Tales From West London

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 22 September 2010.

Oh boy – on Saturday, I was trying to remember the last team to score against us at Stamford Bridge.

After three weeks of no Chelsea games for me, I’m now in the middle of a “four games in ten days stretch.” Busy times. I do love football at this time of the year, especially the mid-week matches, where the fading sun provides a lovely backdrop to the evenings’ entertainment.

I was able to leave work at just after 4pm. Unfortunately, the 96 miles to HQ took over two and a half hours due to congestion around Heathrow airport. As is usually the case, Parky and myself spent the time chatting about all sorts. We talked about the current TV mini-series “This Is England ‘86” which is an exceptional follow-up to the Shane Meadows film of a few years back. Gritty working class drama with magnificent characters, plus some unforgettably dark humour too. A shame there is just one episode left.

We drove past Brentford’s Griffin Park, where Everton – The Toffees – had become unstuck the previous night.

There is an advertisement for Lucozade ( an energy drink ) which has reappeared on this stretch of the elevated section of the M4. It was originally torn down in 2004 – and I hated the fact it had disappeared, as I always used to look out for it on our pilgrimages to Chelsea as a kid. It seems that other people missed seeing it, too, as there has been a warm response to it appearing in February, albeit in a location 200 yards away from the original. It brought a “whoop” of joy from Parky, Glenn and myself when we spotted it for the first time last season. I’m sure there are ex-pats living around the world will enjoy seeing it over the years too, on their taxi cab rides from London Heathrow.

Welcome back!

Parky usually has around ten classic “Chelsea stories” which get aired every few weeks.

“Yeah, I remember you telling me” never seems to work as he launches into yet another repeat of Nottingham Forest 1985, Watford 1981 or Preston North End 1980. However, a new story – a new story, I tell you! – had me laughing as we approached Hammersmith, the clock ticking towards 7pm. He told me the story of a game over the Christmas period back when he was in his ‘twenties and a gang of Chelsea travelling up by train from Trowbridge, standing in the area by the buffet, knocking back cans of lager and getting stuck into some riotous and aggressively non-PC Chelsea songs of the time. They were making a hell of a racket. However, every time the doors swished open and a family with small children appeared, they immediately switched to singing Christmas carols. I quickly imagined the scene –

“The famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see the Pope and this is what he said – Ding Dong merrily on high, in heaven the bells are ringing.”

“Spurs are on their way to – Old King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen.”

“Chelsea here, Chelsea there, Chelsea every – away in a manger, no crib for a bed.”

We were parked up at the usual spot at around 6.45pm and we hot-footed it to the beer garden of The Goose, where we bolted down a pint apiece. To be honest – and this happens quite a lot – the game against the Geordies hadn’t occupied too much of my mind since Sunday and I was more focussed on the trip to Eastlands on Saturday. Burger would be travelling with me for that one and was on the look out for another ticket for Julie. Luckily – very luckily – Rob happened to mention that Millsy had a spare…a few texts and phone-calls later, we were sorted.

We were only in the pub for twenty minutes. The place didn’t seem as busy as it is for weekend games…Parky and myself really wondered if we’d get anywhere near a full house, despite the £20 tickets across all areas.

I picked up a match programme and flicked through the pages on the quick approach to the Matthew Harding. My attention was drawn again to the piece by Rick Glanvill detailing a game from our history.

October 25th 1980 – Chelsea 6 Newcastle United 0

This was a game I well remember – this was my eighteenth Chelsea game and I travelled up from Frome with my father, his former boss ( a cousin of the great English comedian Kenneth Horne ) and two school friends…Pete ( Manchester United ) and Kev ( Tottenham Hotspur ). It was a magical day as Chelsea played some really excellent stuff on that autumn day some thirty years ago. Colin Lee nabbed a hat-trick and we played with two old-fashioned wingers for the first time in a while. It really was a 4-2-4 formation, with Phil Driver and Peter Rhoades-Brown providing the crosses for Lee and Clive Walker. We were rampant against a team which included Chris Waddle in one of his first games. Our legendary ‘keeper Petar Borota was playing for us and I remember a particularly acrobatic save at The Shed in the first-half when it was 0-0.

An extra bonus was the fact that the TV cameras were present. At Sunday’s game, Rob mentioned the buzz we used to get back in those times when we used to get to The Bridge and see the TV cameras in position.

“Great – we’ll be on the highlights this weekend!”

The fans of today live in a different world.

I remember quite a bit from the game. In the 1974 to 1980 period, we used to watch from the lower tier of the East and on this occasion we were behind the away bench, maybe eight rows back. The Newcastle manager at the time was Arthur Cox and my cheeky mate Pete took great pleasure in shouting “Cox out! Cox out! Cox out!” when we were scoring our last few goals. To accompany Rick’s piece in the programme, there were around four black and white photos from the game…annoyingly, in one photo, we are out of shot by a matter of yards. I remember that Gary Chivers’ goal was selected as one of the Goals Of The Season in 1980-81 by the BBC and we could be seen in the build-up. There I am in a green jacket and a blue and white bar scarf around my neck. At the time, it was the best game I had seen, despite it being a second division encounter.

I texted Pete and he replied “Great – happy days” and we then exchanged some texts as the Chelsea vs. Newcastle United and Scunthorpe United vs. Manchester United games were played out. Pete is a great friend – my oldest – and he actually played against me in my first-ever 11-a-side game in the autumn of 1974. Where does the time go?

Another mate called Pete – a Newcastle fan from Scunthorpe – was in touch during the evening, too. Everyone keeping in contact, the football uniting us all – perfect.

I was amazed that it was another full house. Well done everyone. The away fans resembled a big jar of mint humbugs in the corner opposite. I noted a TV gantry positioned on the balcony wall above the away fans in the Shed Lower – I’ve never seen one there before.

“Great, we’re on TV!”

I noticed a new banner in the MHU – “History Makers.” This must’ve been the winner in the CSG competition I believe.

No complaints with the team selection – a nice mix of youth and experience.

But what a crazy game.

We began very brightly and scored yet another early goal, from a lovely finish from Van Aanholt. However, the immense and bulky frame of Sol Campbell soon retaliated with a header which flew past Ross Turnbull’s right post.

A warning sign.

However, we were playing some nice football in the opening fifteen minutes, with Benayoun especially making some nice runs and looking as though he was energised by the night’s encounter.

Pete The Geordie texted me –

“Scunny One Up – Come On!”

This piece of good news was not mirrored at The Bridge as Newcastle got back into the game and lead 2-1 at the break. Defensive frailties resulted in an equaliser on 26 minutes. Ameobi had an incredible “air shot” soon after and then an awful defensive wall failed to stop a bullet of a free-kick from Taylor. Ameobi was clean through on 38 minutes, but Brouma did ever so well to thwart him with a great sliding tackle.

There was a full moon arcing its way through the night sky as the game progressed and I took quite a few photographs…I’m not saying the football was that bad, though!

Moans and groans from the home support at the break.

Despite his links – on two separate occasions – with Spurs, Gus Poyet was given a superb reception at half-time.

“Poyet – There’s Only One Poyet.”

Into the second-half and two substitutions – Alex for JT and Kalou for a very quiet Gael Kakuta. However, an awful blunder at the back gave Ameobi a clean run before he placed a shot past Turnbull at The Shed End. We all thought Turnbull should have done a lot better.

Yet more groans.

On 53 minutes, Salomon Kalou pulled up as he was chasing a through ball. It annoyed me that not everyone clapped him off, nor clapped on his replacement Josh McEachran.

On 62 minutes, Yossi pulled up too. Oh hell – we were down to ten men.

After 64 minutes, Alex hit the post after following a free-kick which rebounded back off the wall.

