Tales From Another Step In The Right Direction

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 15 January 2011.

There were grey skies over head as I made the familiar pilgrimage up to HQ.

The plan had been for Trowbridge Kris to drive up, in order to give me a little break from the driving, but unfortunately his car developed a mechanical fault on Thursday. The plan had been for a North End Road pub crawl, but that will have to wait for later in the season. We ought to wait for the re-opening of The Seven Stars – a lovely art deco building – and we could then do a little pub crawl involving The Famous Three Kings, The Old Oak, The Seven Stars, The Elm and The Goose. We are so lucky at Chelsea to have so many pubs in and around The Bridge. The main areas for pre-match sessions are The North End Road, Lillee Road, Fulham Broadway, Fulham Road and The Kings Road. I drove up with Kris, Lord Parky and Trowbridge Andy – it made a nice change to have a full car for once. For a variety of reasons, my fellow Frome mates have not been quite so regular this season. PD is still off work and struggling with his ankle as a result of his horrific accident at work.

We spoke about all sorts. Parky usually keeps the chat going and we were entertained by a few of his famous rambling monologues. One story involved one of his next door neighbours, who had asked Parky to accompany him out to an area of common land in their village. It seemed that there had been a serious rat infestation problem and so Parky’s neighbour had a plan. He had his two Jack Russell terriers with him. They were let loose on the rat “nest” and within a couple of seconds the air was full of squeals from the panic stricken rats as they attempted to flee. Within minutes, the immediate area was one of devastation, with the dead rats lying everywhere. Just picture the scene. Carnage.

“He should send those dogs to Tottenham” chirped the previously silent Andy in the back seat.

I needed to pop into the centre of London in order to get a replacement part for a jacket, so I left the other three to it. As I walked towards West Brompton tube, I noted quite a few Chelsea supporters who had obviously got off at that station rather than Fulham Broadway. There is another little bunching of pubs at Lillee Road here – The Tournament, The Imperial, The Lillee Langtry, The Prince Of Wales and The Atlas. These pubs tend to be a little less expensive than the ones closer to The Bridge, so they obviously have their appeal. These pubs are decidedly working class, rather than the more upmarket joints further south.

On the return journey from Beak Street in the heart of Soho, I changed trains at Earls Court. As I ascended the elevators up to the platforms in order to catch the District Line train, I thought back to my first ever game in March 1974. I would have walked those exact same steps, along with my two parents, and I had a little moment thinking how excited I must have been all those years ago. I won’t overdo it, but that day was one of pivotal importance in my life and I often think back to that first monumental trip to Chelsea.

I was able to meet up with all the usual lads in The Goose – another Saturday, another beer – for about an hour. There was the usual talk of games past, present and future.

This was an overcast and blustery day in London – I guess it was a typical winter football Saturday.

Kris was sitting next to me in the Matthew Harding Upper and we timed our approach to perfection. We got in with five minutes to spare. I had a quick look over to the South East corner and there was, of course, a predictably poor turnout from the former cotton town of Blackburn and its surrounding areas. There were probably 200 in the lower tier and around 100 in the upper tier. I never know why Chelsea doesn’t force such a small away following into the lower tier and then sell the other section to home fans. The club would probably trot out the old “segregation” line, but it seems crazy to see around 1,000 empty seats when we play the likes of Blackburn, Wigan and Bolton.

The consensus around us was that it was a shame that Josh had not retained his place instead of the struggling Essien. Likewise Daniel Sturridge, who had just rifled in five goals in a reserve team friendly against Tottenham and two against Ipswich Town. However, our starting eleven was arguably our most experienced players and so there was no hiding place for them.

Let’s go to work.

Soon into the game, Florent Malouda swung in a corner and the ball broke to Ramires who swiped at the ball, with several defenders scrambling to close him down. His rather rushed shot crashed against the top of the bar. For the first ten minutes, our play was pretty positive and the signs were good. Ramires followed up with another strike, but this one ended up about twenty yards wide. Frank Lampard dropped a corner on Michael Essien’s head but his free header was well wide. This was met with the usual groans.

A few rows in front, Big John was bellowing “Come on Chelsea – They’re 5hit!” However, to be fair, John shouts this at every opponent during every game. I suspect that he would shout it even if the Brazilian or Spanish national team showed up to play us. Alan made the point that we again seemed to be obsessed with hitting Ashley Cole early with long diagonals. At times, Jose Bosingwa was alone and adrift in acres of space on the right, but our midfielders seemed unwilling to give him the ball. Alan suggested that Carlo should give Jose a mobile phone so he could keep in contact with his team mates, whereas I wondered if he had contacted a highly contagious and debilitating disease. At times, Bosingwa appeared to be playing in a separate game on a separate pitch in a separate town.

Ramires again impressed us with his constant motion and he initiated a great move by winning a loose ball down below me. He accelerated up field and played a perfect ball in to Didier Drogba, but his first and second touches were poor and Givet was able to get back and put in a timely tackle. On a rare Blackburn break, Petr Cech got down well to block a low shot from Hoilett and the ball was cleared.

Chances from Anelka and Lampard came and went, but Paul Robinson was not really threatened. Robinson had been taking some “stick” from The Shed as a result of his Tottenham and Leeds past (as bad a combo as you can get, maybe only surpassed by a certain Robbie Keane.) Alan and myself spoke last week about Branislav Ivanovic and his tendency to hold his hand up (“not guilty, didn’t touch him ref!”) when he gets close to a player he is marking. Over on the left wing, he got close to an attacker (possibly the Steven Hawking lookalike Morten Gamst Pedersen) and started nibbling away and his arms came up again. Alan and myself laughed at his little trademark move. It got me thinking about other players’ trademarks…

The John Terry chest pass, the Ashley Cole sudden stop and the placing of his left foot on the ball as he looks for options, the Frank Lampard spin and turn as he looks up for a player to pass to (with his thumbs always pointing up…), the Nicholas Anelka sudden stop in the middle of a dribble, the Florent Malouda rolling of his foot over the ball as he sets off on a dribble, the Paolo Ferreira head thrust from side to side as he manically tries to get back into position after losing the player he is meant to be marking, the Michael Essien surge away from a marker (holding him off through sheer grit and determination), the Didier Drogba slow walk back from an offside position, the Jose Bosingwa touch-touch-touch as he attempts to get the ball into the perfect position for a cross (rather like the way a cat constantly toys with a mouse…) and the Salomon Kalou extra touch and the inevitable stumble to the floor…

Thankfully, there were no boos at the half-time whistle. Marvin Hinton was warmly applauded at the break as he strode around the pitch and I realised that he has more than a passing resemblance to Carlo Ancelotti. I was sure that goals would follow in the second period. Paul Robinson was applauded by a section of the Matthew Harding Lower as he took his place in the goal. This is a strange habit of English football fans – one that gives us our reputation of being passionate but also fair. It’s something we don’t always do at Chelsea, but very often home fans applaud the opposing ‘keeper as they walk towards the home end. I think it is fair to say that this used to happen more often in days gone by.

Soon into the second half, Anelka drilled wide from a very similar position from where he scored against Ipswich last week. The chances began to stack up. On 57 minutes, Florent Malouda zipped in a corner and John Terry flicked the ball on. The ball fell at the feet of Ivanovic and – after what seemed an eternity – he managed to thread the ball through a forest of limbs. The ball crept over the line and The Bridge roared in noisy praise.

In our best Lancashire accents –

“They’ll Have To Come At Us Now.”

“Come On My Little Diamonds.”

Ivanovic was overjoyed and did a massive long slide towards the corner flag opposite. Soon after, a Frank Lampard shot bounced towards the goal and JT audaciously flicked the ball goal wards, but it spun agonisingly past the far post. To be honest, Frank was having a pretty quiet game. On 75 minutes, a terrible Rovers back pass was intercepted by Drogba, but he squandered the chance. Soon after, another corner from Malouda down below me and the ball was floated very high towards the far post. Ivanovic had a gargantuan leap and headed the ball down and goal wards. The ball flew into the net and we cheered noisily. Everyone in my immediate area didn’t see the slight Anelka touch, so imagine our surprise when it was announced that our number 39 had been credited the goal. At 2-0, we could relax.

We couldn’t evaluate Carlo’s reasoning in substituting Anelka with Kalou and not Sturridge. We wanted to give the boy a chance. We lustily sang his name and – eventually – when he did come on to the pitch, he jinked and narrowly shot wide. I’d like to see him given more minutes over the next few games. We had a few late shots from the miss-firing Lampard and Anelka, but it remained at two. We dominated from start to finish and we “out-cornered” Blackburn fourteen to one. That just about summed it up.

This game won’t be remembered in the years to come, but this was a solid and competent Chelsea performance. There are obvious signs that our confidence is slowly returning and – again – the continual improvement in form of little Ramires is very heartening. John Terry and his Serbian partner are now back to their best and we kept a much needed clean sheet. Kris and I commented about Ashley Cole’s unbelievable energy…if there is a fitter player in the UK, I’d like to know who it is.

As I slowly made my way to the exits, I couldn’t help but notice that John Terry was still on the pitch, clapping the fans in all of the four stands. With him in the team – encouraging the players, providing inspiration, and showing the way through this dip for all of us – we still have a chance this season. I still think that the League is one step beyond us – but our three games against the two Mancunian teams may well be our salvation. Three wins there and who knows? But it is a tough ask and I have to be realistic. To be quite blunt, I’ll go so far as to say that if we lose at Everton in the F.A. Cup, we won’t win anything this season.

Whatever will be will be.

During the last segment of the journey home, Andy and I spoke of Chelsea’s amazing run of success since 1997. We both remembered, only two well, that in over 90 years of history we had only won four major honours. From 1997 to date – only fourteen years – we have won a further twelve. Those figures don’t even include a U.E.F.A. Super Cup win and three F.A. Community Shield wins. We agreed that if someone had promised such a run of trophies in, say, 1996 we would have suggested that the perpetrator of such nonsense should be subjected to a strait jacket and a padded cell. So, we have been spoiled rotten. We may taste defeat more than victory over the next few years, but let’s roll with the punches. Supporting Chelsea was never easy. And while I am obviously concerned about the way the club seems to be going at times (poor PR, woeful atmosphere at home games, an increasingly absent chairman, numpty fans, an ageing squad…) “my” Chelsea will roll on regardless.

I am not going to Bolton next Monday evening, so my next game will be that ultra-important F.A. Cup game at Goodison Park, one of my favourite stadia, in a fortnight. That should be a good old fashioned cup tie and we’ll do well to reach the last sixteen. Parky will be going along and Andy was thinking about it too. Can’t wait.

Tales From Our Attempt To Win A Hat Trick Of F.A. Cups

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Ipswich Town : 9 January 2011.

What a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. As I left the house, the sky was completely devoid of clouds and there was a lovely bite to the winter air. However, on the 30 minute drive to collect His Lordship from Parky Towers, my car was sliding on black ice. It was the worst I had ever known to be honest.I soon heard on the radio that there had been many accidents overnight and in the first few hours of Sunday morning. My other route up to The Smoke, the A303, was closed in Hampshire due to a smash. Not to worry, once I got onto the A350 and the M4, the dodgy road conditions were behind me.

On the Saturday evening, we had both attended a 50th birthday party for Andy, a Chelsea fan from Trowbridge, who I first met in 1984. He is mentioned, in fact, in my little segment in Mark Worrall’s “Chelsea Here Chelsea There” book. It was a great night and a few Chelsea fans “of a certain age” were in attendance from the surrounding towns…I was flying the flag for Frome, Mark from Westbury was there, plus Les from Melksham, to say nothing of Steve, Ashley, Mick, Shep, Parky, Andy and Ally from Trowbridge. It made me think about my youth as a Chelsea fan in the Somerset and Wiltshire area. Certainly in Frome, there weren’t so many Chelsea fans around. The chosen few certainly stuck together…and once our travels to games broadened our experiences, the other local lads soon became friends. I think this is different to the fans – say, in Frome – of the big two teams of Liverpool and Manchester United. Of a school year of 200 boys, there were probably 20 United fans and I am guessing that, because United fans were so widespread, I bet there was no special bond. Why would there be? Chelsea fans however – rare in Frome, for example – clung together desperately. It was a case of strength in numbers. For example, at Frome College in 1981, there were no Chelsea fans in the sixth form, I was the only Chelsea fan in my year and there were four Chelsea fans in the two years below me. So, only five Chelsea fans in a school of 1,300 kids (there were no Chelsea female fans of course, which goes without saying…it was the ‘eighties.) And we knew who we were alright…Chris, Dale, Richie, Troy and Glenn. The Famous Five.

I saw Troy at our game at Ashton Gate in 1976, I saw Dale at games in the ‘eighties, I sit next to Glenn at games to this day but I think Richie didn’t use to go to Chelsea. But we knew of each other alright. I think fans of “lesser” teams always have that bond. With our appeal so much bigger today, I really wonder if that relationship is there for the youngsters in the Frome area. I personally doubt it. However, for us lot – plus PD, Dave and a few more – we’ll always stick together. I think that barren spell in the ‘eighties helped to forge this special friendship and long may it continue.

For the entire length of the journey to London, the sky remained clear and cloudless. I had a quick breakfast and then joined the boys in The Goose at 12.45pm. There was a good turnout for this F.A. Cup game with Ipswich Town. A few of the lads had their children in tow, lured by the cheap ticket prices. It was £25 for an adult for starters. Surprisingly, my home area was only represented by Parky and myself, but the Midlands was represented by Burger, Andy (plus 2 children), Jokka, Neil, Chopper (plus wife and 2 kids), the Home Counties by Daryl, Simon (plus 1 child), Rob, Russ and Gary and finally The Channel Islands by Chris ( plus 1 child). Towards the end, I met up with four from the North – Phil (plus 1 child) and Malcolm (plus 1 child), lads I see rarely these days, but acquaintances from a while back.

