his bar by Cech and then that man Huth crashed a header against our bar from the ensuing corner.

Stoke were now back in it and the game opened-up further. Luis was not so perfect against this physical team; shades of Frank Leboeuf versus Wimbledon in 1996.

In the away end, I had heard several local Stoke accents mingled amongst the Chelsea support. For a connoisseur of accents like me, it’s an easy spot. I soon realised that the chap to my left was a Chelsea fan from Stoke, especially since he overly used the word “hellfire.” It’s a word that always crops up when my college mates and I drop a Stoke accent into our conversations.

It brought a smile to my face when he said “hellfire, Chelsea, we can beat Stoke!”

Kenwyne Jones headed over from a trademark Delap throw. Everyone around me was decidedly anxious. On 80 minutes, with Chelsea back in the game, Drogba swivelled and volleyed against the bar. Frank shot wide from a quickly-taken free-kick. Luis played the ball of the game to substitute Ivanovic, but Drogba shot meekly wide. I had memories of that late late goal from Florent Malouda which one us the game last season and was hoping for a similar ending. Frank had a late chance.

Six minutes of extra time.

“Come on!”

On 92 minutes, Stoke substitute Fuller then headed over from close range and we heaved a massive sigh of relief. A few frantic crosses and corners, a few half-chances.

No last minute winner. Not this time. Our last lingering hope of the championship was surely taken away from us at Stoke.

We soon got back to the waiting car and – quickest getaway ever – I was on the M6 within just two minutes.

Parky summed it up well – “It was a game we should have won, but could have lost.”

At about 6pm, I pulled into Frankley Services, just south of Birmingham. Who should pull up alongside me in a blue Mercedes, but Chelsea chairman Bruce Buck? As we walked towards the front of the building, I had a few words, but he looked decidedly pee’d-off. I sensed that he didn’t fancy a chat and so I quickly wished him a safe drive back to London.

To break the journey up a little, we spent an hour in a lovely old pub – The Black Bear – in Tewkesbury. The Arsenal vs. Blackburn game was on TV and we took a little solace in the 0:0 draw that was being played out before us. Arsenal were out of sorts and the stadium was deathly quiet. At the final whistle, it brought a smile to my face to hear the loud round of boos which greeted the Arsenal team as they traipsed off the pitch.

On a day like this, any victory, no matter how small, is warmly greeted.

We’ll need to regroup on Wednesday; United will be looking for revenge for our 2:1 victory last month. Of course, we ourselves have that little matter of Moscow to resolve.

Hellfire!

Tales From The David Luiz Show

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 March 2011.

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

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

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

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

Faces everywhere, conversations taking place, beers being quaffed.

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

“Two-nil, I reckon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“547 SW6”

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

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

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

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

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

Big mistake.

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

Their lads. Their boys. Their chaps.

Their firm, in other words.

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

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

Chelsea 5 Manchester City 4.

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

Back to 2011.

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

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

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

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

Oh, how I wish I had been there.

Proper Chelsea.

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

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

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

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

Now, we were roaring.

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

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

Oh boy. What a player.

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

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

Yeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssss!

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

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

This boy can play.

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

David Luiz and Ramires. Simply Braziliant.

It had been quite a sideshow.

Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 16 March 2011.

Ah, the 16th of March – a momentous date in my life.

Our game with Copenhagen coincided with the 37th anniversary of my first ever Chelsea game. Ironically, our defeat at the hands of Inter last season was on the same date – but I was pretty confident that a similar fate would not befall Chelsea in 2011. In fact, I had hardly thought about the game against Gronkjaer and co – yet another game that had snuck in under the radar.

I took a half day holiday as I had just about had my fill of stressful sorties up the M4 motorway for midweek games. As it happened, this was a very fortuitous move. At around 4pm, with His Lordship alongside me, I received a text from Bristol Tim on the M4. It seemed that there had been a major snarl-up around Maidenhead and that the eastbound motorway would be closed until 6.15pm. I contemplated my options and took the A34 down to the A303 and headed in on the M3.

From my home in Somerset, I had headed north to collect Parky, then east towards Hungerford, north to the M4, east towards Newbury, and then I took that well-timed diversion south to the A303, then east again to the M25 and eventually north to the M4 and then finally east towards HQ. My route to Stamford Bridge had mirrored an elongated Pat Nevin dribble. A bit like that famous one against The Geordies in 1983, maybe.

With much pleasure, we stumbled into The Goose at 5.45pm – my journey had grown to 141 miles, but I could relax. Tim, however, was still struggling to get in and was still stuck on the M4.

We spent a lovely 90 minutes in the pub, chatting and looking forward to possible venues for “the last eight.” One of our topics of conversation – and consternation – was the price of the game…my ticket had cost me £57. That’s a lot of money for a tie which, hopefully, was already won in Denmark. But what can we do? Maybe one day, I’ll resist. To be fair, Rob had looked at the price and had resisted. However, he made it in from Essex for the pre-match banter (which is what 75% of “Chelsea” is anyway, let’s be honest) and then had plans to disappear off to The Imperial to watch the game on the box. I respected his opinion – he had paid ?50 to fly to Copenhagen for the first leg, but had really felt disgusted about paying more for his own seat at The Bridge. I was left with explicit instructions for me to text him my guestimate of the crowd.

In our little corner, surrounded by familiar faces, it was a typical scene.

Smiles and laughter, groans at shocking puns, pints of Carling, mobile phones being checked for messages, friends arriving, faces noted, talk of past games, the Blackpool post-game party and the inevitable hangovers, Barbour jackets, pints of Fosters, new pullovers, shrieks from the far corner, friends from far off places, the excitement of the imminent draw, “get the beers in Parky”, more tales from Blackpool, plans for Stoke away, Russell’s new job, “mind yer backs”, more beers, blokes in work clothes, shared memories of distant fashions and distant games, Bayern Munich away, Juventus two years ago, the classic moments relived one more time, lads in Adidas trainers, “one more beer”, tangled conversations, jokes, banter, football.

Inside the stadium, it soon became apparent that fewer people than we had expected had resisted the game. All areas, with the exception of the very back rows of the East Upper and the upper corners of the West Stand were full of spectators. Of course, the three thousand away fans were in early and were making the expected din. I suspect that they had been on the Carlsberg all day. Alan had met a couple in The Imperial and he reported that they were buzzing. Their balcony was covered in club banners and flags. Throughout the game, they did themselves proud. Lots of noise. Balloons when the two teams entered the pitch. Lots of planned and choreographed waving of scarves and bizarre hand-jives…lots of singing, lots of fun.

It was back to the CL style programme – white cover, spine – for this game. The programme seller gave me an extra one and I noted a photo of Gill and Graeme inside.

Carlo was testing the 4-4-2 once more and I was a little surprised to see Fernando Torres on the bench.

We had a reasonably well observed moment’s silence in memory of the poor souls who lost their lives in Japan and then the MH serenaded John Terry with the much-loved –

“One England Captain.”

The game?

We couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo.

We couldn’t hit a donkey’s arse with a saucepan.

We couldn’t hit a chef’s arse with a soup ladle.

We couldn’t hit a spaceman’s arse with a ukulele.

We couldn’t hit a red-headed Bourbon Street floozie’s arse with a trombone.

We couldn’t hit Peter Piper’s arse with a peck of pickled peppers.

We couldn’t hit a banjo’s arse with a cow.

The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –

“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fcuking thing.”

“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

“Speak fcuking Danish, why don’t you speak fcuking Danish?”