And then it happened. With the team showing signs of being roused, the home fans turned up the volume with the best show of support I have seen this season at The Bridge. I was loving it and prayed that the team would sense the desire amongst our fans. An inch-perfect ball found Van Aanholt on an overlap and his first time ball was finished with glee by Nicolas Anelka. This was a spectacular bit of football and the crowd roared our approval.

“Come on Chelsea – Come on Chelsea – Come on Chelsea – Come on Chelsea.”

A few texts flew around as the game progressed, the noise increasing with every minute. We were all very impressed with substitute McEachren, who showed great poise and skill in that central midfield birth. Ramires, however, did not impress me with his passing…and Sturridge was poor too.

There was an amazing last ten minutes. On 85, Alex ( getting forward at every opportunity ) was fouled below me and a penalty.

Another roar.

I steadied myself and held the camera in place to capture Anelka’s impudent strike. The noise continued on and it was turning into an amazing game. Paolo Ferreira hit a stonking volley which crashed against the near post.

How would it end? I was preparing for extra time and penalties…

In the last minute of normal time, that man Ameobi glanced in a header from a corner and the ball nestled in at the far post. This was hard to take. Seeing the fans in that away segment bounce around like loons reminded me of a Les Ferdinand equaliser in the 95th minute of a FA Cup game in 1996. At this point, a lot of the home support decided to leave.

Why? Why? Why?

Six minutes of extra time was announced and this stemmed the flow of fans leaving. Big John thumped the balcony wall down below me and the supporters around me recommenced the chants which had so buoyed the team in the last twenty minutes.

We hoped and prayed.

It was not to be.

I texted a “well done” to Geordie Pete.

After the game, I collected the ticket for Manchester City outside the So Bar as the Newcastle fans trooped past – it had been their first win in any competition at The Bridge since November 1986. Good luck to them…there are teams in England I dislike more.

Parky and myself decided on a curry at the Garden Tandoori on the Lillie Road before we headed back along the M4 to Wiltshire and Somerset. It had been some game. We were concerned about the injuries we had sustained but the major plus points were the form of Josh McEachren ( when Frank hangs up his boots, he could be the man ) and our support which was loud and passionate.

When I eventually got home at 1.45am, I flicked on the TV and experienced a warm glow of schadenfreude when I saw that Liverpool had lost to Northampton in front of just 22,000 at Anfield.

“Oh dear”, I thought,” our obsession with Liverpool’s demise shows no signs of abating.”

Ho ho ho.

We reconvene at Eastlands at 12.45pm on Saturday.

See you all there.

Tales From The Big Easy

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Blackpool : 19 September 2010.

With the Stoke City game a distant memory, the Blackpool match couldn’t come quick enough for me. Three weeks with no Chelsea game for me represented a real mid-season drought and the longest time I had “gone without” since late summer in 2003, when my mother’s ill health resulted in me missing four home games. I can remember my huge pleasure at getting back into the swing of things with a game at Wolves and I realised then how much attending Chelsea games meant to me. Back in 2003, I had missed the first three weeks of the Abramovich era – who were all these new players? That Wolves game was a landmark game in my Chelsea life…I can’t put into words the joy I felt at seeing the team play again.

Back to 2010 and an extra bonus – my mate Glenn volunteered to drive up, so I was able to kick back and relax. He called for me at 10am, dressed like a spokesman for Quicksilver ( his VW van even had a Quicksilver logo ) and Lord Parky was collected by 10.30am.

We were on the road.

The first portion of the drive up to London was spent discussing some sad news that has befallen one of our fellow Chelsea mates. PD had been working for one of the many tarmac gangs of Frome ( due to the many limestone quarries in our home area, Frome seems to be the centre of the road-gang industry in southern England ), when a piece of heavy machinery crashed into his lower leg. Details are still a bit sketchy, but PD is in a Bristol hospital and has already had three operations in an attempt to save his ankle and foot. We haven’t seen much of PD at Chelsea games recently, but he is a well-liked member of our little crew and the news came as a massive shock.

Our thoughts and prayers are with him.

The usual drive up the M4…a bit of chat about the team’s form of late, some musings on the Hate Derby taking place at Old Trafford at lunchtime, we even – briefly – spoke about the Somerset county cricket team…surely a first. Somerset are the “nearly men” yet again this season…the team lost two one-day finals this year, but also missed out on a first county championship in 135 years ( you think the Cubs have it bad! ) to Nottinghamshire. Both teams finished level on 214 points, but Notts won one more game during the season. I can’t say I’m a cricket fan, but I was gutted that my county lost out yet again. I played cricket for my school during the summer of 1980 and I was constantly reminded of the adage that the sport is “9 parts complete boredom and 1 part complete terror.” My maternal grandfather was the cricketer in my family and he was quite the sportsman, playing for my village cricket and football teams.

I had only ever seen Blackpool play once before – a game way back in the autumn of 1975. It was my fourth Chelsea game and the first one in the old second division. My parents were with me and we also invited my Uncle Geoff – a Spurs fan – from the nearest village to attend too. I remember little of the game, except the distinctive tangerine of the away team, plus players Bob Hatton and Mickey Walsh. We won 2-0…the most memorable part of the day was when Tommy Langley came off the bench to score the second goal. He ran straight back towards the bench from the North Stand end and, as our seats were right behind the Chelsea bench, it appeared that Tommy was running straight towards us. His face was a picture, his arms were outstretched and, for a moment, I thought he was running straight towards me to give me a hug. Mum took a shine to young Tommy from this moment and he was her favourite Chelsea player for many a year. I reminded Tommy of my Mum’s infatuation with him when I first met him a few years back. Lovely memories, eh?

12.30pm Glenn had parked his van on Bramber Road.

The usual start to the day in Chelsealand…breakfast, then into the boozer. Reg the landlord must have found his feminine side as the pub was festooned with colourful hanging baskets.

With the United vs. Liverpool game on Sky, the pub was rammed and the twelve or so of my mates were huddled together in a corner. There were five or six Blackpool fans on the next table and there was no trouble. I nipped out to get a “Get Well Soon” card for PD which we all duly signed. I showed a few of the lads some of my photos from my recent trip to Philadelphia and spoke with Daryl about my visit to Yankee Stadium, then our proposed “50th Birthday Bash” to NYC in 2015…we hope to see the Mets vs. Yankees series that summer as it coincides with our fiftieth birthdays, plus Daryl’s brother Neil too. That promises to be a memorable holiday, no doubts.

The United goals were met with stony silence, but the pub erupted when Gerrard’s too goals were scored. Then silence again on 84 minutes.

Pah.

Alan spoke of the enjoyable trip to Slovakia during the week. He said that they spent a few moments in the bar at the Holiday Inn, where the team were staying. Dutch Mick had walked over to Patrick Van Aanholt and spoke to him in Dutch. Florent Malouda appreciated this show of fraternity and apparently bought Dutch Mick ( who is originally from London ) a bottle of wine as a “thank you.” It is not known how many times Dutch Mick mentioned the phrase “for sure” in his dialogue with Patrick.

Mike from the New York Chapter – in his trademark shirt from last season – showed at about 2.30pm and I showed him the US photos too…it didn’t seem real that we had met up in a bar in Greenwich Village only ten days earlier. Then Burger and Julie called in, full of pleasing stories of how they are acclimatising to life in Staffordshire, duck.

On the walk to The Bridge, I read with interest in the programme about a 21 year old “avid” Chelsea fan from Lancashire, who was attending her first ever game.

Avid, eh?

I had to wonder why she never saw us play at Manchester United in 1995, Bolton in 1997, Blackburn in 2003, Wigan in 2005 or Burnley this year?

Just before the teams entered the pitch, there was a moment’s applause in honour of the late Chelsea and Tottenham Hotspur forward Bobby Smith, who played for us in the ‘fifties. The away corner in The Shed housed the eager Blackpool support and they resembled the orange-clad hordes of Nicosia from last season. Just two flags, though.

What a first-half.