So – 24 all told.

A good show.

Guernsey Chris informed me that his son’s first game was against Ipswich in 2001 and he is yet to see us lose. That just goes to show how successful we have been in that period, eh? The United versus Liverpool game was on TV, but not many were paying too much attention – why would we? I mentioned to Gary that I would be soon approaching my seventh anniversary of consecutive Chelsea home games – the first game in this run was on January 18th. 2004 – but Gary puts me to shame. He has missed just one Chelsea first team home game since 1975. To be honest, there should be an asterisk on my run because I missed the first team friendly against Celtic in August 2006, but I’m not counting that (though, if I am honest, I ought to…) Now I have put all of my Chelsea games on a massive spread sheet, expect more and more of these little statistical nuggets over the season. You have been warned.

I’ve mentioned before that the F.A. Cup does not seem to have the allure of times past; despite which ever TV channel has coverage of the games informing us otherwise. Thirty years ago, F.A. Cup games would warrant an extra 25% on the gate, but these days, it seems that the Cup attracts 33% less. Except at Chelsea, where we play to sell out gates at virtually all games, much to my pleasure. However, this is no doubt due to the cheaper tickets at domestic cup matches…one of the best innovations of recent seasons at Chelsea.

With perfect timing, I reached my seat just as “The Liquidator” was rousing the support – after each musical break, “CHELSEA” was lustily bellowed by all and sundry. This was a good sign. I had hoped that our fans would rally behind the team, putting recent past performances to one side.

The team was a pleasing mixture of old and new. Cech in goal, Boso at right back, JT and Brana in the middle and the promising Van Aanholt on the left, a midfield of Frank, the improving Ramires and young Josh, with Kalo, Anelka and Sturridge in attack. No complaints there. Ipswich had 3,000 away fans but no flags.

The game began and we peppered the Ipswich Town goal in the first fifteen minutes, but Daniel Sturridge in particular was guilty of carelessness in front of goal. We were playing some nice stuff, with a couple of flowing moves and there was a good vibe inside The Bridge. However, Ipswich threatened us on 16 minutes with a quick break down our right. The resultant shot was blocked, but Petr Cech appeared to wind himself in the process. He lay prone for a while, but then rose to a loud roar. On 22 minutes, a lovely move found Studge but he decided to leave it for Anelka who took one more touch than was necessary and his low shot was cleared off the line. I held my head in my hands. Soon after, we got behind them and pulled the ball back for Frank in a Prime Time Position.

Frank slammed the ball over. Oh hell – don’t say it’s going to be one of those games!

More efforts went the same way – shots from McEachren and then Anelka flew over the Ipswich goal. Then, at last, a shot from Anelka and a scramble inside the six-yard box and Kalou prodded the ball over – he doesn’t miss from there!

Immediately after, a lovely early ball – fast and low, just like the doctor ordered – into the six yard box from Jose Bosingwa was adroitly flicked in by Sturridge. Get in you beauty. That goal had the entire crowd on its feet. More was to follow – on 38 minutes, a bad tackle on JT and from the Lampard free-kick, the ball was flicked by an Ipswich Town defender into his goal and we were 3-0 to the good.

Phew – things were going well. The only downer was the relatively tough away draw in Round Four – yet another cup tie against Everton. Why does Chelsea always seem to draw the same teams in all cup competitions? How many more bloody times do we have to play Everton, Liverpool, Ipswich, Watford, Barcelona, Valencia and Porto? I was longing for an away game at Torquay, Orient, Burton Albion, Brighton…or Leeds United.

The bloke next to Alan looked a source of much amusement. As is the way with a lot of our supporters these days, he was silent for all of the first-half…throughout the game, he was listening to a radio via a set of little earphones and of course Alan and I suggested a comic reason for this. You know how we operate by now, eh? I suggested that rather than listen to the roar of the crowd and be involved, he was listening intently to the shipping forecast (probably the most boring piece of radio, ever). That then gave Alan and me the chance to air some truly horrendous puns about the various shipping areas, and out of respect to you all, I won’t repeat any of them.

Ex-Chelsea and Ipswich Town striker Kevin Wilson (Willo) was on the pitch with Neil Barnett at the break.

Rather than sit on our laurels, we kept going after the break and we were soon rewarded with a magnificent goal from Nicolas Anelka. After a quick interchange, he struck a lovely low shot from an angle which entered the goal just inside the far post. A superb goal. Three minutes later, the rarest of things – not only a Daniel Sturridge shot with his right foot, but a Daniel Sturridge goal with his right foot. From a Lampard pass, a delightful curler flew into the goal and the crowd erupted again.

At 5-0, the Matthew Harding serenaded our manager –

“Carlo – give us a wave, Carlo, Carlo – give us a wave.”

Despite no Ray Wilkins being alongside to translate, Carlo sheepishly acknowledged the fans.

“CARLO! CARLO! CARLO!”

Then, a period of lovely confident football…McEachren caressing the ball and prompting others, Lampard strong in the tackle and intelligent with his passing, Anelka devilish – the Anelka of old – and Ramires continuing to impress. Over the past five games, I would suggest that John Terry and Ramires have been our most consistent performers.

After the close bunching of our goals, two more ensued within a minute…two Frank Lampard strikes (the first from the edge of the box, the second from two yards out) and the place was bouncing. Frank – admittedly against a lower class of opposition – appeared to be approaching his old form and looked a lot more at ease than at Wolves on Wednesday. This is marvellous news. To be quite honest, we could have scored a few more, make no mistakes. I remember Gael Kakuta blazing over towards the end. Shipping Forecast Man decided to leave, not surprisingly I suppose, with five minutes of the game left. I guess he had endured far too much excitement for one day.

So – seven nil.

The seventh time we have scored six goals or more in a game in the last twelve months. It was just good to be back on track, despite the poor quality of the opposition. A win is a win is a win.

I met up with Parky on the Fulham Road and he was rather bemused. Why? He had slapped £3 on us to win 6-0! He had missed out on £100.

A typical drive home – Fruit Pastilles, a Krispy Kreme doughnut and a Red Bull at Heston Services to give me enough sugar and caffeine to get home safe, then some anthems from my youth – Scritti Politti, Japan, China Crisis, Talking Heads, Kraftwork and Ultravox…and Parky asleep – no doubt trying his very best to erase the memory of Frank’s last goal.

Tales From A Dark Night

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 5 January 2011.

…and so it goes on.

Parky and I left Chippenham at 4.30pm. It had been a grimy, grey day and as I drove north to Wolverhampton, there was patchy fog on the M4. There will be no colourful descriptions of roadside sights for this away game. This was always going to be a fretful trip up to the Black Country, with the inevitable rush hour traffic going to cause me anxiety. Night fell and it was me against the traffic. Wolverhampton is about 100 miles from my place of work and I had hoped to park up in the town centre by 6.45pm and then pop into The Walkabout for a quick livener before the match. The inevitable delay to our progress was caused by road works on the B4123 after I exited the M5. I tried to remain calm over the last six miles. I can’t remember the last away game where I got the timings all wrong and so missed the kick-off. Thankfully, the traffic thinned out a bit and I could relax a little.

We found a town centre car park by the bus station and then quickly wrapped up warm for the brisk ten minute walk to Molyneux. After the delays, I met up with Alan (who had to get a reprint of our tickets from the Wolves box office as the originals never arrived) at bang on 7.30pm outside the away entrance.

There was the usual hustle and bustle in and around the Steve Bull Stand, and I nodded a few “hello mate” to a few acquaintances as I took my seat right on the half way line in the lower tier.

I like Molyneux. This was only my third visit and we had previously won the other two games 5-0 and 2-0. Three in a row please! The stadium nestles at the bottom of a hill and is in the heart of the town. Wolves almost went to the wall around 1985 as a result of their relegation to the old fourth division and debts caused by the messy redevelopment of their stadium. For many seasons, the Steve Bull Stand – built in 1979 and very similar to the Spurs West Stand of the same year – stood way back from the pitch, with the rest of the crumbling stadium unable to be rebuilt and moved to meet up with the new stand’s footprint. The three new stands were eventually completed in around 1993 and it’s a neat and compact stadium, with the iconic old gold used on stand supports and seats. It feels right. Alan and Gary had been talking to a Wolves fan as they waited for me to arrive and he told them that there were plans to build again, with the end goal being a 50,000 stadium. I guessed that relegation might halt such grandiose plans.

The away fans are housed along the complete length of the Steve Bull Stand which means that it’s difficult to keep the songs and chants together and sustained. I would say that away fans at The Bridge used to make less noise when they were housed in the East Lower, along the length of the pitch, rather than in their current Shed location.

There were empty seats in the upper corners of the main stand opposite, but Molyneux was otherwise full. The PA played “Hi-Ho Silver Lining” with The Kop amending it to be –

“Hi-Ho Wolverhampton.”

A large Wolves shirt was passed over the heads of The Kop supporters and the teams entered the pitch. I’m always pleased to see us wearing white socks at away games – not through superstition, because we won the League at Bolton in 2005 in blue socks – but because it just looks better. I looked at our team – Kalou restored upfront, Ivanovic back in the middle – and started taking a few early photos of the match action with my zoom lens. It felt good to be close to the field and along the side for once. I usually find myself watching from behind a goal. I liked this different perspective. The Chelsea support stood the entire game and I approved. To be honest, I can’t remember the last occasion we all sat at an away game. But I immediately noticed that it was difficult to get the chanting together despite our best efforts. Keeping the same song, at the same tempo, over 120 yards is bloody difficult!

After just four minutes, a wicked shot from thirty yards appeared to move and swerve on its way towards the Chelsea goal in front of The Kop. Petr Cech sprang to action and did well to turn the ball around the post. From the resultant corner, the ball appeared to go directly into the Chelsea goal at the near post. There was no way of telling through that crowded mass of bodies that the hated Steven Hunt’s corner had gone in off Jose Bosingwa.

I had predicted a Chelsea win at Wolves and yet, here we were, losing after just four bloody minutes. We tried to get behind the team, but the Chelsea fans around me soon started getting very frustrated with our general play. Wolves were chasing every loose ball, closing us down, scampering around like terriers and carving out occasional chances. We seemed to take forever to create our first real chance, when Didier did well to cross from the left, but the goalkeeper stuck out a limb to miraculously clear. This came after thirty long minutes.

We seemed to be creating a few chances down our right wing. Ramires was pushing on when he could and his close control and crisp passing is starting to please me. Of all people, Kalou was involved and was linking up well with a few team mates… Chelsea team mates – mark it up! Ivanovic was booked for a silly challenge. Ashley Cole easily lost possession and we were lucky that the resulting break did not harm us. Our midfield was not closing Wolves down. Where was the effort? Essien was looking lethargic.

Then, down to my left, Hunt and JT had a tangle and, after a little grappling, JT raised his hands and shoved Hunt. We were cheering, The Kop was jeering. Mark Halsey, one of my most disliked refs, was in my sightline and I didn’t think that he saw the push. I think I was proved correct as JT escaped with not even a caution. At the other end, a delicate one-two, but we fired over from close range. We were getting into the game more towards the end of that first period, but the mood was of increasing frustration and bewilderment at our poor performance. To annoy me further, I had been warned by a nearby steward to stop taking photos.

During the interval, I met up with San Francisco Pete in the crowded walkway below us (he was wearing a Cubs cap, while I had spotted a Chelsea chap wearing a rather nice White Sox ski hat a few yards away). Then the familiar faces of Burger and Julie appeared and we had a little catch-up. Of course, they now live a few miles up the road in Stafford and – get this – the train journey from Stafford to Wolverhampton was just 12 minutes. If the trains went well, I worked out that they could be back in their house within 45 minutes. That sure beats the 3,000 miles from their former home in Ontario to Stamford Bridge! Then, Cathy appeared – like me, she had been stopped from taking photos, so was instead going around the forecourt at half-time taking some mug shots of a few Chelsea stalwarts. Cathy pointed her Nikon at Julie, Burger and I and we forced some smiles…

Into the second-half and the moans and grumbles continued. After ten minutes of lacklustre play, Frank Lampard back-heeled adeptly for Salomon Kalou to hone in on goal. He composed himself, but then drilled the ball past the far post. I am sure that you heard the groans from the away section in Wyoming, New Mexico, Vermont and Alabama. After a reasonable first-half, Kalou’s performance was now heading south at a grand rate of knots. And it pains me to say that instead of offering encouragement to him, the vast majority of fans either remained silent or berated him. Everyone has their own view on all of this, but I tried to remain as positive as I possibly could during the whole game. I tried to join in the drifting songs, tried to shout encouragement – especially when players like Cole, JT and Essien came over to take throw-ins a few yards away. I know they couldn’t hear me, but I wanted them to feel my support for them, I wanted to make them feel wanted and loved.

“Come On You Blue Boys” is my favourite phrase and has been for ever.

But elsewhere around me, every misplaced pass – of which Essien and Lampard were guilty for more than their fair share – was met with howls of derision. I know it’s difficult and I am sure that I howled occasionally, but I try my damnedest not to be audibly negative if I can help it. Loudly cheer a good pass, try and remain silent if a pass goes astray. I couldn’t help but look around and into peer the executive boxes behind. It made me smile to see that the Wolves fans inside appeared to be stony-faced like us…it seems that fans of winning teams can’t really sit back and enjoy games they are winning until the final whistle. It has always amused me that regardless of the score, usually football fans are a bunch of intense and solemn buggers. And we do this for fun, to relax.

Bloody hell.

Carlo – standing alone in the technical area – then swapped Kalou with Anelka, but things didn’t really improve. Kakuta and Studge also entered the fray. Ramires was starting to tire and was one of the players taken off. We had more of the ball but found it impossible to break down their defence. Wolves’ attacks were sporadic and they occasionally threatened. A Hunt free-kick rattled the bar.