The Danes also gave many rousing renditions of the theme from “The Great Escape” too. Generally speaking though, we were subdued and were only roused intermittently. As I looked around to check on the gaps in the seats, I spotted a few more American flags…notably those from Southern California, Austin and the Bay Area. Good work.

It was enjoyable to see Jesper Gronkjaer once again. He was a bit of an enigma was Jesper, to say the least. He had blistering pace, but the end product was usually woeful. We ought to name The Shed roof after him, since a high proportion of his crosses ended up heading towards it. Whenever he received the ball, loads of us would often shout “Run Forrest.”

And he usually did.

He had a peculiar running style too, as though his upper body was in a different plane to his legs. His arms tended to move sideways.

We carved out plenty of chances in the game, of course…a few early chances including one for Yuri with the entire goal begging, a Drogba curler which was well saved, a great deep cross from Bosingwa which was volleyed wide by Didier, a couple of Anelka one-on-ones wasted, a Ramires strike saved, some head tennis in the six yard box and a Mikel header hitting the bar, a strong run from the substitute Torres and a deft flick, a deflected Torres shot and an Essien blast saved.

The pick of the bunch though, was a nonchalant shot from Didier which ballooned about fifteen yards in the air and went off for a throw-in down below the TV studio in the NE corner.

Oh boy.

Overall, I thought Drogba and Anelka played two far apart, especially in the first-half. They need to work on their partnership and that can’t be done when they are so distant. The midfield did not really support the front two that well…I have the impression that Carlo advised the team to play within themselves and not overly exert themselves. I can see the reasons for that. Despite the 25 shots on goal, the mood was of frustration amongst the Chelsea faithful, though. Torres looked sharp…I keep saying it…the goals will come. Copenhagen didn’t really threaten too much, but of course the free-kick which rattled our woodwork certainly gave us a scare early on.

As I left the stadium, there were murmurs of discontent, but it only took me a few sobering moments to remember March 16th. 2010 and I was just glad that had made it into the final eight. Carlo’s pragmatism over wild adventure had succeeded and we all eagerly await the draw on Friday.

On the drive home, I contemplated the draw options while listening to a few Spurs fans on “606.” They were just too full of themselves and I’m just dreading our two names to be drawn together in the quarters. Looking ahead, I am hoping to travel to any venue apart from Donetsk. I have visited all of the other six stadia over the years, though I haven’t seen a game at Real Madrid. As I missed out on the trip to the San Siro in 1999 and 2010, a game against Inter would be my personal favourite, though a return trip to the grimy industrial town of Gelsenkirchen would not be a problem either.

On Sunday, let’s beat City.

Tales From The Golden Mile

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Blackpool vs. Chelsea : 7 March 2011.

At last, one of the most eagerly awaited domestic away games was upon us. Chelsea last visited Bloomfield Road for a League Cup game in 1996, but our last league game in that famous resort town was in the mid-‘seventies. A return visit was long-overdue. Ever since The Tangerines gained promotion last May, this away fixture has really caught the imagination of the Chelsea faithful. Why is this? Well, the usual case of “new ground” tells only half the story. Blackpool has been a monster on the holiday map of the UK since cheap railway excursions brought thousands of people in to the town during the Victorian era. It remains England’s most famous resort, much favoured by Northerners and Scots – to say nothing of stag and hen parties. The town has a reputation as a bold and brash – and cheap and cheerful – resort with its famous Golden Mile, sandy beaches, Tower, Pleasure Beach, trams, concert halls, three piers and autumnal illuminations. If you throw in a few casinos and lap-dancing establishments, for some, Blackpool by the sea equates to our Las Vegas. Stop sniggering at the back.

Of course, we just knew that we wouldn’t get Blackpool away on a late summer or spring weekend, but it came as a kick in the teeth when our game at Bloomfield Road was rescheduled for a Monday night. However, there was no doubt that Chelsea would be in Blackpool in good numbers and some went up on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday. For some, it would have the feel of a European away game.

It was a frosty morning in deepest Somerset as I left my house at about 10.30am. I loaded my car with the usual match day necessities and turned the ignition on. After the slightest of pauses, a favourite song from my youth began and it brought a smile to my face…

“I would go out tonight, but I haven’t got a stitch to wear.”

As I drove the 15 miles to collect Parky, I was filled with a feeling of chilled-out pleasure, the whole day ahead of me, a trip in support of my team – and no worry of work on the Tuesday as I had booked the whole week off. Of course, our recent resurgence, plus a lovely Sunday which saw both Manchester United and Tottenham drop points, only added to the sense of anticipation.

Fantastic.

I collected a smiling Lord Parky at 11am and we were on our way north. Parky’s last visit to Blackpool was way back in 1988, that second summer of love when the dance halls of England were reverberating to acid house for the first time. As we ploughed north, I spoke of my previous visits to Blackpool.

In the immediate post WWII period, my mother became friendly with a Lancashire girl, Muriel,when she spent a week near Rye in Sussex. They were two of the many “land girls” who were gainfully employed by the government to bridge the gap in the agricultural workforce caused by the missing thousands still stationed abroad after the conflict. Muriel was from Burnley and, after marrying Joe, went on to run a bed and breakfast hotel in Blackpool on the bracing Lancashire coast. Mum and Muriel remained friends and so, on a couple of occasions in the late ‘sixties, my parents and I stayed with them at their B&B. This would have been a massive car trip for Dad, in pre motorway days, and I have vague memories of the journey north. The approach into Blackpool, with Dad asking if I can spot the tower, must have been as exciting as it gets for a three year old. There is grainy cine film of myself cavorting on Blackpool beach, wearing a bizarre swimming costume, and playing with my father, trousers rolled up in classic English paddling mode, as the tide gently lapped at the golden sands. There is also film of me riding a famous Blackpool donkey and on a ride at the famous Pleasure Beach. Of all my childhood memories, the time spent at Blackpool with my parents are some of my sweetest. At the age of three, I doubt if my fascination with football had begun, but I do remember very well the moment that Joe had pointed out the stands and floodlights of Bloomfield Road, at the end of a typical terraced street. I can therefore, without much fear of contradiction, say that the home of Blackpool F.C. was my first ever sighting of a football ground.

Blackpool stayed off the radar for more than three decades, with holiday destinations getting more and more exotic with each passing year. By the time that I next visited Blackpool, in 2001, there had been achange to my holiday destinations; more and more were becoming football, er Chelsea, based. Trips to Barcelona and Bratislava had replaced trips to Blackpool and Bournemouth. In fact, my last European beach holiday was to Corfu, way back in 1992. Since then, virtually all European holidays have been with Chelsea. Give me the buzz of a football city rather than a hot beach any day.

In the 2001 to 2003 period, Chelsea’s European trips almost dried up. Neither myself nor many of my mates travelled abroad in these “UEFA cup years,” and so to keep our team bonding intact, we instead supplemented our week-to-week meet-ups with three end-of-season trips to Blackpool (2001 – Manchester City away), Scarborough (2002 – Middlesbrough away) and Brighton(2003 – Liverpool at home).

Seven of us (Alan, Glenn, Russ, Daryl, Neil, The Youth and I) had a lovely time in Blackpool in 2001. It certainly helped that our mini-bus excursion to Maine Road resulted in an easy2-0 Chelsea win against a poor City team. This was our last ever game at City’s old home ground, but the memory was scarred by an angry pitch invasion from the City lads just before the final whistle. I took a few photos of these stereotypical Mancs, all Gallagher-esque posing and designer jackets, eyeballing us all in the away stand. For once, we didn’t retaliate. With a line of Manchester police to protect us, we just stood and stared them out. Our mini-bus was parked in the grim streets just outside the away end and we had a quick getaway. We would never return to that famous old stadium. This also proved to be the last ever Chelsea game for Frank Leboeuf and Dennis Wise. Back in Blackpool that evening, after a quick change from match-going jumpers, jackets, jeans and trainers to smarter attire, we had a legendary pub crawl deep into the night.