We only had to wait two minutes for the opener. We played the ball around with ease and I think Blackpool’s only touch was the hoof out for the resultant corner. Drogba whipped the ball into the six yard box and Kalou smashed it in.

Here we go again.

On eleven minutes, a strong run and endearingly unselfish play from Drogba set up Malouda with a sweeping ball into the goal area which was inch perfect in its execution. Malouda couldn’t miss – and didn’t.

I unfortunately was in the middle of a comfort break when our third goal was scored, a Drogba deflected goal after nice work by The World’s Best Left Back.

Oh boy – coasting.

As Drogba came deep to help defend, Glenn piped up –

“Drogba…what are you doing back there?”

With that, he won the ball easily, advanced and spun a delightful ball into the path of Kalou with the outside of his foot. Kalou sent in a ball to Malouda and we were four goals to the good. Alan and myself had great pleasure asking Glenn –

“You were saying, mate?”

Every attack was a joy to behold. Each time we broke, I sat back and wondered “how will we create a goal scoring chance this time?” What a goal scoring run we are on at the moment and long may it continue. Amazing times in our history…and all this without Messrs. Anelka, Lampard and Terry.

At half-time, I heard a PA announcement and I recognised a mate’s name. Steve works for a former supplier of our company and his name was announced as part of a treat his wife had arranged for him – he was watching in one of the executive areas of the West Stand. It reminded me of when I was a child and my parents would often write in to Chelsea DJ Pete Owen and I would often get my name read out on the “Pre-Match Spin” show. The first time this happened – it may well have been the Blackpool game in 1975 actually – I remember being very embarrassed, with me thinking that everyone in the stadium was aware it was me.

Dennis Wise was on the pitch at the break.

I’ll be honest, the second-half was a let down, but we are – of course – so splendidly spoilt these days. To be fair, Blackpool – spurred on by the deep Bristolian twang of Ian Holloway – put on a good show and tested Petr Cech on a few occasions. They did well and played it on the floor, probing away. We are so lucky these days – even the less successful teams play it on the grass, unlike the “route one” football employed by many teams back in the grim ‘eighties. In those days, teams like Sheffield Wednesday and Wimbledon would start every attack with a hoof up the field from a ‘keeper, there would be a midfield scramble, the ball would break to a full back who would then chip it up into “the channels.” A further heading duel would ensue, then possession would be lost.

Back in those days, the atmosphere at games was better, but the football could be bloody awful.

The away fans mainly stuck to their “This Is The Best Trip I’ve Ever Been On” chant throughout the game and it certainly seems to sum up their Premiership experience perfectly. They’ll probably get relegated, but I’m sure they will have fun along the way. There will be as many ups and downs for them this season as a rollercoaster on their famous Pleasure Beach.

We took our foot off of the pedal in the second-half and, looking back, it seemed inconceivable that we didn’t score any more. We had a typical Kalou one-on-one fluff on 63 minutes, a Malouda volley was palmed over on 64 minutes and Ashley Cole annoyingly decided to take an extra touch with his favoured left peg on 75 minutes when he really should have slammed it in with his right.

The World’s Best Left Back Who Can’t Kick With His Right Foot.

On 86 minutes, Drogba blazed over.

The finishing was so woeful that I am convinced I saw Alan Mayes miss an open goal on 73 minutes, Teddy Maybank head the cross-bar rather than the free ball on 85 minutes and Dave Mitchell fall over his feet in the last minute when clean through with only the ‘keeper to beat. Blackpool then scored a consolation goal via a Graham Wilkins own goal at the death. What a strike. He doesn’t miss from there.

Our support had become pretty docile as the game progressed. We had only been momentarily roused on a few occasions. I think we need a stern test to re-focus ourselves…we have had it too easy. Manchester City next Saturday will be just about perfect.

As I joined the buoyant crowd on the Fulham Road – even the Seasiders looked happy – I enjoyed a bit of banter with a colleague by phone who is an “avid” Manchester United fan. He commented that we had enjoyed the easiest start to a new season he had ever seen.

I replied –

“True. We haven’t played Everton or Fulham yet.”

Tales From A Chelsea Saturday

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 28 August 2010.

During the week, my alarm on my mobile phone sounds at 6.30am and I invariably “snooze” until 7am.

On matchdays, it’s a different story.

At 6.30am, my alarm woke me and, with a Chelsea game beckoning, I was up straight away. I had to pop into Frome to do some early morning shopping, but at 8.30am I was outside Glenn’s house in Frome, collecting him for the day’s main event. I’m always happier with games taking place at 3pm on Saturdays as it just seems right…after the two early evening kick-offs, the natural order had been restored. During my childhood and into my teens and beyond, there was a natural rhythm to the week…work for five days, football at 3pm on Saturday, then “Match Of The Day” on BBC1 to close things at 10pm on Saturday night.

Nice and easy – no early morning starts, no televised football, all games starting and ending at the same time. Just right.

It has dawned on me over the past year that, in some ways, my support of Chelsea has defined me. Once I had seen my first Chelsea game in 1974, all I have ever really wanted to do ( if I am blunt and honest ) is to attend as many Chelsea games as I can afford and justify. This has provided me with a lifetime of absorbing memories from games and cities in far-flung places plus of course many enduring friendships, some long-standing and some very recent, with some springing up from the most unlikely of places. I really do shudder to think what I’d do with myself should Chelsea be taken away from me.

And – of course – it’s not just the football. Supporting Chelsea is akin to being part of the biggest, greatest, funniest social club in the world. Once people get their heads round that, they have solved why I find Chelsea so alluring. Often conversations amongst my mates are dominated by anecdotes of what happened to friends on a visit to Bristol Rovers in 1980, Seville in 1998 or Tottenham last season…sure the football gets a mention, but our chat isn’t dominated by labourious discussions of formations and form. We’d rather talk about friendships and fandom.

It has always been so noticeable that we only tend to have discussions on the performances of the team after sub-standard displays…and then – oh boy – we go to town. I always remember the mother of all post-mortems after we were gubbed 4-1 at Sunderland in 1999 which began on the car ride south, continued on at a curry house in Nuneaton and was concluded on a plane to Rome on the Monday.

I picked up Lord Parky at 9am and we were on our way. This was Glenn’s first game since West Ham in March, so it was great to be travelling up together again. I’ve known Glenn since around 1977 – the two of us were the only Chelsea fans at our school, so we instantly bonded on that level – and he has been my regular travel partner for hundreds of home and away games since we began travelling to games in 1983.

Glenn – like me, not the most technically savvy of people – has just bought an I-Phone and he was jabbering away in the back seat about its many various applications and suchlike, like the proverbial child with a new toy. Parky and myself were rolling our eyes in the front seats. As we approached Membury Services, deep in the Wiltshire countryside, Glenn asked me to pull in so he could use the toilets.

“Hasn’t your phone got an app for that, mate?” I quipped.

Parky opened up a can of lager as we rattled past the Madejski Stadium at Reading and the chattering continued. The sky was full of white fluffy clouds and it looked like we were in for some fine weather. As I headed past Heathrow, I had a warm glow. Next Saturday, I am off to America for the week and Heathrow will be the starting point. I’m taking my mother too – we had relatives who lived in Philadelphia in the 1850’s and she has always wanted to visit the city. So, while her health is still good, we’re going. No time like the present. Unfortunately, we only arrive back on the morning of the West Ham game, so I’ll be missing that one…the first Chelsea weekend game I will have missed since Sunderland away in 2008. So be it.

I was parked-up at Chesson Road, opposite the hotel where we kipped after May’s Cup Final, at 11am and we quickly demolished a Yadana Cafe Super Breakfast.

£4.90 of England’s finest.