A quick break found the out-of-form Florent Malouda and he was strong enough to get into a position inside the box which was almost identical to the Kalou chance. Eerily, the result was the same – a low shot skidded past the far post. This time, we heard the groans from Wyoming, New Mexico, Vermont and Alabama. Drogba appeared to be trying devilishly hard one minute, not trying the next. He’s such a difficult person to judge, but I really do wonder if the malaria has truly left him. Lampard was buzzing around, but again his legs looked tired. Why does he choose the Joe Montana cross-field ball so often? Drogba won a loose ball and played in Anelka, but the goalie got to the ball before Nico. Then, Drogba at his best – a strong turn and strike, but the shot grazed the near post. Kakuta works some space on a few occasions, but our crosses were woeful. Oh boy.

The chances petered out. Four minutes of extra time, but Halsey blew up. I turned around and at last the corporates in the executive boxes could pump the air and smile. Wolves had done well – their midfield was all over us. With a little more luck in front of goal, we could have fared better but I am certainly not looking for excuses.

We were poor.

The saddest sight for me was the look of utter frustration on the face of our captain as he misplaced a ball through to Kakuta. As he turned away and berated himself, I felt utter sympathy for him because it showed that he cares. I don’t expect every one of our players to race around like idiots but I do expect more passion from the boys. I saw passion from Terry and Cole especially but some players looked as if the match was not within their control.

Yes, I think that’s it. It seemed as if their efforts would not matter. This is simply not good enough.

But I love these players. All of these lads have given us unforgettable memories over these past few years – Ivanovic and his headers at Anfield, Frank’s dramatic penalty against Liverpool in the CL semi, Drogba’s goal at Old Trafford, JT’s header at Burnley, Malouda’s rejuvenation, Drogba’s domination of the entire Arsenal defence, Ashley’s work rate, Anelka’s savvy, Essien’s drive.

They are our Team of Champions and we may never see their like again. I just wish things were different. But I can’t forget the past. I’ll never forget the joy they have given me.

I met up with Parky and we quickly sped back to the waiting car, the winter air now chilling us to the bone. Of course, it had turned out to be some night in The Premiership with Liverpool getting gubbed yet again, Newcastle beating West Ham 5-0, Spurs losing, Villa losing…crazy times. Parky said that he had heard rumours that Sunderland had gone ahead of us (it’s funny the rumours you hear on that immediate five minute walk away from the ground with fans jabbering away like idiots, some of it wildly off the mark…”I see Arsenal lost 8-0, a giraffe scored for Everton, a referee died at Preston, there were ten players sent off at Stenhousemuir”).

The mood in the car was sombre. We listened to BBC Radio Five Live, with the football reporters chipping in with gossip and sound bites from around the grounds. The focus was on the four under-fire managers – Hodgson, Ancelotti, Grant and Houllier. Then, there was the usual post-game ‘phone in and a couple of callers got me shouting abuse at the radio.

Caller One – a Liverpool fan, full of rhetoric about the tradition, the history, you know the score. He slammed Hodgson, and made a few points but then said that he had a ticket for the F.A. Cup game at Old Trafford on Sunday, but “I’ve had enough – I’m not going.” What an absolute jerk – professing his love for his club one minute, creating a stance, but then making a mockery of that by not going to the biggest game his club will play this season and announcing this on national radio, thus giving ammunition to all other clubs’ fans…I imagined thousands of United fans rubbing their hands with glee.

Caller Two – a Chelsea fan, moaning of course, though he had not been to the game. He spoke of our problems, but then talked about a game a few weeks ago and talked about “a Portuguese defender, whose name escapes me at the moment.”

I turned the radio off and yelled at him. I think I shocked Parky with my venom and cascade of expletives. While we are supported by tools like this – a fan that is happy to moan on the radio about our club, but is unable to recall Paolo Ferreira’s name – I worry for our collective soul.

There was no music on the drive home. Just too depressed. We needed the silence.

Parky was dropped off at 12.30am and I got home at 1am.

I checked the tables and – phew – we remained fifth and Sunderland sixth. It is an amazing season this year. The bottom ten teams of the top division are separated by just five points. It seems that the old adage of there being “no easy game in this division” is now very true. At the other end, it looks like United’s title to lose – their history-making nineteenth title looks academic. I think that our league title aspirations were extinguished against Wolves. Looking ahead, on any normal F.A. Cup Round Three game, we would normally blood a few youngsters, but against The Tractor Boys on Sunday, I am not so sure if Carlo Ancelotti will take that risk.

In these current circumstances, a win – any win – will be met like a long lost friend. Let’s hope we don’t have to go hunting on Facebook for it.

“Come On You Blue Boys.”

Tales From Heroes And Villains

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 2 January 2011.

It was time for the Three Wise Men to be on the road again. I collected Glenn from Frome at 8am and Parky soon after. With the rest of the South of England recovering from the excesses of New Year’s Eve, never has the M4 motorway been so devoid of traffic. The 110 miles were completed in double-quick time and, at just after 10am, the three of us were tucking into a Full English at the Yadana Café on Lillie Road. Of course, during the previous day, all of our natural rivals had ground out wins (even the lowly but despised West Ham United had won…) and now the focus was on us. On a rare occasion of annoyance with football, I had deliberately avoided the football highlights on “Match of the Day” on the Saturday night – instead I watched a whole night devoted to the much-loved comedy duo Morecambe and Wise on BBC2.

Eric Morecombe is playing the piano.

Andre Previn, the musical conductor – “But you’re not playing the right notes.”

Eric Morecombe – “…I’m playing all the right notes…pause…but not necessarily…pause…in the right order.”

As we wolfed down our eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans and black pudding, we re-emphasised the need for us to defeat an Aston Villa team which had been on a dire run of form under Gerard Houllier. With Bolton defeated, we were faced with a run of games against teams – Villa, Wolves and Blackburn Rovers – which could and should give us maximum points.

I had recently purchased a new book on Chelsea Football Club, “When Football Was Football – Chelsea – A Nostalgic Look at a Century of the Club,” and I had brought this up on the car ride for Glenn and Parky to take a look at. This book is stacked full of previously unseen photographs from the Daily Mirror and I certainly enjoyed pouring over classic photos of past-players such as Hughie Gallacher, Roy Bentley, Peter Bonetti and Charlie Cooke. If there is one player from our distant past who I would love to know more about, it is the fiery, pint-sized Scottish centre-forward Gallacher. His demeanour in photos suggests a massive personality. The tough Scottish up-bringing, his time on Tyneside, the big money move to London, the goals, the temper, the fall from grace and the eventual suicide. That has to be a story worth telling.

A few photographic highlights from “When Football Was Football” –

1922 – a panoramic view of the wide bowl of Stamford Bridge during the F.A. Cup Final between Huddersfield and Preston.

1924 – the King being introduced to the players of the Chicago White Sox and New York Giants before a baseball game at The Bridge.

1931 – a classic shot of the trio Andy Wilson, Hughie Gallacher and Jackie Crawford in suits, bowler hats and thick overcoats in the London fog on the old forecourt.

1945 – an outside photograph of the swarming crowds locked outside the stadium at the Moscow Dynamo game, with hundreds standing on The Shed roof.

1953 – Chelsea vs. Arsenal – a shot from the dog track – with hundreds sitting on the grass between the old East stand and the pitch…and around fifty on the East stand roof.

1961 – a bemused Jimmy Greaves – in the blue shirts, white shorts, white socks – in the centre circle on the occasion of his last ever game for us, the steep west terrace behind.

1964 – a brilliant colour shot of Ron Harris, aged just twenty, arms crossed, proud.

1965 – a lovely photo of Barry Bridges, Joe Fascione, John Hollins, Bert Murray and Marvin Hinton, sipping coffee in a London café…the old Stamford Bridge Café opposite the town hall if I am not mistaken.

1966 – the look of pain on the faces of George Graham, John Hollins, Terry Venables and Ron Harris as they learn of getting Liverpool in the F.A. Cup.

1967 – the Chelsea wives crying after defeat by Tottenham in the Cup Final.

1980 – fans entering the Shed turnstiles – £2.00 – and an old red / green / white bar scarf being born by a youth in the foreground.

1981 – angry fans on the pitch in protest after the last game – a loss to Notts County – and a broken Shed End cross-bar. We were a right bunch of b******* when we lost.

1984 – Kerry Dixon triumphant, Leeds defeated, promotion gained and shirtless fans celebrating wildly in Gate 13.

It made me realise how I missed the old Stamford Bridge, but these photos vividly enabled me to remember the sense of belonging I used to experience every time my parents brought me up to London in my childhood. I hope that the sense of belonging will never die.

As we finished our breakfasts, I toasted our friendships and reminded Glenn that we travelled up to our first ever game together in November 1983 – a game against the Geordies and we had a cup of coffee in that same café on the Fulham Road as the players in 1965.

The pre-match was a little rushed…down to meet Becky, Rick, Mary Anne and Paul – and also San Francisco Pete, plus Gill and Graeme – at the hotel. I took some photos of them all with Gill’s “Kent Blues” and “CIA” flags. Outside the megastore, I heard one of the most ridiculous comments ever at a Chelsea game…a couple, hand in hand, brushed past me and the bloke said, in a pretentious mid-Atlantic accent “Wow – this is a girl’s paradise…there are guys everywhere.”

I thought like saying “hell – you should have been here in the ‘eighties, mate.”

Then back up to The Goose, where I soon bumped into Burger, Jon and Lee, then Cathy and Dog alongside The Usual Suspects – Parky and Glenn talking to Alan, Daryl, Rob, Andy, Chops…another year, another game, another beer, another pre-match. There was talk in the pub of the Old Firm game taking place in Glasgow – on the fortieth anniversary of the Ibrox disaster. Our mate Ajax would be in attendance.

Reg and Lorraine were manning the bar and had put on a special offer for us hardened Chelsea enthusiasts –

Fosters – £1.49 a pint.

“Here’s one-fifty, Lorraine, keep the change…”

On the walk down to the ground, Daryl commented – “blimey, I’ve had five pints and I’ve got change from a tenner.” In contrast, down at the Chelsea hotel bar, three pints had cost me £12.30.

I reached my seat at 1.15pm and soon noted an abundance of free flags being waved with gusto by the inhabitants of the Shed, East Lower and Matthew Harding Lower. This is the first time I have known free flags for a league game, though it seemed that not everybody got one. I took a few photographs of the new American flags. There were gaps in the Villa section – they only had around one thousand. They soon started their song about winning a European Cup, but it’s a shame they couldn’t sell all their tickets for a game against the League Champions. We soon reminded them about “Wembley 2000.”

The game began and Agbonlahor fired in the first clear chance when he was poorly marked and was able to swivel and shoot. Cech wasn’t troubled but it was a sign that Villa would not lie down. Soon after, an Ashley Young cross / shot was dropping straight into Petr Cech’s goal and our great ‘keeper did well to re-adjust and palm the ball over. Play was even in the first quarter. But we had not really troubled the Villa goal up until then.

After 23 minutes, the ball was lobbed into the Villa box and Malouda stood his ground and then went sprawling. To be honest, I thought that it was a soft penalty, but I wasn’t complaining. I steadied myself and then clicked my camera as Frank slammed the ball centrally into Brad Friedel’s goal.

Great stuff – let’s build on this, let’s go.

Villa were rather loose with their tackles, to say the least, and the yellow cards were stacking up. Yet an errant swipe at John Terry in our own box went unpunished. We thought that the referee seemed out of his depth.

Frank Lampard was taking a few pot shots from distance, but he was not troubling the Villa goal. It has long been my opinion, from when I first saw Frank play for us in Chelsea blue in 2001, that he doesn’t always strike balls that well, especially from distance. He often scuffs his shots, he often gets little power. Alan and I had a little discussion about this and he was in agreement. It’s pretty bizarre when you think about it, considering the amount of goals he scores for us. However, compare him to, say, his nemesis Steven Gerrard – how often does Gerrard strike the ball so sweetly, with his laces, getting his entire body behind the ball? Frank’s sideway scuffs pale in comparison. It might be seem as sacrilege by some, but this is my view. Frank is better with the gentle prod inside the box rather than optimistic punts from way out. I honestly think that one of the reasons why Frank scores so often is due to the vast amount of shots he takes over the course of a whole season.

On 37 minutes, Richard Dunn clipped a ball over Cech’s bar after nobody attacked the ball to clear. Soon after, Paolo Ferreira unfortunately took an extra touch in clearing the ball when a simple swipe would have sufficed. The ball was deflected into the box and Michael Essien was adjudged to have taken the legs of a Villa attacker. It all happened so quickly, nobody knew what was going on. No Villa players appealed, the Villa fans didn’t even celebrate.

Ashley Young repeated Frank’s methodology and hit the ball centrally into Petr’s goal. They all celebrated in our corner, the gits.

I met up with San Francisco Pete at half-time and we had our usual moan – it’s a bit of a lucky superstition now…the five minute moan to each other and then, more often than not, an improved performance in the second forty-five. Didier needed to get in the game, Malouda too. Let’s see what the second half would hold.

Oh boy – after just two minutes we went a goal down. We didn’t stop the cross and a great hanging ball had “goal” written all over it. Hesky jumped against Bruma, but we stood no chance. Villa were 2-1 up.

Hell.

Individually, the three midfielders did some good stuff in the second period…going forward. However, too often that defensive block – that shield in front of the defence – was missing. A nice move involving Didier and Malouda set up Frank, but Friedel saved. Soon after, another defence splitting ball from Frank found Malouda, but the goalie got down to block. We certainly had a spell of domination around the hour mark, but our chances were wasted. Malouda – one of our front three remember – was memorably behind Ashley Cole on a few occasions. He is a player that doesn’t seem confident right now. Carlo rang the changes and we hoped…

Kalou had a couple of mesmerizing runs at the defence before falling over his feet in a heap while appealing for penalties. I think he may well have trademarked that move. Can somebody phone the patents office please?