Almost ten years have since passed. Where does the time go? I suppose the smart-arse answer to that is “the time goes winning trophies.” Is it any wonder that the time has flown by? Three league titles, three F.A. Cups and two League Cups. Thank you very much and more of the same please.

Judy and I paid a quick visit to Blackpool, mainly to see the famous illuminations, after the Wigan game in the autumn of 2009. I was reminded of how brash the town was, but never expected to be soon returning with Chelsea. However, that’s it for me – just two visits to Blackpool in around 43 years.

For once, the trail north – M4, M5, M6 – seemed to be clear of heavy traffic and I made good time. The Smiths were followed by Everything But The Girl and then The Killers.

On the final approach to Blackpool, with blue skies overhead, we spotted the famous tower and then drove straight past Bloomfield Road before parking in the town centre. Most of the locals seemed to be wearing scabby tracky-bottoms – they must be getting their fashion advice from the nearby Scousers – and I had the feeling that the town had nosedived further since 2009. At a few minutes past 3pm, we had joined Alan, Daryl, Neil and Gary in The Walkabout. They had travelled up on Sunday morning. Daryl explained that the highlight of the previous day had been the sight of big Tommy Murphy, one of Lovejoy’s mates, taking to the floor during a Northern Soul segment at a local bar. The image is still burning in my mind; wish I had been there to see that! I had a good chat with Neil, who has experience of travel in Asia, ahead of my trip out to Malaysia and Thailand with Chelsea in July. We were then joined by Mike and Danny from New York amidst talk of Eric Cantona and the New York Cosmos, Danny’s scrape with Newcastle United hoolies in the early ‘eighties and the Coney Island like charms of Blackpool.

We dipped into another pub on the short walk down to the ground and bumped into a few more Chelsea mates. General consensus was of a heavy Chelsea victory – maybe by four goals to nil. Blackpool, to be honest, had the feel of a ghost town at this stage. We had hardly seen any home fans in and around the town centre and I guess their fans had been busy at work.

Just outside the away entrance, a jovial Blackpool steward regaled Parky and me with his memories of the last top-flight Blackpool vs. Chelsea game way back in the autumn of 1970. Blackpool had stormed into a 3-0 half-time lead, but – much to the amusement of his best mate, a Chelsea supporter – we came back to win it 4-3. Famously, Ron Harris includes this particular game in his recollections of past matches. The story went that the Chelsea players had hit the town the previous night and were heavily feeling the effects of their drunken binge during that woeful first-half. However, after four second-half goals, surely the boss Dave Sexton would have been happy. Well, Sexton was fuming at the final whistle and laid into all of the Chelsea players in no uncertain terms. After a few minutes of vitriolic abuse, Peter Osgood could take no more and chirped –

“Leave it out boss. If they hadn’t run out of lager, we would’ve scored eight.”

Bloomfield Road has been slowly redeveloped over the years and the large Kop to the north of the stadium was taken down quite a few years ago. It is now a trim, but pretty bland, single tiered stadium, albeit with a thin line of executive boxes under the roofs of the west and south stands. The east stand, hastily erected during the summer, is a temporary structure and this was where the 1,600 away fans were assembling. I took a few photos of Ashley Cole, Fernando Torres, John Terry, David Luiz – the new hero – and Frank Lampard as they finished their pre-match routines. I had a good seat in row K. The temporary seats were surprisingly padded but everyone stood. The beery Chelsea fans were in good voice and the tight away stand was rocking.

In the home end – the new-look Kop – the Blackpool fans held aloft a banner…

“Jesus satisfied 5,000 with 5 loaves and 2 fish. Ian Holloway has satisfied millions with 11 tangerines.”

Big Pete, one of the CSG stalwarts, was standing a few rows behind and his 6 foot 6 inch frame was augmented by a massive David Luiz wig. He looked a picture, though he probably blocked the view of the poor people in the rows behind. Alan, Gary and I were again sat near Mark, Nick, Robbie and Charlie – familiar fixtures at away games. It made me realise that all of the staunchest of Chelsea supporters were in Blackpool; we had all made the effort, paid the hotels, paid the train tickets, paid for the petrol, taken time off work, made the effort. May it long continue.

Drogba in for Anelka, Bosingwa in for Ivanovic, Zhirkov in for Malouda. Game on.

The new David Luiz song – “You brighten up my life, I’ll let you shag my wife, I want curly hair too” – was soon aired, but Blackpool began the stronger team. A bursting run from The Captain found Didier, but his attempt was smothered by Kingson. Andy Reid, the rounded Blackpool winger who reminds me so much of former Forest player John Robertson, was enjoying lots of space in the midfield and there was growing concern that our midfield was again sluggish. Blackpool, full of energy and team work, certainly dominated the first twenty minutes.

Despite the long wait and the sense of anticipation, clearly Blackpool’s charms had not impressed some of the Chelsea support. We reworked the standard Blackpool chant – “This is the best trip, I’ve ever been on” – with a more discouraging set of lyrics…

“We want to go home, we want to go home – Blackpool’s a 5hit hole, we want to go home.”

Print that on your T-shirts!

Then, a Frank Lampard corner away to my right and my camera focussed on the run by Luiz towards the near post. I almost missed the subsequent unhindered leap by John Terry, but saw the ball bounce down and into the Blackpool goal.

Phew. The applause was surprisingly reserved – not sure why.

The songs continued and we clawed our way back into the game. A rising drive from the left foot of Jose Bosingwa was ably palmed over by Kingson. However, Blackpool was still giving as good as they got. Stephen Crainey, the left-back, was augmenting Reid’s forays into our defence with several timely runs. Jason Puncheon waltzed past Luis and struck a low shot, which PetrCech fingered onto his near post. This was a near miss and further galvanized the home support. Just on half-time, however, the best move of the match which involved four of five players in a flowing passage resulted in a left-footed shot from Ramires which was turned around the post. Despite a slim lead, we knew we had rode our luck.

At the break, there was general disquiet amongst the Chelsea faithful.

Our twin strikers were not really working together and the midfield were not playing as a unit. This was another substandard show from Messrs’ Lampard and Essien. Ramires was again the star of our midfield four. Chances were exchanged as the match progressed, but it was not until Salomon Kalou entered the fray on the hour that we began to look livelier. Drogba, suffering with one or two knocks, had been hobbling around for a few minutes and we all expected Anelka to get the nod. Instead, Kalou breathed new urgency into the team. Firstly, he won the penalty with a strong run deep into the box.

Frank calmly despatched the penalty and we were two to the good.

This goal was celebrated with the releasing of a purple-blue flare towards the back of the Chelsea contingent. The smoke drifted across the pitch, but soon dissipated. This was followed up with a stand-shaking bouncy. Good times.