Parky heard The Goose calling and disappeared, while Glenn and myself shot down to HQ. I had promised 612Steve – who lives in Philly – that I’d get him a programme to take across with me and I was hoping to get Ron Harris to sign it. Luckilly, our timings were perfect as we bumped into Chopper just as he was due to join the corporate guests in a nearby lounge. Ron used to live in Warminster, just over the Wiltshire border from Frome, for about 15 years and we used to routinely pop into his pub after most home games back in the ‘nineties. Glenn and myself have had some truly unforgettable evenings at “The Hunters Moon” over the years – meeting Peter Osgood, Tommy Langley, Kerry Dixon for example – and on a lot of occasions, Ron would get a Karaoke DJ in for the evening. On one memorable night in around 1996, Glenn and myself duetted on “Da Do Ron Ron” with Chopper’s wife Lee on backing vocals.

What a laugh.

We had a quick chat with Ron – he always finds time for a few words – and Steve’s match programme was duly signed. On the walk back the North End Road, Glenn updated me on his daughter Amelia’s progress and she starts school in September. It was lovely to hear that she is looking forward to the new experience. It turns out that Amelia’s headmistress used to frequent Ron’s old pub when we used to go over there and so she told Glenn –

“Let’s do a deal – I’ll make sure Amelia settles in and does well, while you don’t mention what I used to get up to at The Hunter’s Moon.”

Laughs from the both of us.

By the time we reached the pub – and we met up with our mates in Casual Corner – the place was packed and conversations were taking place everywhere I looked. Daryl’s mother was over for the game from Guernsey in The Channel Islands and Simon and Milo were at their first game of the new season. The Blackburn vs. Arsenal game was on Sky, but very few were paying it much attention.

There was talk of Alan, Gary and Rob’s trip to Slovakia – a game which I can’t attend due to lack of cover at work – but there was a lot less chat than usual following a CL Draw. I might do Marseille away, but that decision can wait. The general consensus was that it was a good draw for the team, but not so for the fans.

Crocodile Watch

Chris – navy
Parky – black
Trowbridge Andy – neon
Daryl – azure

With kick-off approaching, Glenn and myself set off for The Bridge, past the myriad of shops on the North End Road, the crowds coverging at Fulham Broadway and the souvenir stalls on Fulham Road.

There is a familiar figure on match days at Stamford Bridge. Often wearing a bowler hat, dressed in a black suit, he can always be seen with his charity bucket, collecting away. To be honest, he always strikes me as quite a forlorn figure, like something from another age, a Dickensian street figure maybe. He doesn’t seem to be “all there” – a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic as we say over here. As I walked by, I noted that he was being reprimanded by two young policeman and he seemed to be quite distressed. Meanwhile, less than 15 feet away, ticket touts were plying their trade unhindered. It made me angry.

Into the stadium and the place looked a picture. I soon noted that not many away fans had travelled down from Staffordshire, now home to our very own Burger. Stoke only had around 400 away fans…very poor. One change in the Chelsea starting XI and Paolo was in for Ivanovic. It would be the same team that had played against West Brom.

We began well. After five minutes, a quite beautiful flowing move, involving virtually all of our outfield players found an advancing Ashley Cole, but he scuffed his shot wide. Soon after, Malouda was sent sprawling in that same inside-left channel and the referee pointed to the spot. This surprised all of my immediate neighbours as it looked like the Stoke defender had played the ball. However, Frank shot tamely and Sorensen easilly saved. A few of us muttered something along the lines of “justice being done.” Then the texts came through about it being a “nailed on penalty” and we wanted it retaken.

Stoke had a few half-chances, but were limited to the predictable Delap bomb and crosses from deep. Truly one-dimensional football. But we were in control, playing some nice stuff. Drogba sent in a powerful free-kick from way out – maybe near Battersea – which Sorensen did well to palm away. Then, after 31 minutes, the ball broke for The Captain and he played a lovely ball, with just the right amount of fade, into the path of Malouda who scored with a neat finish. I watched as JT ran over to join in the celebrations in the far corner, down below Andy and Daryl.

A minute later, Ashley was played in down below me again but his volley struck the bar. There was something quite amazing the way he contorted his whole body to get the right shape for his volley. Stunning stuff. I commented to Alan that we had actually played better football in the first-half of this game than in either of the other two league games. Only on a few occasions did we hear the normally noisey Stoke fans sing anything…they tried to get “Delilah” going, but it was a poor show.

At the break, our man Ron Harris was paraded around the pitch by Neil Barnett and he was warmly applauded, by The Shed especially –

“One Chopper Harris – There’s Only One Chopper Harris.”

When we first got to know Ron back in around 1995, he had not been back to The Bridge since he left the club for Brentford in 1980. These days, he is very much part of the matchday experience at Chelsea and that is the way it should be.

I had a quick flick through the programme and the highlight again was a piece by Rick Glanvill. There was a double-page photo from the Chelsea vs. Stoke City game in May 1989; Kerry Dixon scoring at the North Stand end, with the austere Benches ( actually concrete slabs by then, following the riot in 1985 ) behind. Quite a difference to the luxury of The Bridge these days. I remember watching that game high up in the East Upper and being mesmerized by Stoke winger Peter Beagrie. His dribbling style was very unique and had a lasting affect on me. In fact, to this day, whenever I go on a mazy dribble in five-a-side, I often come to an abrupt stop, with the ball close by, throwing the defender off balance, and “Peter Beagrie” always comes into my mind.

In the second-half, Stoke played even more deeply. I lost count of the number of times we played the ball from left to right, then back again. Essien and Mikel were seeing a lot of the ball, pushing it around, looking for an opening. It’s great to see Mikel rarely losing possession these days and “Ess” is getting better with each game. We were carving up openings down the left, but were struggling to get behind the Stoke left-back on the other flank. But it’s so difficult to create against a team so intent on destruction. They were playing with ten men behind the ball and even their lone striker Kenwyne Jones had a knock and was looking disinterested. Frank was having a quiet game I thought. And with the play compressed into Stoke’s final third, Drogba was unable to burst forth into space in his usual style.

The support wasn’t exactly restless, but there were periods of quiet throughout the game. I didn’t hear the two side stands sing throughout the match. Such is life. Such is our home support, the die-hards diluted by thousands of meek souls, unwilling to get involved.

Then – out of nowhere, a threat. Anelka played a loose ball to Mikel who easilly lost possession, allowing Whelan to strike a thunderous shot against the bar.

A lovely Anelka cross from the left found Drogba but he headed meekly at the ‘keeper. Frank was subbed and there were no complaints.

Anelka was played in with a long ball from Drogba and we could hardly believe it when he was tripped by the advancing goalie. Drogba slammed the resultant penalty in and we could relax.

The last part of the game was notable for the great news that Wigan were winning in North London, a typical miss from Kalou and new-signing Ramires’ debut.

Welcome to Chelsea, mate.

This had been a solid team performance against a stubborn Stoke City team. Our league goal-scoring run now stands at 32-0. No complaints at all.

With Glenn catching some shut-eye in the back seat, Lord Parky and myself headed west and listened to a CD from last week’s sojourn to Wigan, a Soft Cell compilation…nineteen songs from my youth. Lord Parky had been “fishing” for me to stop off at a pub on the way home for “one last pint” and I eventually relented. At about 7pm, I exited the M4 at Chippenham, with Glenn now awake and the three of us singing along to an anthemic dance version of “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye.” Within ten minutes, we were in the picturesque village of Lacock, where my mate Stu and his wife Shelley run “The Red Lion” in the main street. Lacock is a village of only two hundred residents, but it has five pubs. I like that ratio, I must say. The reason for this is that Lacock is very photogenic and is on the tourist trail between Bath and Stonehenge. Our man Andy Wray visited here in 2008. It was used as a location of many of the “outside” shots in the first Harry Potter film.

The Red Lion was hosting it’s very own cider festival over the Bank Holiday weekend and we joined the crowd of over two-hundred in the busy beer garden. Pints were ordered and we settled down for an hour or so of fun. Shelley had booked a Wurzels tribute band, The Mangled Wurzels and they began with the classic “Combine Harvester.”