On 84 minutes, Chelsea pressure resulted in a mad scramble and I was on my toes…I’m not sure how he did it, but Drogba steadied himself and struck low. The ball may well have entered the goal via two Aston Villa defenders.

We roared. We jumped. We screamed.

Well, apart from a row of around eight middle-aged supporters down below me and away to my right…oh dear, here I am moaning again, but why do these people bother? There were just sitting there, stony-faced, hardly moving, let alone applauding. I guess they think that Chelsea owes them something. The rest of the crowd, though – invigorated and noisy – was roaring the team on.

And then it happened – a whipped in cross from Ess, a blocked Drogba header and the ball bounced out to John Terry. John steadied himself and drilled the ball into the waiting goal.

Up we jumped – oh God the noise – and I simply screamed “COME ON – COME ON – COME ON.” My camera was in my hand ( I had clicked on the Essien cross ) and I shot away as JT wheeled away towards the East Lower. We don’t often celebrate there. It was reminiscent of Wayne Bridge’s run towards the Portsmouth fans at Christmas 2004. I steadied my hand and took five or six shots of the players catching up with JT, jumping on him, screaming away, fists pumping. I was aware that the whole team was heading towards the Chelsea bench and took one last photograph of the captain embracing Carlo Ancelotti. The photos are of a scene of wild euphoria amongst fans and players alike – wild times. I could only imagine how Becky, Rick, Mary Anne and Paul were reacting. I envisaged them jumping high and falling out of the Shed Upper onto the fans below.

And there they were – the team celebrating with the manager.

Beautiful.

My spirits were so high, I was even hoping for a ridiculous fourth. Even without this goal, I thought that JT was again our best player. His form has been excellent of late. Then, the cruel twist and the horror of the Villa equaliser – the ball dropping to an unmarked player at The Shed End at the end of a game seems to be such a familiar sight these days.

3-3.

We even had a last minute chance which rocketed past the North Stand goal…Stamford Bridge would have gone into orbit had that one gone in.

It was not to be.

We all met up at the hotel after the game in order for the four American guests to meet, at last, Ron Harris. At the top of the escalators, we stood as Ron gave his own little appraisal of our current woes. The problem I have in discussing the inherent frailties of Chelsea Football Club is that I still maintain that joyful glee that I first experienced on my first visit to The Bridge in 1974. All of the players are still heroes to me and I am still so proud to be able to come to games and witness the team in action. I don’t like hearing negativity. I abhor it to be honest. So, I listened with gritted teeth as Ron spoke about “something’s not right, the youngsters are not up to it, it looks like there is a split in the camp, the punters won’t put up with this for much longer.” The notion of everyone not pulling in the same direction at Chelsea is still something that I have difficulty coming to terms with.

The “split in the camp” angle has been mooted in the UK press for a while – though I don’t always read the papers – but the unity showed by the team after The Captain’s goal would suggest that there is nothing wrong with the team spirit. I know I’m always the optimist, but there are signs we are pulling together…but we are still lacking in confidence. I’m hoping that Ramires continues his improvement and we look a much better team with Frank back in the midfield.

We then joined up with the rest of the boys for a post-game pint in the Lillie Langtry. I was expecting a heated post-mortem, like after our loss at home to Manchester City in February, but the moment had passed. Instead, we shared some laughs and we planned some arrangements for Wolves away on Wednesday and for Ipswich next Sunday. I’m hopeful that a few of the other teams at the top can take some points of each other, that some will go on a rough run of form and that we can slowly rise again.

Damn that optimism.

Tales From A Night Of Peroni, Pizza, Football And Fireworks

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bolton Wanderers : 12 December 2010.

All together now – “Phew.”

I spent a little time on the internet in the morning, trying to gauge the mood of The Chelsea Nation. Reactions to our loss at Arsenal varied from the pragmatic to the melodramatic. To be honest, I couldn’t stomach some of the more extreme reactions. My match day companion Alan seemed to hit the nail on the head when he commented on “Facebook” –

“Some of these so-called fans who are bleating at the moment wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties.”

Unfortunately, my cold had taken a turn for the worse – it was certainly worse than on the visit to Arsenal on Monday evening. Maybe I had been exposed to a new bug in those cold North London streets – Gooneria, maybe. Not to worry – I’d be wrapped up warm. Glenn called by to pick me up at 2pm and we soon started chatting about the current state of affairs in SW6. This would be Glenn’s first game since the halcyon days of October and the 2-0 defeat of Arsenal. Glenn watched the Emirates game in a pub in Frome, seemingly full of Arsenal fans, and was able to add a different perspective to the one that I had from the away section. It seemed that the cameras seemed to dwell on the forlorn figure of our manager on many occasions. He confirmed that our team weren’t working for each other. We seemed to be a pale shadow of our former selves. In the 25 minutes it took us to collect Parky, I had put my cards on the table –

“If this is the season that we have to rebuild, so be it. But it’s never easy to rebuild and stay competitive on all fronts. It’s so difficult to supplement the first eleven – you simply can’t buy all the best players…you have to buy players who are happy to be on the fringe, happy to play that squad role. Think of people like Jarosik, Smertin, Geremi and Belletti. But Carlo Ancelotti isn’t a bad manager – he’s one of Europe’s best. This is just his second full season in England. Let’s give him time. We may not win the league this season, but let’s see what we can do. Fourth is better than fifth, third is better than fourth, second is better than third…I don’t think we’ll win it this season, but let’s see what we can do. Let’s support the team. The one thing we can’t evaluate is what Carlo needs to do to impress Roman. If it was up to me, I’d unreservedly put my faith in Ancelotti and give him time to mould his own team. We are, after all, an ageing team that has peaked. Despite the mammoth goals total in 2009-2010, we won the league by just one point in May. We need to rebuild. But, after the dark days of the latter part of the Scolari regime, I would not have put £1 on us winning the league in less than 18 months of his departure. It just shows the spirit of the senior pros in our squad who pushed on and won at Arsenal, Manchester United and Liverpool last season. We may not see the likes of that again for quite a while. Let’s just get behind the team tonight and sing our hearts out.”

This is my view on things – though I doubt very much if it mirrors that of Roman Abramovic.

Glenn was buzzing to be going up to Chelsea again after a break of two months, eager to see our mates in The Goose, eager to see the team. His next comment warmed me …

”I’ll never stop going – what’s the worst that can happen? We can lose.”

Big deal.

“Yeah mate – and we’ve seen a lot worse, eh?”

Parky was collected and The Three Wise Men were on our way. Some awful fog in Berkshire slowed the normally speedy Glenn, so we didn’t reach our usual parking spot until about 4.30pm. We hot-footed it to our favourite restaurant on Brompton Road where we had arranged to meet the four American visitors. Becky, Rick, Mary Anne and Paul had just arrived and Salvo was soon fussing over all of us like long-lost friends. If The Goose has acquired the unofficial status of “CIA pub”, then Salvo’s has become the CIA restaurant in London. The list of CIAers who have passed through the doors goes on and on…Teri, Starla, Beth, Danny, Burger, Julie, SF Bob, Detroit Bob, Jens, Danielle, Wes, Scott, Lalo, Farmer John Schaeffer, David from Houston, Hoss, plus Mike and Chopper and afew of the New York Blues.

Pizzas were ordered and three bottles of Peroni didn’t touch the sides. Despite the loss at Arsenal, the four visitors still loved the match day experience and – of course – were besides themselves with joy at the thought of their first ever game at Stamford Bridge. We moved on to The Goose and I pointed out all of the Chelsea watering-holes along the way.

The pub was packed of course and the Americans loved the fact that it was full of devoted Chelsea supporters. We got the beers in and spoke about all sorts of nonsense. Michigan Kev arrived at about 6pm and joined the fray. He made a bee-line for Parky and the banter commenced. With The Ashes regained, Rick asked if any of us were cricket fans. So I spoke a little about that – there are a few cricket fans in my group of mates…Gary is a Surrey season ticket holder, Daryl watches a few games every summer…I used to like cricket before baseball took over my affections. I even played for the school team during one summer. Rick also asked about rugby. No – a resolute no. None of us are rugby followers. In fact, I joked with Rick that our little conversation about “egg chasing” was probably the longest conversation I had ever had in The Goose about that particular sport.

We spoke about all sorts in The Goose pre-match. I spoke to Rick about that magnificent book “Soccer In A Football World” (which details the history of footy in the USA) and in particular the appearance of our player Alec Jackson in the Bethlehem Steel team back in the 1920s. Amongst other things, Klinger from “MASH” and his favourite team the Toledo Mud Hens also got a mention. To say nothing of my mates Andy and Jonesy singing “One Man Went To Mow” at Detroit’s Tiger Stadium in 1984…and the Tigers fans looking on, quite befuddled. Talking of people looking befuddled, the visitors from the US had the pleasure of meeting “permanently confused” Wycombe Stan, a man who has a “Facebook” page devoted to him. After our little chat, he pottered off, probably unaware of who I was or even who he was. It always amazes me how he finds his way to Chelsea every few weeks.

I personally could have stayed there, chatting and drinking, all night. But the kick-off was approaching though and we needed to move on.

“See you on Sunday boys – Happy New Year.”

On the walk past The Cock And Hen ( the site of my first ever pint at Chelsea, April 1984 ), I again reminded Mary Anne that Chelsea isn’t really a football club at all – it’s a social club and we meet up every weekend at a football ground. As we passed The Malt House, Paul suggested that we called in on the off chance of bumping in to a girl from Cleveland Ohio who was with a couple of the CFC Fancast gents. While my back was turned, Parky and Kev had decided to get a pint in, despite it being about 15 minutes from kick-off. Not to worry – everyone happy, everyone smiling. I said to Mary Anne that the little dip into The Malt House encapsulated what supporting Chelsea is all about – bumping into Chelsea fans for the first time, handshakes, smiles, laughter and Parky getting a sneaky beer in.

After all these distractions, I got into my seat just in time for the kick-off. Beth had texted me to say that a few of the CIA banners were on show in the East stand. A quick look around – around 750 away fans.

Anelka in. Ramires in. Bosingwa in.

I’m not sure if anyone else has ever noticed, but at Stamford Bridge, in the south-east corner, there is often a plume of smoke which appears from a mysterious location behind the East Stand. Maybe from where Ken Bates’ old office once was. Not for the first time, I joked with Alan that it looked like the elder members of the Vatican had decided on a new Pope – better look out Carlo, it might be that Roman has decided on a change of manager – whereas Alan thought that it meant that chain-smoker John Neal was in the car park.

I didn’t have my big lens so was unable to spot all of the CIA banners. However, I did spot these –Chelsea In America, North Texas, South East Blues, Boston Blues, Texas, OC Blues.

It wasn’t a great first-half was it? We had the usual pass-pass-pass possession, but it was the away team who had the best chance in the opening period. Former Pompey midfielder Matt Taylor was left exposed but he dragged his shot narrowly wide. There was certainly the usual mumbling and grumbling throughout the first-half. The crowd began reasonably well, but the noise soon quietened. Our chances were rare and unconvincing. The referee Mike Jones was annoying the hell out of all of us – on three occasions he decided to blow up for free-kicks in our favour when advantage should have been played. Nothing annoys me more than that really – I wish referees would let the game flow anyway – and I vented my frustration at the referee. These were anxious times. For the first time in ages at Chelsea, I stood the entire game. I wanted to feel involved – standing helps, don’t ask me why.

I couldn’t help but think that the pre-match was far outweighing the game – but how many hundreds of times has that been the case, anyway? The referee blew up for the break and boos could be heard.

At half-time, right at the start, the PA played a few verses from a Howard Jones song from 1984, imploring us to “throw off your mental chains.” How apt, I thought. It’s what we needed to do – miraculously regain our collective self-confidence. I was hoping Carlo was weaving some magic deep in the bowels of the East stand. During the break, I had time to glance through the programme and there were a few previously unpublished black and white photographs from the Bolton away game in 1983, where Clive Walker scored and…oh, I’m sure you all know by now. If you don’t, it’s time you did.

Half-Time Quiz –

1. What is Chelsea’s biggest home win over Bolton Wanderers in the Premier League era?

2. Which player scored his first-ever Premier League goal for Chelsea in the first of those meetings?

3. Which player netted the winner in last season’s meeting against Bolton at The Bridge?

4. Which Brazilian centre-back had a spell with the Trotters, having previously represented Chelsea?

I looked back on the first period. JT, for me, was our best player. Frank was only making short runs into space – he had no space, to be fair, but he seemed to be playing within himself. Malouda quiet, Drogba quiet.The usual stuff.

Soon after the re-start, a sublime ball (one of the best of the season if I am honest) from Frank cut right through the Bolton defence and found Didier who advanced in the inside-right position. We were all prepared for a goal – but the firm strike hit the far post and rebounded to safety. We kept getting caught offside, but at least we were showing a greater willingness to attack the Bolton rear-guard.

On the hour, we broke through again and we all thought, to a man, that Didier was offside. However, I looked across at the retreating linesman, below the OC Blues flag, and he memorably kept his flag down. In a moment of high drama, Didier crossed the ball into the box and the advancing – and unmarked – Malouda slid the ball in.

The Bridge erupted – it is quite some time since a goal against a team outside the top five or six was met with such loud and happy delirium. Alan and I calmed ourselves and – after quite a few games since the last time – we uttered the famous…

“They will have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

As the second-half continued, I have to say that Ramires, our little number seven, got more and more into the game…chasing people down, keeping the ball in tight areas like Makelele, getting stuck in. It was so pleasing to see – long may it continue. Carlo obviously rates him – that is good enough for me. Definitely his best game for us, by a mile. We carved open a few more chances, but Bolton were still in the game. On 76 minutes, Cech showed much agility to tip over a rasping drive from Holden – the arc of his rising body was a picture. From the resultant corner, we were lucky to stay 1-0 up as a header fell at the feet of a defender who hacked the ball away.