That man Kalou then delightfully played in Frank, and our number eight ably converted with the minimum of fuss. As he reeled away, I was reminded that both of our goal scorers, JT and Frank, were tied at 471 in total Chelsea games. These two stalwarts, our true Blue Brothers, have been at the very epi-centre of our successes since 2001 and we would be supporting a very different Chelsea Football Club without them. They embody our spirit and character. Although Frank has not been himself this season, he always chimes in with key goals and JT is JT. He was one of our best players yet again. Fernando Torres was pretty quiet all game and his best chance was a nonchalant flick with the outside of his right foot which did not threaten the Blackpool goal. His goals will come. Young Josh – “he’s only thirteen,” the away fans bellowed – entered the game and enjoyed some nice touches. With Malouda’s fresh legs exposing tiredness in Blackpool’s defence, we fully expected a couple more goals for The Champions, but it was Blackpool who enjoyed the last goal of the game, a low drive from Puncheon leaving Cech stranded. To be honest, we went to sleep in the last few minutes and the Blackpool support was encouraging their team on. A few chances flew past Cech’s goal, but we shakily survived.

The other lads were headed back into the town, but Parky and I soon found our way back to my waiting car. We rolled out of town at 10.30pm and Chelsea had three much needed points tucked inside our back pockets. It hadn’t been a great performance, but – oh boy, I’m sure everyone has worked out the mathematics – those three points gained on a blustery night on the Lancashire coast could be vitally important come May.

After a coffee stop on the outskirts of Stoke and with music from The Stranglers and then Echo And TheBunnymen keeping me going, I eventually reached home at just after 3am.

We reconvene in nine days’ time for the visit of Copenhagen to Stamford Bridge.

See you all there.

Tales From The Shed Lower

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 1 March 2011.

At work in the morning, I had a little chat with one of my work colleagues, a Manchester United fan.

“If you’re involved in the loading of the vehicles today, I want everything done sharpish as I have an evening’s entertainment to attend.”

“Oh, you’re playing tonight are you? Who against?”

“Uh – yeah. You may have heard of them. From Salford. Play in red.”

The penny dropped, and he was full of embarrassment.

Such is the way with United fans, all the world over I guess.

With my workload eventually completed, I left Chippenham at just after 4.30pm and I could relax a little. For once, I was travelling alone. Parky had taken the “slow boat to China” option and had travelled up by coach. Due to concerns about getting away on time, I had warned him that I might be away late. On Monday, for example, I didn’t leave until 6.15pm. A repeat would mean that I would be trapped in rush-hour traffic and would be unlikely to reach The Bridge until half-time. So, Parky caught a coach at 11.30am and eventually reached Earls Court at 3.30pm. By the time I was leaving Chippenham, he was probably on his third pint in The Goose.

As I drove past the Griffin Park floodlights at around 6pm, I switched over to listen to the sports bulletin on the radio. Carlo Ancelotti confirmed that Drogba and Torres would both take part in the game against United, though he didn’t say if both would be starting. After a delay getting in to London, I eventually walked into The Goose at 7pm. Parky was especially glad to see me as it meant that he wouldn’t have to wait around for the 2am return coach trip. James (zippy) from Kansas City had been in touch during the build up to the game and I had pointed him in the direction of The Goose, Parky and the rest of The Bing. He had enjoyed the pre-match hospitality and it looked like a good time had been shared. I took a couple of swigs from Parky’s pint and we were soon on our way up the North End Road. There was a chill in the air but our jackets kept out the cold.

Chelsea versus Manchester United. The Blues versus the Reds. The South versus the North. The Good Guys versus the Forces of Darkness. I have been lucky enough to attend every single one of the last twenty Chelsea vs. Manchester United league games at The Bridge and, of course, there are tons of memories. Our last defeat against them at home was way back in 2002 – we have certainly held the advantage in recent years.

For a change, I had a seat in The Shed Lower – not far from where Lord Parky resides – and I found myself near James, too. Luckily, there was a spare seat next to him, so I soon sat alongside. Our seats were just three rows from the back of the lower tier near the SW corner flag, underneath the overhang. If my memory serves, the last five rows were originally part of an enclosed corporate area when the stand was built in 1997. To be quite honest, the seats were cramped and the overhang gave a claustrophobic feel to the area. I’d hate to watch from there every game – Shed or no Shed. I longed for my usual perch, way up in the Matthew Harding wraparound. However, I had my camera at the ready – as ever – and I was preparing myself for plenty of shots from a different angle for a change.

I had only ever visited the Shed Lower on two other occasions. Ironically, on the fifth anniversary of the passing of the legendary Peter Osgood, I was reminded of that emotional Sunday in October 2006 when I attended The King’s memorial service, including the burial of his ashes at The Shed End penalty spot. Everyone who was there will remember the rain shower during the service, but then the sky lighting up with sun just before the casket was taken to its final resting place. I watched, with quiet and stony-faced reverence, on that saddest of days, from around Gate 5 in the Shed Lower. Then, in May 2007, I was back in the same corner for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United encounter. I took Judy’s boy James – a United follower – along for that one and it was a bitter-sweet experience…we had just relinquished our title to a resurgent United and so we had to give them a guard of honour as they entered the pitch. To be honest, both teams put out B teams and it ended 0-0. It was enjoyable, though, to be able to share my passion for Chelsea with James and he certainly got a kick out of seeing United up close. We had the last laugh, of course, later that month…F.A. Cup winners against United at the new Wembley.

Back to 2011 and all of those United memories evaporated in the noise as the teams entered the Stamford Bridge pitch.

This was here, this was now. Let’s go to work.

Being so low down, I immediately found the viewing position very frustrating. I spent the first few minutes acclimatising myself to my new surroundings. Having been tuned to see Chelsea in a standard 4-3-3 for the past six years, it took me a while to work out if Florent Malouda was the third striker or out wide in a flat 4-4-2. I think it took me all of the game to work it out and, even by the time he was subbed deep into the second-half, I still hadn’t sussed it.

I thought we began brightly and had the majority of the early ball. Fernando Torres was finding himself in lots of good positions and his movement and enthusiastic play was good to see. He seemed to especially enjoy drifting into the space out in that wide area in front of me, and I was transfixed with the way we worked the ball between Torres, Ramires and Ivanovic. It certainly was fantastic to be so close to the action. I snapped away as Branislav, in particular, sent balls into the area. Soon into the game, Anelka sent a ball in to the area from the inside-right berth, only for Malouda to fluff his shot, hitting it straight at Van De Sar. This sort of finishing was often repeated in the first quarter.

After our left-back’s stupidity at the training ground, the Matthew Harding was shouting “shoot” every time he touched the ball. What Ashley thought of this is not known, thank heavens.

Midway through the first period, I spotted Roy Bentley, no more than thirty feet away from me, sitting in the last remaining part of the old corporate area. As The Shed Lower curves around to the West Stand, there is one little private box left – and I got the impression that there were a few players’ wives and partners sat alongside Roy. Despite this being the hottest of tickets, most of the seats in the area were unused.

Then United’s presence grew and dominated the rest of the first-half. Paul Scholes, that old warhorse, was repeating his performance at last summer’s Community Shield, sitting deep and sliding other players in. Our midfield was giving United far too much respect and space and the frustration amongst the nearby home support rose. Rooney headed over on twenty minutes and a cross from Nani screamed across our six yard box soon after. Then, calamity. We backed off as Rooney was allowed to turn and, from about twenty-five yards out, drill a superbly accurate shot into Cech’s goal.

Silence. Not just from the Chelsea support, but for a split second, from the United support too. But then, rather than being subjected to the triumphal roar that I am used to hearing from the away fans, instead there was an eerily muffled noise. I looked over to my right, above the heads of silent Chelsea fans, to the lower tier of the away section. I saw a forest of pumping arms and joyous faces, but – quire bizarrely – the overhang of the top tier and the thousand or so Chelsea fans had acted as noise insulation and the United fans’ obvious roar was ridiculously quiet. What a strange feeling. I’ll be honest, from my position in that cramped corner, I hardly heard a United song throughout the entire game, though I am sure they were in good voice. I suspect that they went through their usual repertoire. The Chelsea support responded with a ditty which amused James; I guess he hadn’t heard it before…

“Live round the corner, you only live round the corner.”