“Oh boy – if our street-wise London mates could see us now” I thought.

Parky was in his element, illiciting cheeky comments from a few local ladies ( his crutches are always a talking point ) and Glenn was being Glenn, singing along to “I Am A Cider Drinker.”

It was an unplanned, but memorable end to the day.

I had seen The Mangled Wurzles perform at a cider festival in Bath a year or so back and I remembered loving their version of a Rolling Stones song –

“Hey ( Hey ), You ( You ) – Get Off Of My Land.”

As the music continued and the evening sun eventually subsided, the cider was going down well and everyone was loving it. Simple pleasures.

Is everyone from the West Country a smock-wearing, scrumpy-drinking simple-minded yokel?

No…just some of us.

Top of the league and having a laugh at ourselves.

Tales From The Heart And Soul Of Lancashire

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea : 21 August 2010.

An Alternate Title – Boring, Boring, Boring, Boring, Boring, Boring ( that’s six ) Chelsea.

Another early evening kick-off. Another long drive.

Before setting off from Somerset, I replenished my choice of CDs for the trip north…I quickly threw in some CDs by Soft Cell, Portishead, the Pet Shop Boys and Morrissey.I haven’t heard those particular ones for a while. Those tunes from the ’80s onwards would form the in-car entertainment for the trip to Lancashire.

This was a solo drive for me, with His Lordship unable to attend. As I set off from home at 10.15am, it took me a good few minutes to get in the groove…the weather was again overcast and, more importantly, the traffic on the way to Bristol was horrendous. It took an hour to go just over twenty miles…however, once through Bristol, things improved…the caffeine from a coffee was doing the trick and I was feeling more at ease.

Chelsea Away – Love It.

Thoughts centered on the town of Wigan, a rugby league stronghold for as long as I can remember but now hosting two teams in top flight sport. I’ve often mentioned that I think Wigan do well to support two professional teams in a town of only 81,000. For a comparison, I thought about my local city of Bath…roughly the same size of Wigan, with a rugby union team packing in 8,000 at The Rec each week, but now with Bath City newly-promoted to the Conference…they drew 800 for their first home league game of the season mid-week. I wondered how many Bath City would get should they promoted to the Football League. Yeovil Town regularly draw 3,500, but I think Bath wouldn’t match that. Wigan were once a non-league team and were promoted in 1978, so their rise has been steady, but highly commendable. Such is the beauty of our football pyramid…I wonder who will be the next non-league team to reach the top tier.

AFC Wimbledon, maybe?

As I headed through Gloucestershire, I had texts from Alan ( coach ) and Burger ( train ) to say that they were on their way…Burger had just bumped into Suggs from Madness at Euston and I could tell he was excited.

“Madness – Madness They Call It Madness.”

One friend who I knew wouldn’t be attending the game was Russ, from Frome, now living in Croydon. He works for the BBC, but is an assistant referee with Surrey F.A. His game in the morning was the Chelsea vs. Manchester United U18 game at Cobham…I emailed him on Friday –

“If you have any borderline decisions, remember Cantona 1994, Moscow 2008 and all the hundreds of United “fans” you grew up with.”

I awaited news of the result as I drove north.

For us in the UK, a trip to Wigan, almost 400 miles there and back, is a big deal, but I always feel immediately inferior to Americans when I start talking road trips.

“Hell, I drive two hundred miles for breakfast every morning, boy.”

However, what Americans don’t understand is our clogged-up road system…for us even the shortest journey can take forever. With the notorious M6 ahead of me, I drove on.

As I passed Tewkesbury, I was reminded of an evening I spent there many years ago with a few friends from Trowbridge. Back in 1992, I was into the rave scene, but for a change one of my workmates suggested I joined her and a few friends for a Northern Soul night at a pub in Tewkesbury. I was aware of this particular music scene, but it had largely gone unnoticed amongst my peers at school.

This was an off-shoot of the mod movement if the mid-‘sixties and gathered momentum amongst UK music enthusiasts as the ‘sixties drew to a close and into the ‘seventies. The key components were all nighters, rare records imported from America and a highly individual dancing style, involving twists, back-flips, somersaults and vigorous peacock-strutting. One of the key venues involved was the famous Wigan Casino, which gathered Northern Soul enthusiasts from all over the UK for many years.

The weather was a mixture of rain showers and brief sunny interludes. I stopped at Strensham Services and noted a couple of coaches of Plymouth supporters en route to Wallsall, virtually everyone of them bedecked in dark green shirts, with the sponsor’s logo – Ginsters Pasties – raising a smile.

Heading through West Bromwich, the traffic slowed to the pace of a rheumatic snail, with West Brom fans heading over to watch their game against Sunderland. I couldn’t spot their ground as it was shrouded in low-lying clouds. I spotted the Sunderland team coach as it left the exit of the motorway. Yet more slow traffic for the next hour or so. Passing familiar roadside landmarks, it didn’t seem real that it was sixteen weeks since the amazing awayday at Anfield.

I was pounding the tarmac and having good vibes.

The Pet Shop Boys were now on the CD, bringing back memories of many a cold night night spent in my student house, writing essays on social deprivation ( I was in Stoke, so I had plenty of local examples )…the house was so cold, I used to wear gloves in my bedroom when I was forced to study. In that 1986-87 season, no song brings back memories of Chelsea games and student discos as The Pet Shop Boys song “Paninaro.”

“Passion and love, sex, money, violence , religion, justice, death.
Paninaro.
Paninaro.
Oh – Oh – Oh.”

The “paninari” were Italian lads, heavilly into fashion in the ‘eighties, bizarrely named after the sandwich shops they used to frequent. This look helped breath new life into the UK casual movement in around 1986, once the sportswear of 1984 had been replaced by paisley shirts, black leather jackets, dark jeans and cords. One of the main components was the Timberland deck-shoe…often worn without socks.

I remember reading of Rangers and Hearts casuals singing a few lines from “Paninaro” at a game at Ibrox in around 1987…I think they mave have focussed on the “Violence, Religion, Justice, Death” segment. But it may have been –

“Armani, Armani, A-A-Armani, Versace, Cinque.”

On the M6, I heard from Russ that despite being 2-0 up, the Chelsea boys had lost 3-2 to United. Russ had had a quiet game, but had picked up a teamsheet from the game – a nice memento. This was his third game at Cobham I believe.

I had a text to say that Burger had arrived at Wigan and was enjoying a pint in The Swan. Alan, too, was nearing the final destination.

After five long and at times tedious hours on England’s marvellous roads, I was parked up in my usual parking place, just 15 minutes from the DW. It was a muggy day, but with rain still threatening. I put my Lacoste rain jacket on, but instantly regretted it as I marched to the stadium. I dipped into The Queens Arms and had a pint with two mates, Andy and The Youth, with their children Sophie and Seb. The pub was half-and-half Wigan and Chelsea, no agro, no big deal. Andy and myself spoke about – very generally speaking – how we are not really too anxious and worried about Chelsea these days….Andy smiled as he said

“I’m not bothered mate, we’ve done it, we’ve won it.”

And I knew what he meant…to be truthful, I’m still enjoying the afterglow oif the title in 2005, let alone 2006 and last year.

We dipped into The Red Robin pub so Andy could pick up a ticket from Lovejoy. This is the main away pub at Wigan, but I had always gone to The Queens Arms on previous trips. A hundred or so Chelsea were out in the beer garden singing The Chelsea Ranger – the more youthful element – while a few familiar faces were inside, enjoying some food and some beer. I was hoping to bump into The Burger Family, but we never did meet up.

I excused myself and sped off to the away end. I smiled as I overheard an irritable mother say to her excited five year old boy – clad in a Chelsea shirt – “just calm down, the game hasn’t even started yet.”