We had a few more chances – the ball was worked rather cleverly to Essien but he shot wide. Essien had not had the best of games, but one trademark hustling run sticks out.

Perhaps the highlight of the second period was, in my mind, the rousing roar that the crowd gave Ashley Cole after his sprint for a 50/50 ball…his desire, his pace, his perfectly timed tackle. Moments like that can galvanise an entire football club. Players and fans together.

Thankfully – and with great relief and pleasure – the much maligned referee blew up and The Bridge roared. I exchanged a few happy texts from Chelsea fans from near and far. I liked Beth’s comment about Ramires –

“He is a feisty little guy and I like that.”

I was so happy that the four Americans’ inaugural visit to Stamford Bridge had resulted in a much-needed win. Three points to The Champions – phew, indeed. Of course, the news that Arsenal had dropped points at Wigan added to our glee as we left the stadium and hustled down the Fulham Road. I caught up with Parky who had somehow managed to tangle his crutches up with his jacket sleeve – the beers were having an effect. Overhead, in the dark London night, the sky was lit up with a succession of fireworks, cracking and sparkling away.

It was a perfect moment.

Not for the first time, I wish I could have stayed on in London – to meet up with Becky, Mary Anne, Paul, Rick and Kevin to hear about their experiences in The Shed. I can just picture the glee on their faces as Malouda struck. The noise really was fantastic.

We got back to Glenn’s car and we all admitted that it felt like a large weight had been lifted from our shoulders. One win does not a season make, but let’s keep going. Let’s beat Villa on Sunday and let’s win at Wolves on Wednesday. Let’s get a run going.

Come on Chelsea – let’s go.

Tales From The Bleak Midwinter

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 27 December 2010.

“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.”

Our last game – it seems ages ago, doesn’t it? – was at White Hart Lane and we now found ourselves heading for The Emirates. I’m sure it has happened before, but I certainly can’t remember two consecutive away games at our traditional London rivals. From the urban blight of Tottenham’s stadium to the swanky lines of Arsenal’s new pad, a distance of no more than a few miles, but with fifteen days in between. Fifteen days of sporting inactivity. Fifteen days of anticipation – and doubt.

I have been suffering with a heavy cold, with associated coughing and wheezing, for much of the past week. Thankfully, I awoke feeling much better and I was able to look forward to the day ahead with a more positive angle. The fields around my village have been coated in snow for quite a while, but I noted a slight thaw taking place in the morning. By comparison to the previously arctic conditions, the temperature outside seemed positively tropical. I was happy that our game against Arsenal was put back 24 hours as it gave me one more day to continue my recuperation. The coughing had subsided…I would be OK.

I gathered together my various match day essentials – coat, cap, phone, wallet and camera – and stepped outside into the bright winter sun. As I turned the ignition of my car, the bells of Saint Andrews parish church struck one. In the distance, the muffled sounds of a local shoot could be heard. The village is set amongst countryside owned by various farmers – to say nothing of our very own landed gentry, the Earl of Oxford and Asquith. Dairy farming is to the fore, but arable crops are often rotated around too. During the winter, the local farmers supplement their incomes by hosting events as pheasant shoots and suchlike. It was the crack of a rifle that I could hear a mile or so away. During the morning, I had driven past a heavily camouflaged team of “beaters”, crouching near a hedge, waiting for the next instruction from the leading hand.

There is something quite laughable about the clothes worn by these hunting types – all checked shirts, tartan ties, flat caps, muted green and beige tweed jackets and britches, outlandish mustard cord trousers, Barbour jackets and Daks pullovers. They really are a picture of upper-middle class buffoonery. I always smile when I see them. Without a doubt, they are a rare breed.

And yet – in case anyone is wondering why I am mentioning all this, in addition to setting the scene for my wintry foray through England’s green ( and white ) pleasant land – there are a couple of items which are favoured by the hunting set which have been adopted by the football fraternity over the years. Back during the early onset of football fashion madness, circa 1981 maybe, deer-stalker hats were worn with drainpipe jeans and the leisure wear of the day. I can certainly remember dear-stalkers on show on The Benches in 1983, but they soon disappeared from view. I saw one, being worn with ironic gusto, at a European away a few years back. And then, of course, the Barbour wax jacket, with the oily feel to the fabric and its inherently pungent aroma. These were worn around the 1986-1988 period and I contemplated getting one for a few short weeks. Barbour has come back into football circles over the past few years and a few of us have the classic quilted jackets, polo shirts, long-sleeved shirts and pullovers.

Proper English gear – as worn by the middle-classes in The Shires and football followers on the terraces.

As I left the village, Texas were on the CD singing about “some foolish mission” and I rued their words. This would be a tough game for sure. Despite their defensive frailties, Arsenal represented one of our toughest opponents this season. This would be a solo trip up to London for me. It felt strange to be heading east all alone. Both Parky and Glenn, season ticket-holders, were keen to go to Arsenal, but had missed out. Arsenal away is a tough ticket. Despite 60,000 spectators at Arsenal, any away team is limited to a maximum 3,000 tickets. There are around 500 in the away scheme and the rest goes 60% / 40% to season ticket-holders and members. Parky missed out on an away trip to Goonerville by one solitary loyalty point and was mortified.

I raced over Salisbury Plain, the fields still white with snow, and was soon stopping for an espresso on the A303. Onto the M25, the traffic slowed to a crawl and gave me the chance to observe the westbound planes leaving Heathrow, now getting back to normality after our unusual wintry spell. The Killers gave way to the Cocteau Twins as I neared my destination. I enjoyed listening to the two atypical Cocteaus songs “Winter Wonderland” and “Frosty The Snowman” – never have the words to those Christmas songs sounded so ethereal and shimmery.

I was parked-up near West Brompton and walked to Earls Court, before catching the Piccadilly Line to Holborn. We had arranged to meet, as always for Arsenal, at The Shakespeare’s Head. I rolled in, a little late, at about 4.30pm.

“Chris!”

The Americans were there – Rick and Becky from Ohio, and Paul and Mary-Ann from Tennessee – and it was lovely to see them. I first met Rick in that cramped wedge of Chelsea support at Toyota Park in Chicago in 2006. I met Paul and Mary Anne at “Yankee Doodles” in Santa Monica in 2007. Great to see them again – they had just arrived in London and were all staying in the hotel at The Bridge. Paul and Mary Anne had already packed in a Boxing Day excursion to Stonehenge, Glastonbury and Avebury…a mystical mystery tour of Wessex. They should have popped in for a coffee as they must have passed very close to my own little part of England. We joined Daryl, Rob, Alan and Gary further inside the boozer.

We stayed in the pub for around two-and-a-half hours and we were joined by Kev, now back in Michigan, at about 5.30pm. Kev had been on his own little tour of England, visiting friends and family alike. The pub was busy – there were clusters of middle-aged Chelsea fans everywhere I could look. We spoke about what? All sorts, really…Paul’s bright orange Tennessee Volunteers sweatshirt, the idiosyncrasies of English TV, the Amish, scrumpy, mutual friends, plastic surgery for Kev,plans for Wednesday, my new CP pullover (a deep, muted green – very “Shooting Party”! ), past summer tours, Detroit Bob’s beer intake… even the team occasionally.

At 7pm, I acted as tour guide and rustled up the troops for the ten minute tube ride to Arsenal. Mary Anne began talking to a chap from Texas, bound for the game, but wearing a Longhorns T-shirt. We all made out we were Vols fans – the London Branch – and, amidst much laughter, I think we confused him a little. His next comment was a classic –

“Anyway, I hope it’s all a bit more civilised than a Cowboys game.”

With a dozen Chelsea fans bellowing further down the carriage, we soon advised him that he might be in for a shock. To be honest, we the ratio of 20:1 against, we all presumed he was an Arsenal fan. But no – this was his first ever football game and his son, sitting bemused nearby, was a Chelsea fan…

“Oh – good man!”

Mary Anne, ever the CIA cheerleader, quickly placed a CIA calling card in his hand and we wished him a good time. He was from Dallas and it is hoped that this friendly encounter deep below the cold streets of Holloway will result in another member, or two, for the Texas Blues. As we marched through the narrow tunnels at Arsenal tube, a few Chelsea up ahead began The Muppets-inspired “Ivanovic – Na Na, Na NaNa – Ivanovic – Na NaNaNa” chant. It was great to hear – and I could see that Jim the Texan loved it. One lone Arsenal fan, no older than ten, was trying to muster a response with a shrill “Red Army” offering.

“On your own, mate.”

At street level, we turned left and not right. I had promised my five guests a quick glimpse at the old Arsenal stadium, Highbury, now a housing development but with the two classic Art Deco side stands intact. It was the first time I had paid it a visit since the move to The Emirates to be honest. We took a few photos out on Avenell Road, the Arsenal Stadium signage still intact. We then sat on the steps leading up to the famous marble halls and took a few photos, Becky’s Chelsea scarf unfurled for effect.

I had immediate memories of the 1984 game – detailed in depth in “Chelsea Here Chelsea There” – and of the smiling Chelsea players giving us the “thumbs-up” from the large windows of the changing rooms as we marched past. What a day that was – ah, the memories.

We backtracked past the tube station, joining the flow of match traffic heading west, past the Arsenal souvenir stalls, past the hot dog stands, past the T-shirts. To my left, one other stall caught my attention.

A candy-striped awning covered box upon box of assorted confectionary. There must have been forty or fifty boxes, filled with various items such as liquorice sticks, boiled fruit sweets, peanut brittle, toffees, mint imperials, fudge, candy walking sticks, chocolate covered nuts, peppermint creams, chocolate raisins, flying saucers, wine gums and pastilles. It was quite a picture. Sweets of every shape and size.Sweets of every colour.Sweets of every hue. Quite tempting in fact.

The Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger was not available for comment.

We walked, slowly – taking it all in – up and over the footbridge which links the old Arsenal of the narrow terraced streets around Highbury with the 21st Century space-age Emirates Stadium. I squeezed both Paul and Mary Anne’s hands – “Welcome To London” – and I could sense that they were besides themselves with excitement. I’m lucky to be able to be able to share these moments of unbridled joy with so many new visitors to these footballing shores.

I reached my seats in that corner section with a few minutes to spare.

The Emirates – my fifth visit – and, of course, rich with memories already. We lost the hold on our champions crown at the 1-1 game in 2007, when Jose Mourinho made that iconic walk towards us, thanking us for our support, the famous “chin up” gesture to us all. To me, that was a defining Chelsea moment – it reminded me that even in defeat, we could be defiant, belligerent, noisy, passionate and united.

But then, the game before Christmas the same year under the tutelage of Uncle Avram was a grim affair…a 0-1 loss and were never in it. Since then, the 2009 games – the 4-1 and the 3-0 goal fests – were just too good to be true…two magnificent results and the old phrase “men against boys” was never more apt.

What of the game of Monday 27th. December 2010?

I can hardly remember anything of note in that mediocre first period. I remember a long shot from Didier Drogba flitting past Fabianski’s far post. We had quite a bit of possession, but what did we create? A great Cech tip-over came on forty minutes and I could hardly believe that the first-half had gone by so quickly. Let’s get to the break, mix things up a bit and get at them. Then, a bit of pinball in our area and Arsenal had an extra man. We could all sense danger. Song swept it in and I bowed my head – “oh no.”

It was all doom and gloom at half-time in the CFC section. We hadn’t threatened, had we? Kalou was in for the usual slating, but nobody shone, JT excepted. I couldn’t quite fathom why Mikel was taken off as the underperforming Ramires took his place. I yearned for a “Spurs Away Part Two” in that second forty-five minutes.

Our game plan fell apart within a few crazy minutes – first Essien losing possession and Fabregas slotting home, then Malouda guilty of the same and Walcott rifling home from distance. This made the home fans erupt and the sight of their flailing arms is haunting me as I write. At this stage, I had visions of a capitulation and our heaviest league defeat since a 5-1 drubbing at Anfield in 1996.

Thank heavens that didn’t happen – I’m searching for small morsels of positive news here – and at least the Chelsea support stayed to support the team. There was no mass exodus at three-nil. We were rewarded with a fine Ivanovic header from a pin-point Drogba free-kick. We temporarily roared our support and hoped that the wounded beast would respond. It shows what a deeply pathetic romantic soul that I am that I still had hopes for us to get it back to 3-3. I’d suggest that JT was our only player who showed any drive and skill, yet – bizarrely – all three Arsenal goals came through our middle. We tried to rally the troops – despite a recent sore throat, I gave my all.

We had possession, for sure, but no threat. No threat at all. Bosingwa and Kakuta entered the fray – and Kalou stayed on. But Arsenal could sit back and soak it up, then threaten us at will on the break. I think I was just grateful that we didn’t concede further and it stayed 3-1.

Arsenal made a few late substitutions and it reminded me of how little attention I had been paying to their personnel. I was only vaguely aware of who was in their team. I don’t pay such scant regard to other teams, so why am I so ambivalent as to who plays for Wenger? I think that this has been the way with Arsenal for the past few years. I think I lost any interest in Arsenal’s players when people like Hleb and Flamini flitted in and out of the team. They might still be there for all that I care. Is there a Clichy that still plays for them? I really don’t know and do you think I care? If I am honest, it just seems to me that Wenger has a whole squad of interchangeable waiflike metrosexuals and to hell with the lot of them.You see, rather than berate our own players – they need our support in these troubled times – I would much rather kick-out at the opposition.

The Emirates, for large periods, remained incredibly quiet. It seems that some things, Highbury or not, don’t change.

Regrettably, with a long drive ahead of me, I left on 90 minutes and so didn’t witness the final few moments of this most depressing night in North London. At Earls Court, feeling famished, I couldn’t resist popping into “Dall’Artista” for a fiery pizza which certainly put an end to the final vestiges of my head cold. Salvo rewarded me for another year of patronage of his restaurant with it being “on the house” and so there was at least some comfort in my solo trip to London.