United were in their pomp and our midfield was missing. Frank Lampard and Michael Essien were so poor as to be not worth comment. The moans continued and our support quickly waned. Then, bizarrely, we upped the tempo briefly in the last few minutes of the half and an amazing chance fell to Ivanovic after a goalmouth scramble from a free-kick. From my position, the ball seemed to hang in the air with just the slightest touch required to send the ball over the line, an open goal at his mercy, but the ball didn’t go in. The ball was hacked away amid absolute astonishment from all of us. Astounding. We needed an action replay – “what happened???”

James and I met up with Lord Parky in the crowded area below the seats at half-time and the mood wasn’t great. We wanted Carlo to change something – the shape, the system, something. We weren’t sure what needed to be done – we just hoped for the best. I feared further United goals and humiliation.

Well, what a second-half. Our appetite was noticeably different and our midfield – at last! – pressed United at every opportunity. We grew with each passing minute and the home support grew louder with each thunderous tackle, each rampaging run, each towering header. Every man stepped up and it was a joy to watch.

David Luiz, one of the brighter elements in that staid first half, gave a truly unforgettable performance. He was full of enthusiasm, full of dashing runs, full of character and energy. He made a few reckless tackles to be honest, and he needs to watch that, but the Chelsea crowd immediately warmed to him. Then – his defining moment. From a cross on 54 minutes, the ball was played back to the waiting Brazilian and he slammed the ball into the United net.

What a deafening roar accompanied that strike from Luiz. After riding our luck in that first-half, we were level. With that, we had a lovely spell and our players sensed the chance to dominate a clearly troubled United team. Our defence was supremely marshalled by John Terry and we limited United to just a few chances. On the hour, Carlo changed things and brought on Didier for Anelka. Fresh blood. However, after giving Luiz the slip, Rooney (the target for much abuse from the home support) broke and I feared the worse. I watched, on tenterhooks, as he dribbled closer to Cech and struck a ball which thankfully sailed wide of the far post. On other occasions, Cech’s hands were thoroughly dependable.

The game continued and what a great game it was, full of tempo and pace. The tackles grew fiercer and fiercer. Ramires was everywhere, Torres was running the channels and Drogba was leading the line. Carlo replaced Malouda with Zhirkov and our spritely Russian was soon in the thick of it.

Was it a penalty? I wasn’t so sure. Watching from 100 yards away, it looked like Yuri just ran into the United defender, but to our absolute joy, Martin Atkinson pointed to the spot.

Oh you beauty.

With my camera poised, I zoned in on Frank Lampard. He placed the ball on the spot. Snap. He nervously pulled up his shorts. Snap. He approached the ball and struck. Snap.

In that split second between me taking the photo and pulling the camera away from my eye, I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on the flight of the ball, so I just waited for the roar.

There was a roar.

We were 2-1 up.

Screams, shouts, arms thrust skywards, hugs with a stranger to my left and with James to my right. What a joyous moment. We grew even stronger, United went to pieces.

In the closing moments, the substitute Ryan Giggs came over to take a corner, no further than ten yards from me. I took a few photographs. I have a lot of time for Giggs – a tremendous player and, surprisingly, a United player who is not loathed and hated by the non-United section of the football fraternity . This was his 606th league game for United. This therefore tied the United record with Bobby Charlton, whose last ever game for United (yes, you guessed it, at The Bridge in 1973…a game I remember seeing on TV, if only for a comical Ossie goal) was featured in the night’s programme.

Alex came on for David Luiz – one Brazilian for another – and Luiz was given a fantastic reception. And still the tackles thundered in. I could see someone getting sent off and, after a couple of rash challenges, Nemanja Vidic was ordered off. Oh boy –it gets better. Of course, the absolute dream ending to this great game would have been El Nino’s last minute shot going in rather than being blocked.

At the final whistle, a huge roar and the PA immediately played “One Step Beyond.” The Bridge was bouncing and nobody wanted to leave. James, thousands of miles from his home in Kansas and over for one game only, was in heaven. We met up with Lord Parky and I could see he was dewy-eyed.

Chelsea does that to you, you know.

With that, Danny and Mike from the New York chapter suddenly appeared and there were more smiles and hugs.

We sauntered – yes, that’s a good word – through the masses of jubilant Chelsea fans on the Fulham Road and the London night was full of Chelsea songs. Danny and Mike disappeared off to a pub – “see you at Blackpool”- but we needed to get home. The resurgence in our play during that excellent second period surely augurs well for the rest of the season. Carlo is in the middle of a testing spell as he needs to plan his assault on the Champions League campaign this year, but he also needs to look to the future and change the personnel for the new season, too. Let’s push on now and see where this team can take us. As we battled the crowds, I told Parky that a third-place finish in the league this year is well within our capabilities.

At the intersection of the North End Road and Lillee Road, James and I said our goodbyes. He promised a yearly visit to Chelsea in the years ahead and I look forward to welcoming him back. As he headed off towards West Brompton tube, I’m sure I saw him jump up and click his heels.

It had been a lovely, lovely night.

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Saturday

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 9 February 2011.

Parky and I rolled in to The Goose just after 10.30am. Reg had opened up early at 10am and the place was already busy.

“A pint of Fosters and a pint of Carling please love.”

Over in the corner, Alan, Rob and Daryl were already mid-way through their first pints. Handshakes and greetings. My last game was the Liverpool defeat and, although less than a fortnight had since passed, it had seemed a lifetime ago. A few other good friends were nearby and it was good to be back in the groove. However, to be truthful, I hadn’t thought too much about this cup replay. I have been particularly busy at work this past week, plus I have had a few other things keeping my mind occupied.

We spent ninety minutes in the pub and the talk was varied. Alan and Rob are following the lads in Denmark and leave on Monday. I’m still waiting for my European away debut this season – things just haven’t panned out for me on that front yet, but I’m hoping we get into the last eight for a trip to foreign climes to materialise. The nearest that Parky and myself are getting to a European trip at the moment is the upcoming jaunt to Blackpool. We spoke briefly about ticket prices. The £57.50 I have to pay for my Copenhagen home ticket came as a massive shock, but at no stage did I think about not going. It’s pathetic really – Chelsea has us by the short and curlies and it hurts. This is nothing on the Champions League Final ticket prices, though, which were announced during the week; the cheapest general sale ticket comes in at a monstrous £176. For the participating teams, prices begin at a mere £80, though I am unsure if this includes an obscene £26 booking fee as per the general sale tickets. I had a chat with my mate Andy, who had been up to Ibrox again last weekend. In Scotland, prices are not so heavy and the game remains a working class pastime. He reminded me that former Chelsea team mates Jody Morris and Michael Duberry are currently plying their trade north of the border for St. Johnstone. I have always enjoyed watching football in Scotland – for many reasons really. I’ve witnessed games at eight grounds in Scotland, including five matches at Rangers, three at Dundee United and two apiece at Celtic and Hearts. It’s just enjoyable to catch a game in a different country – and I enjoy the working-class grit of the Scottish game.

Outside, there was misty rain as we walked down to the stadium.

Everton had sold 6,000 tickets for this game and we were all amazed at these numbers. At the 1-1 game at Goodison Park, the Chelsea choir had asked –

“Will you come to Stamford Bridge?”

Clearly, the answer was a resounding “yes.”