Once inside, I quickly rushed down to the front of the steep single-tiered stand to pin my banner up over the very first two rows. Wigan is ideal for flags, as the first two rows are never used. The Chelsea players were taking shooting practice as I pegged “Vinci Per Noi” to the faded blue seats and I had to duck for cover as Frank, in particular, seemed to be intent on hitting me.

The boys looked great in their crisp white training tops.

Alan and Gary arrived with our mates Nick and Mark and we shared a pre-match natter. No complaints about the team line-up. We were a little concerned that our 4,100 allocation would not be full, but we need not have worried…sure, there were empty seats, but it was a good show. At only £25 a ticket, how could anyone not go?

Wigan came at us in the first half-an-hour and we seemed to be slow in closing players down. Gary to my left and Alan to my right were not happy. Cathy and Dog were sat two rows infront and there were familiar faces everywhere I looked. It was noticeable that the Away Season Ticket Section – the middle blocks – were mainly full of seated fans, whereas the flanks had fans standing.

I noted a new song, an updated version of the Follow Follow song.

“Double Double Double.
John Terry Has Won The Double.
And the S*** From The Lane Have Won F*** All Again.
John Terry Has Won The Double.”

A few half-chances to Wigan, but we rode the storm. Malouda hadn’t been in the game, but he touched in a rebound after a fine, flowing move down the left had picked out Frank, whose flick was initially thwarted by Kirkland.

1-0 – Phew.

Just before the second-half began, the incredibly loud PA played two soul classics – “This Old Heart Of Mine” by The Isley Brothers and “Move On Up” by Curtis Mayfield. I half-expected a few Wigan fans to start doing back-flips.

In the second-half, our football flowed a lot better. To be honest, looking back, it was all a bit of a blur. Mikel was our one strong performer from the first half and he sent through a sublime ball for Anelka…he coolly slotted in at the far post and we went wild. Anelka’s first Chelsea goal was in the same goal in 2008 and he celebated, with Drogba, with a new – slightly odd – celebration. Soon after, Drogba set up Anelka to score close-in with a header and the celebrations were repeated.

By this time, the Chelsea faithful was rocking. Our away support is so different to the home and it’s just great to be part if it. Alex made two stupendous tackles – the first of which I captured on camera – and his name was sung with gusto for ages.

Kalou came on and then scored two more goals and the singing continued on. While a Wigan defender was getting carried off, we serenaded Frank, JT, Ashley, Petr, Paolo, Nico and even new boy Benayoun…the Dennis Wise song was aired, and so too was the Peter Osgood tribute. After the Frank Lampard chant went on for more than the usual one verse, Frank looked pretty embarassed by the adulation, bless him.

We even had time to sing the Robert Fleck song.

“We All Live In A Robert Fleck World.”

On ninety minutes, it was 5-0 and all was well with the world. Incredibly, after last week, we hit six again as Yossi slammed in a goal from a perfect cut-back from Paolo, the two subs combining to perfection.

The Chelsea fans still kept going –

“6-0, We Only Win 6-0.”

It had been an amazing game and even the new black and orange looked splendid. No complaints.

I gathered my flag and made my way back to the car. I bumped into Tim from Bristol and we chatted about our current league goal run…since we scored a late goal at Tottenham, we have since scored a ridiculous total of thirty without reply. We weren’t sure but that has to be a UK record.

Thankfully, not so much traffic on the drive south, but it still took me four hours to return home. I stopped off for the usual Red Bull pit-stop at Keele Services, close to my former college stomping ground. I kept changing the CDs as I drove, Morrissey singing about Rome one minute, the Pet Shop Boys singing about West End Girls the next. Then it was the turn of Soft Cell, who put out some memorable pop tunes in the 1981-1982 period. Their classic song is “Tainted Love” – and I suddenly realised that this was originally the de facto Northern Soul song, originally sung by Gloria Jones.

I mused that Wigan might have Northern Soul, but Chelsea showed a lot of Southern Heart.

At 11pm, I was home at last…top of the league and having even more laughs.

Played 2 – Goals For 12, Goals Against 0.

Happy Days.

Tales From Boring, Boring Chelsea

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 14 August 2010.

What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday, I was trying my best to muster up enough enthusiasm for the Community Shield, but – having seen Chelsea in the flesh – my pulse was racing all week. I couldn’t wait another day, in fact.

There aren’t many nicer feelings than leaving work on a Friday evening with a Chelsea game to attend on the Saturday. I’d been pretty dormant all summer but I was “chomping at the bit” to get up to HQ once more, meet my mates and see the boys put on a show.

A 5.30pm kick-off for the league opener against the Boing Boing Baggies meant that I had time to run a few errands in the morning. There was dismal rain and misty, grey skies as I zipped around and about my village and the local town of Frome. The grey weather seemed strange…opening days, even in England, usually take place against a backdrop of clear skies and hot weather. This was more like cricketing weather to be honest, an ironic comment I made to the village shopkeeper, who looked at me with a vacant stare.

Just before I left home to collect Dave at 11am, I noted a few “opening day scorchers” being shown on Sky Sports News and I loved seeing the “Zola flick, Poyet scissorkick” goal from 1999 against Sunderland once again. Of all the goals I have witnessed, this still remains my favourite.

Big Dave works on the roads in one of Frome’s many tarmac gangs and he had just worked a double-shift, finishing at 6.30am He looked tired. The slow journey over to pick up Lord Parky was completed by 11.30am and we were on our way.

West Bromwich Albion, eh? This meant the return of ex-Chelsea players Roberto di Matteo and Eddie Newton, stalwarts in that 1997 F.A.Cup Final team and I was sure we’d give them a good reception. But I was struggling to name many of their players after their single season in the second tier. They are the archetypal yo-yo team of late…or maybe, this should be the “yow yow” team, as in the Black Country greeting

“Am yow alright?”

I drive past The Hawthorns on every single trip I make following Chelsea in the north-west as the stadium is just off the M5 in the heart of the West Midlands. I don’t mind them as it happens…they’re a good honest club. However, unlike Villa, West Brom doesn’t really have support from outside that West Midlands base. In all my life, I can only remember meeting two West Brom fans, one a college friend, one a former boss. There are no Baggies’ fans in Frome, anyway, that’s for sure.

The drive up to London via the M4 was easy, despite some unsettled weather…drizzle one moment, the sun attempting to break through the next. It felt odd getting up to London at 1.30pm – a time that we would normally be settled in The Goose.

Dave shot off for a breakfast and Parky headed into the boozer, but I had an appointment to keep at The Bridge. As I keep statistics of all the Chelsea games I have witnessed, I was well aware that the game against West Brom would put me on 795 games…a holy grail as far as I am concerned, as it matches the momentous total reached by Ron Harris in his playing career. I was hoping to meet up with him in the hotel foyer and get my photo taken.

I raced past the busy fruit and veg stalls on the North End Road, my pace quickening with each step. As I rounded the corner by The Kings Arms ( aka The Slug ) public house, I noted that there were “home fans only” notices on show…a change from last season, when it was the dedicated away pub. I wondered if there would be an option for away fans at Chelsea this season. I noted that the old Fulham Broadway tube station, with that wonderful red brick façade, is now a greengrocers…the “TGI Friday’s” is no more. A shame – I never did pay it a visit.

I quickly ascended the elevator to the first floor of the Copthorne Hotel and there was the familiar smiling face of Ron Harris, holding court in the seated area to the left of reception. I shook hands with Ron and also with Mick the Autograph King, who I bump into a few times each season. It was lovely to see them both. I spent an enjoyable 45 minutes in Ron’s company and Mick was kind enough to take a few photos on my momentous day. I had bought a photo-mount that morning in Frome so that Chopper could sign something for me. It worked a treat. I bought myself a pint of Singha ( our new beer sponsor ) and relaxed, enjoying the laughter, stories and comments about the new season. Kent Blues Gill and Graeme popped over for a few words. We were all excited about the new season – of course! – but I said to Graeme that I wondered if our double success of May would ever be bettered in our Chelsea lives.