I got home, the thaw almost complete, the roads now ice-free, at about 1am. I collapsed onto my bed and hoped for a deep sleep, but I knew that when I eventually woke, the pain would still be there.

Where is it all going wrong? I don’t know, but maybe we will find out more against Bolton.

Tales From White Hart Lane

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 12 December 2010.

Tottenham Away.

Throughout the week leading up to our game at White Hart Lane – and if I am honest, for a few weeks before it too – I was filled with some sort of grim foreboding. We all know that our form has dipped of late, but the thought of having to travel up to deepest, darkest North London on a cold Sunday in December was making me feel nauseous. The thought of losing to our old enemy was bad enough, but there were added reasons for my general malaise. The kick-off time didn’t help…a 4pm kick-off would mean that I wouldn’t even get back to my car until 7.30pm. There were recent memories of our past two defeats to add to the mix. The weather would be undoubtedly cold and grim. And of course, the thought of 33,000 baying Spurs fans is enough to make any Chelsea fan feel sick. A defeat at Spurs, too, would be the worst possible way to prepare for the two games against United and Arsenal.

My mind was muddled and I was reminded of one of those atmospheric Turner paintings of London, a cityscape out of focus and blurred with everything shrouded in a film of thick fog but, on this occasion, without any feint hint of light.

You get the picture.

I set off from my Somerset village at about 10.15am with the whole day ahead of me. It had been a cold night and the hedgerows were lightly dusted in hoarfrost. As I drove up the slight incline out of the village, with the former sight of a Saxon hill fort on top of the ridge of land to my left, a couple of pheasants flew up and over the hedge and clear of my onrushing car. The sky was pure winter blue with no clouds. The sun gave the naked trees a wonderful orange glow in the morning light. I was suddenly struck with the thought that I could have easily stayed all day in those fields around my home, photographing the twisted branches of those birch and oak trees, the rise and fall of the hills, the detail of the hedgerows and the ancient stone walls. The lure of the grim streets around White Hart Lane was not great at that exact moment in time. I had twelve hours away from this rural idyll and I let out a silent sigh.

So, a moment there for me to step back and question what motivates me as a Chelsea supporter to travel up to London, or wherever, and see us in the flesh. Maybe it’s just in my blood, to coin the old CFC advertising slogan.

I collected Lord Parky and we were on our way. We went through our plans for the day and we touched on the deficiencies of the team. Another sigh.

I spoke to Parky about an article I had read in the current “Four Four Two” magazine about an England versus Germany international played at White Hart Lane in 1935. It was a fascinating piece for a number of reasons. Over 10,000 Germans made the trip (a huge number for the time) in a propaganda exercise by the Third Reich. Most incredible of all, the England FA sanctioned the flying of a Nazi flag on one of the flagpoles atop the old East Stand. Even in those days, Spurs was noted for its large Jewish fan base (though I have often heard that Arsenal’s Jewish fan base is larger), so the local press was awash with protests leading up to the game. There is a chilling photograph of the German team on the White Hart Lane mud before kick-off with their right arms raised. It echoes the infamous photo of the England team, in Berlin three years later, being forced to do the Nazi salute despite protestations from the players.

The blue skies suddenly gave way to clouds as we headed into London and we were soon parked-up at our usual place at Chelsea. We then had plans to join Alan and Gary at The Railway near Liverpool Street. However, it sounded pretty rowdy when I spoke to Alan on the ‘phone and so we decided to have a quiet pint in The Famous Three Kings at West Kensington before heading east. We caught the tube to Liverpool Street and then the over ground train to White Hart Lane. We were fine, actually. Our friendly chatter was helping to allay fears of the game ahead. I had a text from a mate saying that Didi was on the bench, along with Frank.

This would be my eleventh visit to Tottenham. I admit, this isn’t a large amount of times, but I have a reason for this. As our unbeaten run against Tottenham gathered momentum, I honestly felt that I would jinx our form if I ever went to White Hart Lane. So, from 1993 to 2008, I only visited the home of our hated rivals on three occasions. Unfortunately, I didn’t witness the 6-1 triumph in 1998. My first ever visit was on a rainy day in September 1986 when we won 3-1 with goals from Mickey Hazard ( 2 ) and Kerry Dixon. Another highlight from way back was the 3-1 game in 1991 when “Judas” Gordon Durie was given the severest bout of booing I have ever witnessed. Happy days.

The funniest story about a Chelsea game at White Hart Lane involves the 1989 game when I was 3,000 miles away. This game took place just after I had left England to embark on a ten month holiday in the US and Canada. The old Leitch stand at Tottenham, the Shelf stand, the East stand – call it what you will – was being renovated and so Spurs ( Gary Lineker, Paul Gascoigne, Chris Waddle et al ) were playing to a limited capacity of just 16,000. I have the distinct feeling that Chelsea were not given access to any tickets. However, my good friend Andy and his mate Jonesy had somehow obtained tickets in the home Paxton Road End and they had to make out that they were Spurs supporters. We walloped Spurs 4-1 on that great afternoon and Andy tells the story that he and Jonesy even got the Spurs fans sitting around him singing “What a load of rubbish” as goal after goal went in. Andy always enjoys telling that story. I can well remember being at a state park in Virginia on the following day, having just put my tent up, phoning home and hearing the great news from my father that we had won 4-1 at Tottenham. It is with typical irony that during my 1989-1990 season-long sabbatical we finished in fifth place that season, our best finish since 1970. Great timing, Chris!

At 3.40pm, our train pulled in to White Hart Lane station and I was immediately reminded of the miserable walk back to the same station after our two springtime defeats in 2009 and 2010. As Parky and I crossed the High Road, with Spurs fans in the majority, I noted the shabby nature of the area around the stadium. There are two Spurs shops on that main stretch. There is a modern one on the corner with Park Lane, adjacent to the away section, but the shop on the High Road has boarded-up flats above. For an apparently glamorous club (discuss…) the area around White Hart Lane is as low-rent as is possible to get. The difference between N17 and SW6 is huge. I am reminded of an action-packed passage from Martin King’s “Hoolifan” every time I cross the road towards the West Stand at White Hart Lane…vibrant memories of bovver boots, Ben Shermans and shaved heads, circa 1967.

“We look wide-eyed out of the shop window as this herd of buffalo in Spurs colours gallops past, leaving clouds of dust in its wake.”

We were funnelled into the away stand, with home fans bellowing “Y*d Army” all around us. I reached my seat, high above the corner flag, four rows from the rear, next to Al and Gary. I had a lovely view of the police observation room with hangs, dramatically, from the stand roof.

OK – here we go, game on.

The Chelsea team were in all blue.

No white socks.

The skies were overcast.

The Chelsea support was in great form.

Hardly anyone was wearing colours.

Let’s go.

We were very surprised and, of course, pleased with our very positive start to the game. We peppered the idiosyncratic Gomez with a few shots and a lone shot from Bale was Tottenham’s only reply. Good vibes. However, after 15 minutes the entire Chelsea defence appeared to freeze as Defoe worked the ball into Pavlochenko who easily struck at Cech’s near post. The docile Spurs support roared and we groaned.

“Here we go again.”

However, we didn’t crumble and dominated possession in the first period. An Essien shot, a Kalou header, we kept going. We noted that Michael Essien still wasn’t back to his best and he looked rather sluggish…where were his surging runs? He needed to impose himself more. Anelka was a bit frustrating, but I had no real complaints in that first period. I didn’t like that their playmaker Modric was being given far too much space, but Spurs didn’t test Cech too often. Bale had a few runs down our flank, but Paolo was holding his own.

We were doing OK. I loved the two textbook tackles from John Terry. The second one broke up a threatening Spurs attack and as we broke up the left, in front of the West stand, JT was hurtling towards the box. The resultant cross was played ahead of him, but he still flung himself at the ball. What a goal that would have been. It was a pulsating match and I was getting stuck in to supporting the boys with gusto. It was a great performance from the Chelsea choir. On several occasions, I was croaking rather than singing, like in days of old.

At half-time, I was confident that we would get a result…I had seen enough to even wonder if we could snatch a win. Midway through the break, the Chelsea fans down below me began again…

“Don’t worry – about a thing. ‘Cus every little thing is gonna be alright.”

At the start of the second-half, Carlo substituted Mikel for Drogba. It was great to get Didi back on the pitch, but we all wondered why Ramires and not Mikel stayed on the pitch. If anything, for the first ten minutes, our performance dropped a few notches and I sorely wondered if our chance had gone. However, roared on by the Chelsea faithful in that tight south-west corner (how apt), we never gave up…we dominated possession and moved the ball consistently well. At times it looked like we lacked the cutting edge, but with Drogba on board we were able to vary our approach a little.

Gary and Alan were baying for Kalou to be replaced and eventually got their wish when Daniel Sturridge entered the fray. Not long after, a high ball up towards Drogba, a turn, a tussle with Dawson and a volley straight at Gomez. I was right behind the course of the ball and I could hardly believe our luck when the sheer pace and power of Didi’s shot meant that the ball spun up and over Gomez.

The Chelsea end went into orbit. We screamed and screamed. I began jumping up, grabbing and hugging a few strangers, and then I turned around and just “eyeballed” several other fans, screaming and pointing at them. I was well aware of this quite demonic behaviour, but knew that it was a sign of how important this goal was to our season.

Passion, noise, vibrancy, euphoria – all of it encapsulated in those top rows of the away end at White Hart Lane. I gave Gary a lasting hug and grasped Alan’s hand. This was a massive goal.

We pushed on and still dominated the play, even more so than in the first-half. We were playing as a team for the first time in quite a while and it was so pleasing. Malouda was getting more involved. JT and Ivanovic were holding things together at the back. Even Ramires was growing as the game progressed…there is a chance our new Brazilian can easily become a target for our boos, but we need to resist. This is a new ball game for the lad.

Throughout the weekend, I had been texting Danny in California about obscure Tottenham songs and midway through the game, I remembered another one – based on the Terry Jacks song from around 1974…“Seasons In The Sun.”

“We had joy, we had fun, we had Tottenham on the run, but the joy didn’t last ‘cos the ba5tards ran too fast.”

Oh dear – how many of our fighting songs really are fighting songs!

Frank Lampard had been warming up on the near touchline for a fair portion of the second-half and he enjoyed our support of him. In response, he clapped us and urged us on. Eventually, he came on and it was so lovely to see him back in Chelsea blue. I said to the bloke next to me “we can still win this mate.”

Still the Chelsea fans were going strong. One song in particular was met with a stony silence from the Tottenham fans –

“There’s no trophies at The Lane.”

In the last minute – the memories are rather blurred – the ball was pushed through to Ramires down below us. He touched the ball wide, but Gomez clattered him…I immediately glanced up at the ion-rushing Mike Dean and there he was – pointing at the penalty spot.

Oh boy – what a beautiful sight. All of us immediately began bouncing again, grabbing each other, yelping, even hitting each other…the things we do. I’m sure I would react along similar lines if I was watching in a pub or at home, but surely not so intensely. That is – I guess – going back to the start, why I bother to travel to watch Chelsea in the first place…everything is heightened, the senses go into overdrive, I participate in our history, I’m part of it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My camera was poised as Didier (why not Frank?) spotted the ball and we prepared ourselves for the biggest celebration since Anfield.

“Come on, son.”

“Go on, Didier.”

The shot and the save – 33,000 Spurs fans roared and we slumped.

Lastly, a Gareth Bale free-kick and, surely not! I was reminded of Robbie Keane’s last minute equaliser in the 4-4 game in 2008. Thankfully, the shot was high and we could hang on for the draw.

The final whistle.

As Alan said “we’ve played worse here and won.” It had been a fantastic game and I had enjoyed every minute of it. We clapped the players off and JT made a lone walk towards us. He had been quite magnificent. His best game for ages. He was an inspiration. He appeared to thump his chest and shout out “We’re alright, we’re alright!”

I texted a few mates, Chelsea and non-Chelsea alike – “Reports of our demise are exaggerated.”

What a game. It just goes to show that for even an old-stager like me, this fantastic game of ours can still leave me gasping for more. I met up with Parky outside the away end and we dashed back to join the quick-moving line at the train station. The home fans were subdued and we blended in. We spotted a few mates just as a punch-up took place a few yards ahead. One against one, the thud of attack and then the police arriving to arrest the lone Spurs fan.

We called back at Salvo’s at Earls Court for one last drink before we drove home. Back in the car, we admitted how much we had enjoyed this foray behind enemy lines. It had been lovely. It renewed my spirits for the tough days ahead – the next two games to start with – and it made me realise that even in the bleakest of days in a cold English winter, Chelsea Football Club still has the ability to raise our spirits like nothing else.

Love it.

Tales From A Stamford Bridge In Hibernation

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 4 December 2010.

Please Note – It may appear that certain segments of this match report have been cut and pasted from a variety of older reports ( keep a look out for comments about the lack of noise at Stamford Bridge ), but I can assure you all that this is all new.

What with all of the freezing weather we have been experiencing of late, I decided to head up to Chelsea a little later than usual. To be honest, a few days ago, I was actually wondering if my unbroken home attendance run (which goes back almost seven years) would be under threat. I gingerly drove out of my village and the ice had the upper hand on a couple of occasions. Once onto the gritted main roads though, I was thankfully in full control. Parky was duly collected at about 10am and we were back in the familiar routine. December was going to be a very difficult month, with the deadly trio of Spurs / United / Arsenal games on the horizon. We simply had to defeat Everton, who had slumped to a 1-4 home defeat versus West Brom last week.

What with the probable poor weather, I knew I wouldn’t be up in London Town until about 12.30pm. I had arranged to meet Ian from Chicago in The Lily Langtry, but I spoke to Beth on the drive up and knew that it would be unlikely, due to the time constraints, to meet up with her. A shame. It seems that I missed quite a reunion up at St. James’ Park last weekend, with Burger and Gumby joining Beth and the four visitors from California, Danny, Andy, Josh and Ed.