As we walked past Walham Green, Simon, Daryl and myself confirmed that Everton have never really brought large numbers down to Chelsea. Forefront in our mind was the game on a gorgeous sunny Saturday in the autumn of 1985 when Everton – the reigning champions remember – only brought down about a thousand away fans in a gate of 27,634. On the approach to the turnstiles, I bought a programme and there was a picture of Frank Lampard on the front, his trademark red belt clearly visible.

With perfect timing yet again, I got to my seat just a couple of minutes before the teams appeared. Chelsea in the lovely blue, Everton in their dirty cream. At The Shed End, the 6,000 Evertonians were ready and waiting in the two tiers. For the entire game, the 2,000 in the lower tier stood and the 4,000 above sat. It was a solid block of black, dark grey and navy jackets, with relatively few club colours on show. Only four flags though. Everton clearly don’t “do” flags, unlike their city rivals.

I find it fascinating how certain clubs have developed different approaches to flags and banners. For the F.A. Cup Finals in the ‘seventies, banners were always of “witty slogans” using plays on words. Into the eighties, Union Jacks appeared at England games and then at club games (though usually at away games – to brighten up dreary terraces with fences). At the 1982 World Cup in Spain, I remember that most of the Scotland flags appeared with individual bar names – a new approach. Liverpool led the way with banners on The Kop from the early ‘seventies and theirs usually tend to involve white text on red; usually a statement about their glorious past (insert comment here). Manchester United’s banners now tend to involve red, white and black horizontal bars. Chelsea has moved on in recent years; five years ago it was all St. George flags, with blue text, but our banners are now more varied. I like a lot of our banners and my favourite has to be the simple “Born Is The King.” Personally, I would like a little more humour and self-deprecating irony to be honest – a Chelsea trademark of the grim periods in our past. I’ve produced three hand-crafted banners over the past fifteen years ( “Ruud Boys”, “Vinci Per Noi” and the Peter Osgood one) and would like to get some more done. I have a few ideas knocking around. Watch this space.

However, I don’t approve of the “official” flags which are waved with gusto by the youngsters in front of the West Stand. That’s all just too corporate and too contrived for me.

I was surprised to see that Essien was not in the starting eleven, though I could understand why; his form has not been great. Anelka was on the bench too; Kalou in.

We created enough chances during the game to win easily, but a mixture of woeful finishing and dogged resistance from the Evertonian rear-guard resulted in a frustrating afternoon.

After a few early exchanges, the first real chance came on 21 minutes. A Chelsea free-kick was thumped in from deep and the ball avoided all attempts by the defenders to clear. The ball bounced right on the six yard line, with Tim Howard unwilling to meet it. The ball bounced up onto the right post, with Howard unable to get a hand on the ball and push it to safety. Ivanovic was waiting at the far post, but the ball rebounded into the path of the waiting John Terry. However, JT was clearly off balance and his left-footed effort ballooned over. I seem to remember a similar miss from The Captain against Hull City in Scolari’s last game in 2009.

Everton were pressing our midfield and we were struggling to get a rhythm going. Ramires broke into the box, but was booked for diving after a “coming together” with Tim Howard. Of course, we were miles away and couldn’t really see what had happened, but why would he go down when he was trying to push the ball past the ‘keeper and shoot at goal? The referee Phil Dowd, never a favourite, was roundly booed. We had further chances from Florent Malouda, Didier Drogba and Frank Lampard during that first-half, but the shots were blocked, saved or failed to hit the target. Ramires was playing well and one break from deep got me purring. However, it was a generally disjointed first forty-five minutes. On many instances throughout the match, Alan, Zac and I spoke of the Arsenal vs. Barcelona game on Wednesday. Barca’s performance in the first hour was as near to footballing perfection as you’ll get; relentless pressing, clean tackling, formidable team awareness, sublime close control, slick passing, tremendous movement off the ball, with Lionel Messi the master and chief. I can’t wait for the second leg at Camp Nou.

Midway through the first-half, I noticed three new flags which had appeared on the highest of the East Stand balconies –

Chelsea Hungary

Mighty Blues Belgium

Philly Blues

I quickly texted 612Steve to tell him the good news about his adopted home city’s banner being on show at The Bridge. There are now around twelve American banners on show at HQ. I wonder what American visitors who drop in to The Bridge on a holiday visit and who are not fans of the club wonder about these flags. It must be a shock for residents of Boston, Orange County or Texas, to name but three, to see flags from those areas proudly displayed in deepest London SW6. No other club in Europe has so many American flags on display at their home stadium.

I’m wondering if Chelsea can now inform the Dallas Cowboys that we are now America’s Team.

You can tell them, Beth.

Michael Essien came on for the ineffective Mikel at the break. We played better as the second-half began and a Didier Drogba free-kick was nervously smothered by Tim Howard.

Ah – Tim Howard. Once it was announced that Manchester United had signed the Tourette’s-suffering Howard, I knew it wouldn’t be too long before my mate Alan would come up with a witty nickname for him. After his move to Goodison, with more games and more exposure, Alan soon decided on an apt moniker. He delved back into his childhood and picked a character from “The Whacky Races.” For the past four years, whenever Tim Howard plays us, Alan refers to him as Klunk.

“Whizz-buuuuuuur-badoing-whirrrrrrr-woop-crash-peeeep.”

On fifty-five minutes, a Drogba free-kick was headed over by Frank. Ten minutes later, another Lampard effort was saved by Klunk, and then the resultant corner produced a shot from Branislav Ivanovic which was bundled off the line. It was turning out to be one of those days. At the end of a rare Everton break, full-back Seamus Coleman headed straight at Cech. To be honest, for all of Everton’s running and pressing, they rarely threatened.

However, the Everton support got louder and more involved as the game wore on. One song stood out –

“We shall not be moved.
We shall not, we shall not be moved – we shall not, we shall not be moved.
We are the team that’s gonna win the F.A. Cup, we shall not be moved.”

This song is usually only sung when teams are ahead in a Wembley-bound cup tie, so I found it odd that Everton were singing it with such vigour with the scores just level. Maybe they knew something that we didn’t.

On eighty-two minutes, a lovely passage of play found Lampard a few yards out but his decision to chip Klunk was met with derision as it flew over. We had a few late chances but the Everton goal lived a charmed life. We then had a huge scare as a ball was whipped in to our box. However, as Fellaini prodded home, I immediately saw the bright yellow flag raised by the linesman in front of the West Stand. What a pleasure it is to be a nanosecond ahead of 6,000 away fans as they jump around in joyous exultation. It was offside. Phew.

With the scores level, into extra-time we went. Anelka came on for the patchy Malouda and brightened the play up a little. Frank Lampard, profligate again, screwed the ball a yard wide with a weak left-footed shot.

Then, at last – a breakthrough. On 101 minutes, Anelka, the fresh man, chased a ball in to corner and did so well to beat off the challenge of his two defenders. His lovely cross was chested down by Didier Drogba into the path of Frank Lampard. I was in direct line with the ball’s trajectory and as he swung his boot, I could easily see that the ball would go unhindered into the net. I turned and began my triumphant jump up the steps – I didn’t even see the ball go in. I lept and punched the air and The Bridge was rocking. I rejoined Alan and, in our best Scouse accents…

“Dey’ll ‘ave to come arruz now.”
“C’hum on my little diamondsssssss.”

Thoughts of Reading at home on the first day of March were taking shape. Then, a silly and clumsy challenge by our Serbian and a very scary free-kick on the edge of our box. The Matthew Harding tried to raise our confidence with a quick chant, but I was too nervous to join in.

As Leighton Baines clipped the ball up after a very short approach, I uttered two words under my breath –

“Oh fcuk.”