I noticed a lovely black-and-white photograph, taken in the mid-sixties, on the wall by the bar. It showed five Chelsea players jogging around the old Stamford Bridge dog-track on a cold winter morning, the pitch and shed terraces covered in fresh snow. Ron Harris, Terry Venables and Eddie Macreadie, plus two other players, were sporting those rather odd striped training shorts which are often seen in photos from that era. It’s a super photo, but it came to life when I saw two of the players holding snowballs, grins on their faces. I wondered if the photographer was the intended recipient.

Lovely stuff.

On the way out of the ground, I noted that the “photo-wall” by the West Stand is no more. I bought a programme and a copy of “CFCUK” and had a brief word with Mark and Dave on the stall. I kept checking my watch and tried to equate what time it would be on a “normal 3pm Saturday.” The home programme this season again contains 76 pages, but is published by a different company than of late. It’s much the same, though – same contents, with a piece by historian Rick Glanvill the highlight. The cover of the programme is an improvement though – nice and clean, less clutter. A photo of JT, stretching for the ball was on the cover, with a blue background. Pretty effective I thought. In the fanzine, I noticed that somebody had penned a brief preview of our first three games under the name Vinci Per No ( sp.) and I immediately realised I should have copyrighted my CIA user id.

Oh well.

I made it into The Goose and it was magical to be back after 14 weeks away. The place was sweaty and noisy, but I edged my way towards our corner, past the bar in the back room. I looked for familiar faces and was not disappointed. Almost the first face I saw was that of Burger, along with Julie and Josh, now residents in the UK, but soon off to relocate in the midlands. Parky had been keeping them occupied with his unique brand of banter, reminiscing in particular about the post-game meal after West Ham in March.

Burger, Julie and Josh are going to be residing in Stafford shortly and this works out perfectly for me as I head past Stafford on my way to many away games. In fact, it reminded me of around ten years ago, when my mate Alan would often get a train to Stafford and I’d pick him up en route to such northern outposts as Bolton, Blackburn and Leeds. It also reminded me of one of the main reasons why I chose nearby Stoke-On-Trent for my college town in 1984…close proximity to many away grounds. I’m just a bit worried that Burger will be calling me “duck” within a month or two.

What else? There were conversations going on all around me and I stopped still for a few seconds, listening to the buzz of voices, interspersed with laughter, the occasional shout, the occasional lull. The Wigan vs. Blackpool game was causing us great yelps of enjoyment and I felt certain that Blackpool’s Golden Mile would be the place to be in the whole of the UK come 10pm. I chatted to Daryl and Neil – we spoke briefly about our plans to commemorate our fiftieth birthdays with a trip to NYC for a Yankees vs. Mets series in 2015. Daryl and myself, the two Yankee fans, have been promising ourselves a trip for years and we finally toasted our plans. I enjoyed more talk of America with Dutch Mick out in the beer garden – we are both enthusiasts of the American Civil War and I needed his advice on visiting Gettysburg. I am off to Philadelphia ( and New York ) in September, but the highlight could well be the visit I have planned to that most momentous of civil war sites.

Parky was chatting to Andy and Les from Trowbridge, friends from way back.

Lacoste Watch

Burger – navy

Andy – brown

Wes from Texas – still with us on his sabbatical – showed up with a college mate from Siberia, both very excited to be witnessing an opening game of the season.

I spent quite a few moments chatting to Andy from Nuneaton. I’ve been mates with Andy since we met out in Prague on the Viktoria Zizkov trip in 1994, though I knew of him by sight from many train trips home to Stoke in the mid-eighties. In reference to Burger’s move to Stafford, Andy spoke about an eventful game involving Stafford Rangers and Nuneaton Borough back in around 1980…not sure about the result, but it seems the Nuneaton boys had the upper hand in a pub before the game. I had to laugh, though, when Andy commented “they looked the part though – they all had wedges.” It seems that the Nuneaton lads were still dressed in bomber jackets and sported skinheads and I could tell Andy was a bit envious.

It was soon time to leave the boozer. Sigh.

Blackpool had won 4-0 and would surely finish the day as league leaders. We made our familiar way to The Bridge, but the heavens opened at 5.10pm and for a few minutes those with jackets ( including myself ) were lording it over those without. As I ascended the stairs to the MHU, the lovely chant of “Chelsea – Champions – Chelsea – Champions – Chelsea – Champions” was heard…one of our staples from the 2005-2007 period. Lovely stuff. Then as I walked in to the seats, with the pitch looking perfect below me, “Blue Is The Colour” was playing on the tannoy. Even better. I shook hands with the familiar faces…Zac, Joe, Tom, Russ, Frank. Great to see everyone again.

I had a quick look around and was dismayed to see hundreds of empty seats in The Shed. I hoped and prayed that they would soon fill up. I spotted an impressive white flag draped over the wall by the southern end of the West Stand.

“Pimlico Blues – We’ll Never Be Mastered.”

Wes was sandwiched between Alan and myself as we awaited the appearance of the teams. I had no problem with Carlo’s starting eleven, but I would have preferred to have seen Ivanovic at right-back ahead of Paolo Ferreira. Zac, however, was far from pleased. Zac always tends to have more grumbles that even the most pessimistic Chelsea fan should be entitled to. In fact, I am convinced that if Ancelotti had personally phoned Zac on the Friday and left the team selection to Zac, he would still moan about the players chosen.

We began well and after only five minutes, with a free-kick just outside the “D”, I sensed a goal. I steadied my camera and snapped as Drogba struck. After a goalmouth melee, Florent Malouda slid the ball in and we were on our way once again. I looked towards Alan and he put his arm around Wes, bent towards him and executed a part-Boomhauer, part-Rhett Butler style “See that, dang, good old, yep – they’ll have to come at us now, you hear.”

I whooped “Come on ma little diamonds”, sounding just a bit like Scarlet O’Hara, but thankfully only Wes and Alan heard me.

I think Wes appreciated it.

However, as is so often the case, a second goal was not immediately forthcoming. In fact, West Brom got into the game and their number 14 was giving Paolo a tough time, attacking him at will. There were the oh-so typical moans and grumbles as we struggled to penetrate. I commented to Wes that it seemed our best chances were through free-kicks only. A Lampard free-kick was saved by Carson, but Malouda headed over. Damn. Just before half-time, Drogba stepped up and as I snapped his shot with my camera, I saw the ball head straight for the defensive wall and I uttered an obscenity. Imagine my surprise when I saw the ball tuck itself into the goal.

“How did that happen?”

Never mind, the all important second goal was scored…a bit like Wigan in May, and we could relax a little. However, the stands were pretty quiet, despite the volumes of lager being imbibed all afternoon. A familiar lament from me, eh?

A real treat at the break – legend Ruud Gullit was introduced to all of the Chelsea faithful and he received a tumultuous reception.

Inspired by his appearance, the PA played The Specials’ “Message To You Rudi.” I looked down to see Burger lip-synching and dancing away like a teenager.

A perfect moment.

Welcome to England, mate.

Soon into the second half, the intermittent rain subsided and we were treated to blue skies and more Chelsea goals. A Drogba stab from close range after a JT header made it 3-0. Then, soon after, the best move the match. Initiated by Mikel, we witnessed a great move down the Chelsea left… Anelka passed sublimely to Ashley Cole who fed Frank to tuck in.

Oh you beauty. It was a lovely move.

“Are we Arsenal in disguise?” I ironically sung to Alan.

We then realised “one more and we’ll go top.”