Over the final 45 minutes of the journey, Parky put a Ministry Of Sound CD on and we enjoyed some re-mixed synthesised anthems from thirty years ago. Magical music from the 1979-1982 era accompanied us on our drive in past Slough, Windsor and Brentford, with songs by Visage, Joy Division and Japan taking me back to the days when CFC were mired in the old second division. I’m not really sure if it means that the onset of a mid-life crisis is approaching, but I have consistently reminisced about those late teenage years a lot recently. From 1980 to 1985 everything was so fresh, magical, exhilarating and intense – yet also frightening and confusing – and I realise that I yearn for it with a passion. Of course, all of those old songs brought memories of school and college days back to me – not to mention the odd Chelsea game, goal, player…

Approaching our final destination, Simple Minds were singing “Promised You A Miracle.”

“Ah yes, that came out in the summer of 1982, if I am not mistaken, Parky. The World Cup in Spain and my first girlfriend, bless her, all golden hair and freckles…now that was a bloody miracle.”

At 12.30pm, I dropped Parky off at the Lily Langtry pub near West Brompton tube while I shot off to park up. By the time I had returned, Chicago Ian was outside, enjoying a roll-up. We reconvened inside, the pub full of familiar Chelsea faces of a certain age. Ian was with a fellow scooter-enthusiast (and Chelsea fan, of course) Paul from Dorset. We enjoyed a quick chat. Paul is from the same part of the world as my paternal grandmother, so we had a few things to talk about. Paul used to work in Parky’s town of Melksham and they had a mutual friend who ran a scooter shop. Yet another example of what a ridiculously small world this can be at times. David from Houston – who I first met in Chicago in 2006 – had texted me on the drive up to say he was in town en route to a job assignment in Uganda and he was soon spotted, too. He joined our little group before we then headed down to The Goose to join up with the rest of the lads. David works for The World Bank and I spoke of a number of shipments that I am involved in for them – we are currently in the middle of sending some furniture to their office in Istanbul. David has plans about seeing the World cup in Brazil in 2014 and I asked him to keep on touch…

From 1pm to 2.15pm, we spent our time chatting away to various friends from all over. So many people and yet so little time. Parky was flitting around talking to all and sundry, while I spent most of the time with Ian. Now, unbeknown to me, he had got married back in Chicago in October – so I toasted his marriage – but his wife, Denise, was a Blue of a different hue. Yes, you’ve guessed it – an Evertonian. She was having a different pre-match with fellow Toffees down at Parson’s Green and this amused me, yet of course I approved. I could tell that Ian was enjoying the mad intensity of The Goose, jam-packed full of loyal Chelsea servants, and he had a wide grin on his face. In that short spell together, we covered a lot of ground, including a mention of the Dundee football scene, in light of his family’s roots in that city of jute, jam and journalism on the banks of the silvery Tay.

As always, the time for the walk to Stamford Bridge came too quickly and we said our “goodbyes” to each other. We never leave together though – Rob is invariably the last to leave (just one more Amaretto, Daryl! ) and on this occasion, Parky walked down with Rob. I zipped up my coat and donned my 1986 vintage Rangers scarf, the classic red, white and blue. Daryl must have been thinking along similar lines when he chose his game-day apparel in deepest Essex that morning…he was wearing the even more iconic Chelsea red, white and green scarf from 1972-1973.

I bought a match programme and spotted that Petr Cech was on the cover on the occasion of his 200th league game for us.

My mate Andy caught up with me at the turnstiles and commented about my ‘Gers scarf. He is again going up to Ibrox later this month. He was with a chap who, like me, was at the Rangers vs. Chelsea Ibrox friendly in 1986 and we briefly spoke about that game. I was in Stoke at the time, at college, and travelled up on the day of the game, a Friday in February. British Rail was doing cheap Young Persons Railcard deals that month and I got a return up to Glasgow for just £8. Scotland had all day drinking at the time ( in England this only came later ) and that game in Glasgow 24 years ago easily wins the award for the Game Where I Was Most Pissed. The game was a blur…my mate Alan was there, Cathy too. About 200 Chelsea went up. We lost 3-2 and I was steaming. The weather was bitter. Despite the fraternity between Rangers and Chelsea, I didn’t take too kindly to the home support booing Keith Jones, our young black player. I think I might have annoyed a few of the home support ( I was watching with a mate in the home Copeland Road Stand ) as I complained about this to a few home fans nearby…however, the story goes that Jonah was replaced by a Chelsea youth player called Phil Priest.

A Priest at Ibrox? Surely not. The Rangers fans roared their disapproval!

Back to 2010.

I got to my seat just in time to hear Neil Barnett say – “Good Afternoon.”

I knew that JT was in the team and of course it was great to see him back. Just before the game began, I visited the MHU loos…on the way out, I wrote ‘CFC’ on the steamed-up mirror by the wash basins. I couldn’t believe that nobody else had done so, to be honest.

Everton, in an off-white / “whose Mum forgot to keep the whites separate?” kit, looked lively in the first few minutes and Petr Cech had to get down to save after just 25 seconds. However, we soon won the small battles and dominated the first-half. However, apart from a few off-target efforts, our first real effort came from an unlikely source. A corner was cleared out to JT and he nimbly changed shape and lobbed the ball towards the goal from about 15 yards out. The ball hit the bar and we groaned. I don’t think Howard would have reached it had it been on target. We still await JT’s first goal from distance.

We had tons of possession, but there was more passing for the sake of it…Malouda was very quiet and Kalou was Kalou. Despite a sustained bout of “Chelsea / Champions” from Parky’s corner of The Shed, the atmosphere was again funereal. I know it was cold, but it seemed that vast swathes of The Bridge were hibernating. I swear the atmosphere is noticeably worse game on game, yet alone season by season. With the decibel count decreasing, we’ll eventually reach complete silence and then what? Will we get noise in reverse? For anyone yet to visit Stamford Bridge – that once fabled hot bed of partisan support – I urge them to do it very soon, before the place produces Negative Noise.

What is Negative Noise? I’m not sure, but maybe we’ll be experiencing it over the next few years…maybe when the spectators within the stadium are being out sung by sparrows in the Brompton Cemetery, when the only noise in the stadium are the shouts of the players, when we can hear copies of the Evening Standards being sold by vendors outside Earl’s Court tube station.

Negative noise. You heard it here first.

With no breakthrough forthcoming, I said to Alan “no doubt there’ll be boos at half-time.” That would have been unfair, since we were well on top…we just couldn’t penetrate. One moment of play perfectly summed up our lack of belief at the moment. Mikel – who has had a good season thus far – received the ball right in the middle of the attacking third, well in range of the goal, with no defender near. Rather than move the ball on to his best foot and drop his shoulder, a la Bobby Charlton, and take a pot shot, his first thought was to move the ball to another player, probably Malouda, who was marked and soon lost the ball. How frustrating. We hardly got behind them at all.

Then, a calamitous back-pass by one of The Brothers Grim and Nicolas Anelka only had the ‘keeper to beat. The coming together of bodies – clear obstruction – and a penalty.

YES!

However, I just knew – in a week of poor decisions by football’s ruling classes – that their ‘keeper wouldn’t get a red. And so it proved…the ref’s decision was met with a stadium-wide moan. However, Didier easily despatched the pen and we went into the break 1-0 up. No complaints.

In the loos at half-time, I was warmed by the sight of two additional ‘CFCs’ on the mirrors. During the break, I spotted a great match report in the programme from Rick Glanvill of an eventful Chelsea vs. Everton game in that previously-mentioned 1985-1986 season ( missed penalties, sendings off, I remember it well…it was my first ever Chelsea vs. Everton game, in fact ).

The second-half was horrible. Our confidence deteriorated and Everton sensed fear. The crowd rallied on only a couple of occasions. Leighton Baines was causing havoc down the left and Ancelotti replaced Bosingwa with Paolo. This was met with derision though – the supporters around me wanted a more positive response. We wanted to go for the kill. A cross from Baines was headed goal wards by Rodwell and his effort hit the right upright with Cech easily beaten. Soon after, Cahill studded Cech and he appeared to be in pain…thoughts of Stephen Hunt. Thankfully, Cech recovered.

Everton were really giving this a good go, though. Jermaine Beckford came on as a substitute and, by way of some Pavlovian sub consciousness, the Matthew Harding went into ‘Dambusters’ mode and taunted his Elland Road pedigree. It seemed so natural.

Chelsea and Leeds United – it’s still there, even after all these years.

Drogba turned cheerleader after a failed attack, turning towards the MH and urging us all on, to get behind the team, to make some noise. I can’t say the crowd responded. However, it was a typical Drogba game…brutal strength and power one moment, laziness personified the next. A quick interchange of passes allowed Paolo to send in a sublime low ball into the six-yard box…Ashley Cole lunged but missed the ball. Alan claimed he had been held, but it was all too quick for my eyes.

And then, the horrible equaliser. Banes shimmied past three Chelsea defenders and crossed deep into our box. I sensed fear. A header back and there was – who else? – Beckford to head home. This was so similar to too many late goals conceded at The Shed in recent years…always a knock down, always a close-range finish. The ghosts of previous games raced through my mind. To be honest, I thought our best two players had been John Terry and Branislav Ivanovic and so it was doubly disturbing to be conceding goals right in the heart of our defence.

Phil Neville jogged back, alone, into his half and pumped his arms, yelling at the West Stand and then at us in the North. Memories of his brother at Old Trafford against Liverpool. God, his gurning face will live with me for a while. Hateful.

The referee signalled an additional seven minutes, but more than a few fans left…”thanks for your support.” Of course, it wasn’t to be…more dropped points, more boos, another bad day at the office, another “difficult moment.” As I descended the MHU stairs, I dreaded Tottenham next Sunday.

Parky and I were forced to sit in a line of traffic before heading home and we spotted three smiling Arsenal fans at Barons Court. They had obviously travelled straight down from their game on the Piccadilly Line, but yet it seemed wrong for Arsenal fans to be living so near Stamford Bridge. It was the final twist of the knife on a depressing day at HQ. I try not to be too pessimistic, but we need to snap out of this poor run of form. We need Essien fitter – he was quiet – and we need Frank. We need to find our self-confidence, but that’s easier said than done. Malouda and Kalou are clearly confidence players but they need our support to help dig themselves out of their own personal nightmares. Lastly, crucially, we need more passion. That is down to the management team and the players themselves. As supporters, we can only do so much.

Over to you, Carlo. Over to you, the players. Your club need you.

Tales From The Chelsea Pubs

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. MSK Zilina : 23 November 2010.

There was a moment during this game that I thought that the horrendous luck in front of goal that we endured at St. Andrews on Saturday was continuing.

Not to worry – the kids came through and into The Last Sixteen we go.

I travelled up with Judy for this game, ahead of our little trip to Austria on Wednesday ( yep, no trip to Newcastle for me this season, but I leave you in the very capable hands of a few other CIAers for the match reports. ) We soon booked into our hotel on the North End Road, but Judy – coming off a tiring week of nights – decided to forego the game. I hot-footed it to the Copthorne Hotel, where a good old Chelsea In America reunion was taking place…I soon spotted Beth, then Gil and Graeme, but I met Josh and Ed ( from the perfect city of San Diego ) for the first time. A pint, a chat, great to see everyone again. Beth soon handed over the excellent CIA calendar. Good work everyone.

This was very much a whirlwind pre-match and we then headed to the Broadway Bar & Gril, aka The Slug aka The Kings Head. Another few drinks there, then who should appear but Danny and Andy – and I was so happy to se them sporting the CFC badge / Poppy badge.

Good work boys.

I had talked Josh and Ed into getting one too.

I joked with Danny that I would eventually provide him with a Pubs At Chelsea ticklist which I expected him to eventually complete – and we then sped off to another one, The Malt House aka The Jolly Maltsers. Who should be there but Steve Rea from N’Awlins…it certainly was the gathering of the clans alright.

I was in the ground quite early and it tok a while for the seats to fill up.

Perhaps, for once, I ought to let others comment on the game – I’ve tee’d you up, Josh, Danny, Andy, Ed…don’t let me down. I missed the Zilina goal as I was mid-comfort break and depite a few chances in the first-half, it wasn’t promising stuff.

Another full house / poor atmosphere combo.

The second-half was so much better and – yet again – Kalou looks a different player when he comes off the bench. We hit the woodwork twice, but a lovely ball from Kalou was finished of with aplomb by Studge. Then, at the death, Danny’s favourite Florent Malouda gave us the deserved win. It was a long time coming, but well deserved. I had no complaints from the performances from the youngsters…they had a good workout for sure.

Post-game, we eventually re-assembled at The Imperial, the favoured watering hole of Matthew Harding, for one last pint. I needed to be up early, though – so said my “goodbyes” at about 11pm. I popped in to see Rob and Millsy in The Morrison – and who should be right behind me but Ian McNally from Chicago.

Small world ( again…)

We’d see each other at the Everton game, but that seems quite a way off.

Not to worry – I’ll catch up with you all again, then!

Tales From The Ibis

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Birmingham City vs. Chelsea : 20 November 2010.

As I drove through the old mill town of Bradford-On-Avon on the way to collect Parky and Kris, I received a text from Danny in California. He is coming over to England for our two games next week, but asked if I could send him updates from our game at St. Andrews. It made me realise how “My Chelsea Supporting Life” has changed over the past few years. Not only do I have my long-standing friendships with mates throughout the UK, built up over the years, but I now have an “extended family” of Chelsea friends who live in various states in America. It’s lovely, you know. Not a match day goes by without texts from San Francisco, Los Angeles, Fort Worth, San Antonio, New York and Philadelphia. I guess it’s all about sharing that common experience. I presume that it is human nature for friendships to either remain strong through the years or eventually weaken and I suppose it’s the same story for my match day mates too. However, I get the feeling that my ten or so closest mates will continue watching Chelsea for many seasons yet. I do wonder though – since I am currently encompassing my American mates in this topic – how many US based fans will dwindle by the wayside over the years. I only recently commented to Parky that quite a few CIA regulars seem to have fallen off the edge of this Blue Earth recently. Chelsea is for life, remember, not just for Christmas.