First I thought it was going in, and then I thought it was drifting wide. It hit the back of the net and the 6,000 away supporters went crazy.

Penalties. Just the word makes every Englishman squirm.

West Germany 1990. Germany 1996. Argentina 1998. Portugal 2004. Portugal 2006.

Chelsea? I won’t even bother listing them – I’ll be here all day.

“The Liquidator” and then “Blue Is The Colour” were played in an attempt to raise the spirits. I took a photo of the two teams lined up on the half-way line as Frank Lampard strode forward for the first one. I didn’t fancy taking photographs of the penalties, though…too nervous. I wondered if John Terry would be involved.

Frank Lampard – high and in. Not much applause, just relief.

Leighton Baines – a save from Cech and a mighty roar.

Didier Drogba – low and in. Phew.

Phil Jagielka – in.

Nicolas Anelka – a nonchalant chip and an easy save for Klunk.

Mikel Arteta – in.

Michael Essien – in the middle and in. Phew.

John Heitinga – in.

Ashley Cole – looking nervous on his approach and well over. Fans got up and started to leave even before the last Everton player had the ball in his hands.

Phil Neville – in.

Our historic attempt to win three F.A. Cups in a row was over and it hurt. How often do we see teams go a goal behind in penalty shoot-outs and come back to eventually win? It happens all the time. Dare I mention Moscow? Sorry.

The rest of the lads were planning a post-game meet in “The Jolly Malster” as they attempted to get as much out of a Chelsea game as is practicably possible, like somebody squeezing hard on a tube of toothpaste to get the last portion out. However, Parky and I just wanted to beat the traffic and head home. He was soon asleep and I was full of melancholy.

Three trophies lost and just the one remains. Oh boy.

Tales From Scouserbowl XXXIV

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 6 February 2011.

Has there ever been more anticipation for a regular league game than this one? The build-up throughout the week, from the signing of Fernando Torres late on Monday, dominated the UK media and, with each passing day, I could not wait for Sunday to finally arrive. Putting aside the concerns over the money invested in Torres – and David Luiz – for one moment, this was a phenomenal transfer, the like of which we rarely see. This was Chelsea Football Club’s most newsworthy signing since Ruud Gullit back in 1995 and a massive statement of intent. On the Richter scale of Chelsea transfers involving centre-forwards, I would imagine it is up there with the sepia-toned signings of Hughie Gallagher and Tommy Lawton.Strikers in their prime. The best in the business.

At moments throughout the week at work, with Liverpool fans being sheepishly quiet, I couldn’t help but think to myself –

“Bloody hell – we’ve got Fernando Torres.”

From a simple fans’ perspective, I found it nerve-tingling stuff.

And yet, there were still the niggling doubts and concerns eating away at me throughout the week too. Over the past few years, we have preached financial sobriety with the end goal being that of planned and sustained self-sufficiency. Our signings have been in moderation compared to the “splash” of the summer of 2003. How did the sudden, dramatic splurge of £70M on two players sit in my mind? I was uneasy with it if I am truthful – I am always so wary that this great Chelsea Experiment could implode at any given moment…this is Chelsea after all…and the financial noose that has now been put around our neck is substantial.

In a nutshell, we must keep winning.

And then there are concerns of Torres’ fitness and how we could fit him in to our team, so reliant on the trusted 4-3-3 since the arrival of Jose Mourinho in 2004.

We then had the incredible appetiser of the games on Saturday. On a day when a record number of goals were scored, not only Arsenal did let in four late goals at Newcastle United, but Manchester United lost at Molyneux too. But there were also wins for Spurs and Manchester City, though…

On a weekend when Superbowl XLV was taking place, I had no doubts in my mind that the Chelsea vs. Liverpool game would be The Greatest Show On Earth. In preparation, I consulted my big old spread sheet – growing with each passing week – of Chelsea games…I have now laboriously entered team line-ups for the first 200 games that I have had the pleasure to attend and am therefore almost a quarter of the way towards completion. It acts as a great memory aid to be honest…so many games, so many moments, so many Kerry Dixon goals, so many Pat Nevin dribbles, so many Eddie Newton turns…

Some facts and figures – the game on Sunday 6th. February 2011 would be my thirty-fourth Chelsea vs. Liverpool game. In the thirty-three previous games (24 League, 5 Champions League, 3 F.A. Cup and 1 League Cup), we had only lost four…a pretty remarkable achievement. I have only missed two Chelsea vs. Liverpool games since 1979 in fact – on both of those occasions, I was on holiday in the USA (1989 in Seattle and 1993 in St. Augustine).

The first three of these games all resulted in Chelsea wins – and this was back in the days when Liverpool was a force to be reckoned with. Then, two home games in 1985-86 and Liverpool started to redress the balance. Firstly, Liverpool beat us 2-1 in the F.A.Cupin January when Kerry went off with a groin strain and was never the same player again. Then, dramatically, the league game in May – and a goal from Kenny Dalglish which gave Liverpool the title. Liverpool brought thousands down to that one and packed the crumbling north terrace. I have one distinct memory of that game. I watched the game from The Benches and, a few moments after the game had ended, I was walking up the Shed terrace, by the Bovril Gate, just as the Chelsea PA played “We Are The Champions” and I had a little moment to myself, thinking –

“Bloody typical – the only time I will ever hear that song at The Bridge is when some other team wins the league here.”

Charlton Athletic in May 2005 was indeed a long way off.

I collected Parky at 9.30am and it was a desperately bleak day. There seemed to be hardly a hint of colour in the countryside as we rolled eastwards. However, the densely-packed tress which lined the M4 – neither brown, nor grey – had a stark beauty all of their own. Despite the lead grey skies and the austere landscapes, we were in good spirits. I popped an album by “Keane” on the CD player and our chat abated as we drove on, the music combining perfectly with the countryside all around us.

In the small hours of Friday morning – 4.20am to be precise – Andy Wray had awoken me with a text with the simple message –

“Jack Kerouac. See you Sunday.”

Ah, great stuff…I was previously unaware that he was coming over for the game, but I had made plans to meet up with him. We were parked up at 11.30am – the skies still grey, but at least no rain. Parky and I raced down to “Lloyds” – above the Fulham Broadway tube – and got stuck into a match day brunch. Andy, plus fellow Orange County stalwarts Tom “there has to be another way” Motherway and SteveO, soon arrived and joined us for breakfast. This was SteveO’s first game at Chelsea, though I had previously bumped into him in Baltimore in 2009. I think that SteveO was suffering the excesses of the previous night, bless him. This was a whirlwind trip for them – for Tom, especially…arrive Saturday, match Sunday, depart Monday. I take my hat off to them.

Parky left us to go back to The Goose. I trotted up to the hotel with Tom who was keen to see if Ron Harris was available for a quick chat and photo call. Our luck was in – we spent a good fifteen minutes in the company of our leading appearance maker and I took the requisite photo of Ron Harris With Smiling American Guest, for what must be the twentieth time. A pint in the hotel bar while we waited for Andy and SteveO to join us. From there, we spun round, over the bridge, past The Black Bull and down to The Fox And Pheasant. This is one of my favourites – a miniscule pub in a mews, with the the East Stand roof visible only 300 yards away. We took our pints and stood outside on the pavement along with a hundred more. We had hardly seen a Scouser. Tom spotted a sign outside the pub – and commented that this would just not be seen anywhere in America.

“Sorry – No Admittance To Away Fans. Chelsea Supporters Please Show Match Tickets, Members Cards, Season Tickets.”