We departed from Parky’s village at about 9.30am and we were on our way north once more. What a horrible, overcast morning. We encountered low lying grey clouds, drizzle and then rain…and then heavy rain as we drove past Bath and Bristol. It made the driving tiring…and I didn’t need that. Kris, like Parky, is into music and often DJs at weekends. This was to be his first away game and I could tell he was excited. I told the lads of a strange chat I had with my boss on the Friday. I’m not really sure what triggered the conversation, but my boss suddenly announced that one of his uncles once played for England. Despite being in the middle of a frantic few minutes, I had to put the demands of work to one side and ask him the player’s name.

“Lawton.”

“Not Tommy Lawton?” I replied with a look of astonishment on my face.

“Yes. Tommy Lawton.”

At this point, it’s worth saying that my boss Paul is not a football fan in the slightest and I am sure that he was not aware that his uncle once played for Chelsea immediately after the Second World War. So, I immediately filled him in…1947, bought him from Everton for a record fee, moved to Notts County, famous for his headers and that he was “one of the greats.”

Paul, my boss, seemed genuinely shocked that the miserable uncle that he often used to meet in his childhood, always wearing a blazer, was one of the greatest ever England centre-forwards. With a twinkle in my eye, I brazenly enquired –

“Where’s all his memorabilia, these days?”

With this story aired, Kris spoke of a football-related tale of his own. In addition to being a drum and bass DJ, Kris is a carpet fitter during the week. On the Thursday, he was working in nearby Corsham and it transpired that he was in the house of the one-time assistant manager at Derby County Stan Anderson, who worked alongside the legendary Dave Mackay in Derby’s championship season of 1974-1975. This triggered some memories. I told the story of a Chelsea vs. Derby County game that I saw with my parents in the March of that season. It was only my third-ever Chelsea game and we had seats right behind the away bench in the new East stand. It rainy day and it was a poor game. We lost 2-1, but the thing that my parents and I always remembered was the abuse that a Chelsea fan in her ‘sixties gave Anderson throughout the game. He was constantly up on his feet, remonstrating with the referee, the linesman and this caught her attention. She started telling him to sit down in no uncertain terms. At one stage, I am sure she walked to the front and threatened him with her brolly. It was hilarious. For the next few years, whenever we saw Mackay and Anderson on the TV, we always laughed and pictured that woman waving her umbrella at them. Out of interest, before that game, I very well remember an American university marching band from Missouri performing on the pitch. I can still see the bright yellow of their colourful tunics to this day. After their display, they sat in the rickety old North Stand, perched on stilts in the NE corner. The band even started playing at various stages during the game – a bang of drums and a crash of cymbals here, a cacophony of trumpets and bugles there. It was quite a surreal sight…and sound.

I wonder how many of those American kids from The Marching Mizzou remember their appearance at Stamford Bridge and I wonder if any are Chelsea fans today.

As the rain worsened around Gloucester, we spoke of the games coming up in the tough month of December and the rumours about the fitness of Alex and JT, the stories about Ray Wilkins, the probable line-up at St. Andrews, and the inevitable raft of reminiscences from the past. Parky rolled out a few tried-and-tested tales, familiar to me, not so for Kris. On this day of quirky stories involving footballers from the past and present, Kris reminded me that one of his friends went out with former Chelsea winger Scott Sinclair. Like me, Scott was born in Bath, and of course now plays with Swansea. Another link – Scott now plays alongside Nathan Dyer, a local lad from Trowbridge.

We stopped at Strensham and Lord Parky got the coffees in. I received texts to say that Burger was on his way and would be meeting up with Cathy, Dog and Mark in the city centre. By 11.30am, I had navigated the inner city ring round – past the Edgbaston county cricket ground – and was parked up at the Ibis Hotel, just a stone’s throw from the away end. We had made great time. We settled in for a lovely pre-match.

“Get the beers in.”

As I said hello to the first of the fellow Chelsea fans in – Nick, Robbie and Mark – the hotel staff were clearing away the breakfast cereals and croissants in preparation of the onslaught of Chelsea fans.

“Three pints of Grolsch please mate.”

We settled down in a corner and awaited the arrival of the troops from near and far. Ajax from Wrexham soon came over to spend an entertaining twenty minutes with us. He used to run the North Wales coaches down to The Bridge, but his real claim to fame in Chelsea circles is that he often used to travel to and from games back in the ‘eighties with players Joey Jones and Mickey Thomas. There was quite a Wrexham connection at the time – Johnny Neal and Eddie Niedzwiecki too – and the club used to allow special privileges to these two Chelsea greats…they used to live in Wrexham, their childhood home, and only come down to Harlington to train once a week, then again for games at the weekend. Mickey was one of the fittest players we have ever had – he didn’t need to train – and Joey was just Joey.

Imagine that happening these days.

Ajax – it turns out – is a big Rangers fan too and has attended twelve Old Firm games in his life. It turns out that the both of us attended one particular Rangers vs. Motherwell game in the 1986-1987 season. It’s a small world at Chelsea. Especially for me. I’m five foot six.

At about 1.15pm, the other members of The Bing arrived and joined the ever-growing throng. They had planned to have a few liveners in the centre, but their train had been delayed and so they got a cab direct to the hotel from New Street. After getting their beers, Alan, Gary, Daryl, Whitey, Simon and Milo came over to join us and we caught up with a few topics close to our heart…access to match tickets, travel plans for the next few games and the wash ability of Fred Perry, Lacoste and Henri Lloyd polo shirts. There were a few other familiar faces dotted around, too. The Nuneaton lot soon arrived too – Neil, Nigel, Jokka, Chopper and Jonesy – and it was good to see them. Our paths don’t often cross. It suddenly dawned on me that in that crowded hotel bar in Birmingham there were around 100 Chelsea fans, the die-hards, the loyalists…and most of us in our ‘forties. It’s our core demographic.

As Daryl commented – “Middle-aged, Caucasian, balding.”

“And that’s just the women.”

I’m on 800 or so games, yet I suspect most were on 1,000 easy. Alan and Gary must be on 1,500 I would imagine. So, around 100,000 Chelsea games in that crowded bar. And as I looked around again, taking it all in, I hardly spotted any Chelsea gear, save for an odd scarf here or a pin badge there. I smiled to myself. I approved. However, there is no doubt that if I lived in Austin TX or Athens GA – or Bangkok or Botswana – I would occasionally wear Chelsea gear on game days just to show willing. Indeed, there are rare shots of me fully-garbed up in Chelsea blue at the Pittsburgh, DC, New Jersey, Chicago, LA and Baltimore games. But I haven’t worn a Chelsea replica shirt at a game in England since about 1995. If anything, I am more presupposed to wearing quirky Chelsea T-shirts. It’s just too easy to simply buy a replica shirt and try to feel part of Chelsea Football Club, but there really is – truly, madly, deeply – more to it than that. I’d rather spend £45 on a match ticket than the latest Adidas monstrosity. Besides, neither me nor any of my mates would be seen dead wearing the same shirt. Wink.

You know the score.

We heard that Spurs came back from 2-0 down to get a highly unlikely win at Arsenal and we laughed. Not because Spurs had won – hell, no! – but because Arsenal had lost. I tried to picture Wenger’s squirming face.

Millsy arrived at about 2.30pm and I commented about a photo he had recently posted on Facebook. It was a photo of him playing against a Charlton player at The Valley. It turns out he used to play for Tonbridge in Kent and once played against the then Charlton Athletic midfielder Lee Bowyer. Tommy Lawton, Stan Anderson, Scott Sinclair, Mickey Thomas, Joey Jones and now Lee Bowyer. It was certainly a day for stories. Where would it end? I was feeling left out. I once met former Bristol Rovers player Mike Brimble on a West Bay caravan park in Dorset in about 1971. Does that count?

As we walked up to the ground, we heard the team and we approved…glad to hear Number 33 was playing and it was a big day for Malouda, who was dropping back into the midfield in an attempt to solidify the team alongside the unconvincing Ramires. Despite the overcast weather enveloping us all, I was confident we would do well. We had 4,400 tickets and surely we would be rocking. This was only my fifth visit to the humble and dowdy surroundings of Birmingham City’s down-at-heel home ground. I am yet to circumnavigate it – most unlike me. It’s the usual Ibis routine for me. So, after stopping to take a shot of Parky and Kris outside the away turnstiles, I walked through the unwelcoming approach to the away end. There were bare concrete walls and ugly steel roof supports to greet me. St. Andrews won’t win any awards.

The game. Do I have to?

To start with, we were wearing the lime green kit. What was I saying about Adidas monstrosities?

I’m struggling to think of a game amongst my other 800, where we have so dominated possession and yet have got nothing from it. Didier had three or four great chances in the first-half alone, yet the Birmingham City goal lived a charmed life. It goes to show how little attention I pay, at times, to some teams that I was under the impression that it was Scott Carson, not Ben Foster, in the Birmingham goal. I wish it was Carson, who was letting in three against Stoke a few miles to the west. Just like Joe Hart on Boxing Day last year, Foster was having a blinder.

A few sticks of celery were tossed around to my right. And then we sang a song from Joey Jones and Mickey Thomas era –

“Come along, come along, come along and sing this song…”

Then, on seventeen minutes, a rare break – we didn’t close down the cross, the ball was whipped in to Jerome who softened a header into the path of Millsy’s mate Lee Bowyer. He was completely unmarked. He easily scored and we had to endure this most unliked of players ( Leeds and West Ham on his curriculum vitae ) celebrating in front of us.

Where was that woman’s umbrella from 1975?

The rapidity of the break and goal reminded me of United’s first at Wembley in the Community Shield. Of course, the home fans chirped up for the first time in the whole game and it was to be the loudest they would be all day. Their club song really is the most horrible of dirges. It’s dire.

At half-time, the immediate people around me occupied ourselves by listing our worse players ever…Dave Mitchell, Graham Wilkins, David Stride, John McNaught and Les Fridge all got votes, but I stood up for Keith Jones, while Gary defended John Coady. After Kalou’s non-show in the first-half, I wondered if he would get a vote. Someone said that the shot count was 14-1 in our favour in that first forty-five.

I greeted Les from Melksham and his two word retort was succinct and to the point –

“I’m bolloxed.”

We had even more of the ball in the second period, but the Chelsea support grew more and more irritable. There was, sadly, no great show of noise from the 4,400. There were no texts from Jamie, Bob or Steve in the US saying “we can hear you loud and clear.” We tried desperately to move the ball around to get a spare foot of space. But with the home showing no inclination to attack, the game was compressed in front of us…it was as hopeless as hell. Time after time the ball was played to Malouda and Anelka, then Ashley and the sub Bosingwa, but we couldn’t breach the defensive line. A penalty shout – Ramires, involved at last – and then Kalou chipped over. From South Philly, a text from Steve –

“Is it OK to start worrying?”

I replied – “I’ve been worrying since 1974.”

The Chelsea support, in a rare show of noisy solidarity, resurrected an old favourite from around the 1977-1978 season –

“Attack – Attack – Attack, Attack, Attack!!!”

There was deep frustration welling all around me. The shots reigned in, but block, block, block. An Ivanovic header – thump! – but it was dramatically clawed away by that man Foster. A Didier free-kick right at the ‘keeper, then a Kalou header flashed past the right post.

The final whistle. At least no boos…not that I could ascertain anyway…my mind was too clouded to hear, maybe. Our third league defeat in the last four games and this hurt. I briefly saw Drogba, minus his shirt, having an altercation with some fans down at the front. It seemed that the fans were unhappy with the Ivorian’s performance…how quickly people forget. He was suffering with malaria ten days ago. To Didier’s credit, he didn’t bite and clapped the fans as he turned and walked away. As we sloped out of the ground, I could not help involuntarily joining in a classic Chelsea gallows humour chant –

“We’re 5hit And We’re Top Of The League.”

Of course, we aren’t, but it helped my own coping mechanism. Back down at the Ibis, the troops had re-gathered and were enjoying a few post-game bevvies. I was expecting long faces and grumbles, but the mood was of stubborn resilience. We had tried our best. We had out-shot Birmingham something like 25-2. We would undoubtedly play worse and win this season. The ten of us had seen it all before…and the beers helped irradiate any maudlin feelings from the match. I supped on a strong coffee and Parky told of an altercation he had at half-time with a fellow Chelsea fan. Milo – 14 – took a couple of sips from one of Parky’s brandies. Whatever helps you through the night, eh?

We laughed and his Dad said “don’t tell your mother.”

We stayed at the hotel until about 6.15pm. To be honest, we had a laugh and it made me realise what a very special bunch of mates I have. We had spent almost seven enjoyable hours in Birmingham; almost five hours in the Ibis and two hours at the game. That’s a good beer / footy ratio. The evening traffic was moving slowly…eventually I got back on to the southbound M5 and Parky was asleep. We heard that United had won – what a surprise. Kris bought me a “wake me up and slap me in the face” coffee at Strensham and I eventually dropped them off at 8.45pm. Parky was well messy and almost fell out of the car. As he stumbled, several beer cans fell out of his bag. Out of nowhere, Ben Foster leapt to Parky’s feet and caught them all.

It was one of those days.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2010-2011

Tales From Another Step In The Right Direction

Tales From Our Attempt To Win A Hat Trick Of F.A. Cups

Tales From A Dark Night

Tales From Heroes And Villains

Tales From A Night Of Peroni, Pizza, Football And Fireworks

Tales From The Bleak Midwinter

Tales From White Hart Lane

Tales From A Stamford Bridge In Hibernation

Tales From The Chelsea Pubs

Tales From The Ibis