We spoke for a few minutes about the various differences in the sporting rituals of our two nations – now, there’s a book waiting to be written! – and enjoyed the lovely pre-match. The skies were still overcast, though – and SteveO was still looking, ahem, under the weather. I had to go off and wait for a mate outside The So-Bar, so we got some chap to take our photos outside the main entrance and went our separate ways. Unfortunately for them, the three Californians had seats in the deathly quiet East Lower, albeit next to the away 3,000. I hoped that “Ring Of Fire” would not be ringing in their ears for the next few days.

The match? This is where I may have a writer’s block.

Despite the heightened anticipation all week long, I thought that the atmosphere was strangely muted. I got in rather early for me at about 3.40pm, just as the players were leaving the pitch after their pre-match warm-up. That first photo of our new Number Nine would have to wait. The Scousers took a while to fill their section, but it was another full house at Stamford Bridge. We should be justly proud of our attendance record these days – constant league sell outs for ages…only three sub 40,000 league games since 2003. And despite Liverpool’s obvious status as a big club, Anfield was 4,000 short during the week.

There was a minute’s polite applause for 1955 Championship winner Les Stubbs who had sadly passed during the week.

Rest In Peace.

On the Shed End screen, the cameras lingered on the teams waiting on the steps in the tunnel. A tense moment. JT alongside Gerrard. Stony faces. No communication. There is no love lost.

As the teams entered the pitch, all eyes and cameras were on Fernando Torres. I snapped away during the walk across the sacred turf. I was struck with how thin Torres is. The handshakes between former players. A scene reminiscent of Manchester City at home a year ago – another game witnessed by Andy and Tom…another fly in, fly out game. Amidst the hype of Torres, I had largely forgotten about Joe Cole. A lost soul now, but still a Chelsea legend. Would we boo him, should he play? Of course not. The Scousers though, visibly wounded by the Torres transfer, had already made their position clear.

There were boos for Torres, but also two specially crafted banners –

“He Who Betrays Will Never Walk Alone.”

“Breaking News – Ya Paid 50 Mil 4 Margi Clarke.”

The Chelsea support were roused at the start with a couple of corkers –

“He Wants To Play For A Big Club.”

“F*** Your History, We’ve Got Fernando.”

However, the tense game which unfolded seemed to sap our strength and our ability to support the troops. I only – very briefly – heard the Chelsea Torres song once…despite it appearing on thousands of texts, emails and websites over the past week. To be honest, I was rather sickened to see an exact copy (but in blue) on Facebook of the Liverpool “El Nino” banner which had been produced by Chelsea fans over the past few days. I was hoping that it would only be used for this one game only – a one game wind-up – but I have a feeling it will be paraded around away grounds for a while. Could we not come up with our own banner? To be honest, I didn’t see it at the game…only on TV after…and my heart sunk. It looked so “un-Chelsea” it was ridiculous. Let’s hope it doesn’t appear again.

In a passage of play which reminded me of Vinnie Jones getting booked after just 10 seconds in 1992, Mikel was booked after 30 seconds. We began with lots of possession.

Fernando Torres collected an errant pass and settled himself outside the “D.” However, his shot sailed over. After a few Liverpool breaks, we raised our game with a few chances. A Lampard corner, in swinging towards the near post, but Ivanovic headed over. Soon after – in retrospect – the chance of the match…a break, a ball from Didier Drogba into Torres in the inside-right channel, but that old warhorse Carragher stretched out a leg to block. Then a gilded chance for Liverpool. Steven Gerrard was involved in a lot of the play and his ball into the box bobbled just as Maxi Rodrigues pounced. It was an open goal, but he shinned it up onto the bar from just six yards.

We weren’t playing well and everyone knew it. The midfield was off the pace and – of course, my big fear – we had no width.After the goal fest of Saturday, how typical that this one looked like it was going to be a lot less lively.

The crowd seemed to be roused a little after the break – perhaps the top ups of beer had the desired effect. At a corner, I spotted Carragher and Torres tussling and snapped. The photograph I took is amazing. It shows Carragher grabbing hold of Torres’ arm with both hands and applying a tight grip. We were fuming. However the noise soon subsided and The Bridge fell eerily quiet. A Nicolas Anelka shot bobbled narrowly wide. Then – oh dear – Torres was substituted and the away fans roared. They had been reasonably quiet in the first half, but grew louder as Liverpool had more and more of the ball. At times, they were all over us in midfield. Gerrard was dominant, Lampard absent.

“Clap, clap – clap, clap, clap – clap, clap, clap, clap – Dalglish” echoed around red-half of The Shed.

To be honest, I don’t mind Dalglish – a superb player and a decent man. I find it strange that many newer generation Liverpool fans can’t pronounce his name correctly, though.

Kenny Daglish never played for Liverpool.

The game wore on and Liverpool was chasing every ball. Then, a rare chance as Essien sent a curling left-footer over on 66 minutes. But soon after, a calamity. Gerrard seemed to be hemmed in right down in the corner, near to where Parky watches the games from. However, Lampard gave him too much room and a cross was lobbed into the box. What happened next was a terrible blur. The ball by-passed Cech and Ivanovic and was nimbly poked home by Meireles. The Scousers erupted and there truly is nothing worse in the entire world than watching 3,000 away fans celebrating a goal at Stamford Bridge. And yet – I must be some sort of masochist – I always have to watch.

“God – look at them, they’re losing it big time.”

The twist of the knife was seeing Gerrard sprint 40 yards and outstretch his right arm and touch many fans as he raced by.

We knew we were beaten, despite 20 minutes left on the clock. The Bridge was supremely funereal. The only bright spot from the entire day was the assured debut of David Luiz in the last quarter. He made two great tackles and was soon ordering team mates around. He looks a quality defender. One moment brought back memories of Frank Lebouef, when Luiz had the ball at his feet some forty yards out and seemed to move the ball, just like Lebouef, onto his right foot in preparation of a snorter. Alas, he didn’t take that option, but I wish he had. A further twist of the knife occurred when an obvious foul by Glen Johnson on Ivanovic was not justly rewarded with a penalty and our time was up. It was not to be. As much as it pains me to say it, we did not deserve the win and now the doubts are setting in again…

I picked up the last “CFCUK” left at the stall and – seeing a mate – I briefly summed it up in three words…

“Too much hype.”

With Parky sleeping like a baby, I was diverted off the M4 due to an accident and so was forced onto the M3. Just what I wanted! The long, mournful, drive home seemed to take forever. Yet again, words to a song on the CD player seemed to sum things up, almost too-perfectly…

“My side.
Is it any wonder I’m tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don’t know what’s right?”

I watched – with gritted teeth – “Match Of The Day Two” and then caught some of the action from that other game taking place that night, deep in the heart of North Texas.

“See that massive HD TV screen? John Terry hit that.”

By the time of the half-time show, I too was sleeping like a baby…

Tales From The Lower Tier Of The Bullens Road

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2011.

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

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

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

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

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

“Cockneys Die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright son – cheers mate.”

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

“What the HELL are you doing?”

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

“I had to go mate!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too”, she agreed.

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

Another song caused yet more mirth from us –

“No noise from the unemployed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God.

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

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

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

“Kalou! Kalou!” and Mo smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on Saints!”

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

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

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2010-2011

Tales From A Sunny Saturday In SW6

Tales From An Evening At Chelsea

Tales From The Wheatsheaf, The Greyhound And The Black Bear

Tales From The David Luiz Show

Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer

Tales From The Golden Mile

Tales From The Shed Lower

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Saturday

Tales From Scouserbowl XXXIV

Tales From The Lower Tier Of The Bullens Road