The ball was worked to Ashley Cole down below me – snap! – and he evaded a rash challenge – snap! – before shifting the ball to Drogba, who moved on to his favourite side before shooting – snap! – and the ball nestled in the goal. Again, I could hardly believe it. This was like Wigan ( or Stoke, or Villa, or Sunderland – take your pick ) all over again.

“Top Of The League – Having A Laugh.”

The last goal – the sixth – from Malouda was just one to savour and politely applaud…this is getting crazy. Soon after, we were awarded a couple of long-distance free-kicks and, each time, we serenaded Alex’ name for him to be chosen…his face was a picture as he grinned from ear to ear.

There were more smiles as we sung “Boring Boring Chelsea.”

By this time, the MHL were getting all the various stands to sing, even the visitors –

“West Brom – Give Us A Song.”

And Roberto di Matteo’s name was sung with gusto as the game came to its conclusion.

Phew.

So, let’s get the calculator out…our last three home games have ended 7-0, 8-0 and 6-0. That’s 21-0.

I think we’d best stick on that.

It took an age to leave London, but once on the trusty M4, both Big Dave and Lord Parky were asleep. I had a slight headache, but was listening to some quiet and evocative music by Japan as I flew past Slough and Reading. I tried to put the game’s events into perspective, but it was too close, too soon. It didn’t in truth, seem like we had been away.

As I headed on into the night, past Swindon, the sky looked dramatic and wild…an orange sunset here, a brilliant white crescent moon there, dark storm clouds to the north, vivid blue above. It was quite a backdrop.

It had been some day at HQ.

Wigan – my away ticket safe in my wallet – next!

Mow That Meadow.

Tales From The Phony War

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 8 August 2010.

My home for most of my life has been a small Somerset village, some 110 miles from HQ, and this has been the starting point for the vast majority of my Chelsea journeys. During the week I had worked out that I had travelled – roughly, and including air miles – 275,000 miles in support of Chelsea since my first game in 1974 and the amount knocked me for six. I disbelieved this figure and so I recalculated, but it remained the same. That equates to a vast amount of travelling time, petrol, oil, tyres, driving hours, Depeche Mode songs, post-game post-mortems, tins of Red Bull, lines at passport control, cups of coffee, motorway service station comfort breaks, train tickets and British Rail buffet stops.

My home village has the limestone Mendip Hills to the west, the Roman city of Bath and The Cotswolds of Gloucestershire to the north, the market town of Frome and the stark chalk uplands of Salisbury Plain to the east and the undulating Somerset farmland to the south, with the Dorset beaches beyond. It’s hardly a football hotbed.

Apart from inside my head.

The World was sleeping as I awoke and I soon gathered my thoughts for the first trip of the new campaign. The weather looked uncertain and mirrored my thoughts of the game ahead…this would be my fifth Chelsea vs. Manchester United Community Shield game and all have been at Wembley. We were tied at 2-2 and this one would be the decider. We had struggled to find our form in the few games of the pre-season, but United seemed to be more advanced in their preparations. I liked the look of their new player Hernandez

At 7.45am, my car left the sleeping village behind and I set off for my Game One of Season 2010-2011. No pre-season games for me this summer.

Echo And The Bunnymen were on the car CD player as I headed through the old mill town of Bradford On Avon to collect Lord Parky, his step-daughter Claire and her boyfriend Kris.

“Stab a sorry heart
With your favourite finger
Paint the whole world blue
And stop your tears from stinging
Hear the cavemen singing
Good news they’re bringing.”

I travelled up the A4 as Claire and Kris flicked through the “hard copy” version of my online photographs, detailing the events of the previous season. I had noted that the album had begun with a simple photograph, taken outside The Duke Of York pub in August 2009, of a pint of Staropramen and the Chelsea vs. Manchester United Community Shield match ticket resting against it. The last photo in the album was a half-full glass of Staropramen, again taken outside the same pub, but after the F.A.Cup Final in May 2010. I’m heavy on metaphors these days, but it seemed to sum up last season perfectly…at times it was difficult to believe, but our glass really was half-full – rather than half-empty – all of the way through last season.

I was a soon parked and we caught the tube from West Brompton, with the steel supports of the Matthew Harding Stand roof in the distance. The smell of the tube always takes me back to my childhood, on those first few wondrous visits to Chelsea with my parents. This time, though, we headed away from The Bridge, north on the district line to Notting Hill Gate, then a change on the central to Marble Arch. By 11am we were tucking into the first fry-up of the new season and, by 11.30pm, we were back at a sun-kissed Duke Of York once again.

We spoke about our respective summers and, to be honest, my one has been strangely muted. The time has flown past and yet, looking back at the months of June and July, I don’t seem to have done anything special. Of course, this is always a period of my year when my credit card heaves a sigh of relief after some intensive spending in the name of Chelsea Football Club and I generally try to keep my expenditure to a minimum. There will be home and away games, hopefully in a few far flung locales, to pay for over the coming season.

The euphoria of the closing weeks of 2009-2010 is still vivid in my mind and it seems that last season still hasn’t drained out of my system yet. Maybe that’s a good thing, since I don’t ever want to forget the joy I felt at Wembley or on the parade the following day, two trophies to the good. They were truly magical times in my Chelsea life. I can still feel the buzz I felt walking out of Anfield, one win away from being champions, three months on. There was a sense, too, of not wanting this summer to end, since I couldn’t face the possible eroding of our title by a resurgent Manchester United or us getting knocked out of the FA Cup. I guess I wanted to prolong the spell of us being – big breath – Double Winners. The summer of 2010 has been the first time we could boast such an honour. These are heady times which should not be easily relinquished.

Can we not stay forever in a perpetual close-season with my beloved Chelsea at the very pinnacle of English football? A ground-hog summer.

So, there has certainly been a sense during the past month or so that I am not yet quite ready for the commencement of yet another season…that I haven’t yet reached the stage where I am feverishly awaiting Game One. This troubled me, but I came to the conclusion that this is natural…this would be, after all, my 38th season of watching Chelsea in the flesh, so to speak. I haven’t felt jaded exactly, but something was amiss.

A strange feeling.

With a double in our locker, where else can this club go? Would I only be satisfied, come May, with a treble, or at very least a Champions League trophy?

Questions, questions.

If I am honest, it made me remember my personal feelings during the summer of 1997, when – for the first time ever – I found myself supporting a Chelsea that had just won a major trophy for the first time in my supporting-life. It felt that my relationship with my club – the great under-achievers, the misery-makers, the perpetual losers – had changed and I scrabbled around, trying to evaluate who I was now in a relationship with…that unloved, ugly duckling was now a coveted princess and it feel odd.

Andy, Ronnie and Fiona were outside the boozer and all three had been in South Africa for a few games. However, we hardly spoke about the World Cup. We certainly didn’t waste much time chatting about England’s inadequacies. I found the tournament pretty boring. It was a joy to see the South African nation – or at least the footy fans in the townships – so overjoyed to have the World’s top teams on their doorsteps, even though the grounds seemed to be devoid of these very same fans. In my mind, this was a very odd World cup, in terms of the spectators inside the stadia. Fans of competing nations seemed not to be allocated designated areas, which negated the noise they were able to generate, which of course was further reduced by the constant drone of those hideous vuvuzelas. And it drove me crazy – my own personal football hell in fact – to see the TV cameramen honing in on every ludicrously attired “fan” ( not only facepaint, but stupid hats and even “comedy” glasses ). This reached a low point when I spotted two English fans, not long from the end of the Germany debacle, attired in replica kits and face paint, seeing each other on the stadium screen and suddenly bursting into smiles and laughter, waving at the camera, not a care in their simple worlds.

England were 4-1 down…my face was as long as a Tottenham league trophy drought…and these loons were smiling and giggling like pre-pubescent schoolgirls. Quite sickening.

Yet again I was reminded that football these days attracts a different breed…that some fans that I grew up with – passionate, devoted, loyal – have been flushed out of a lot of football stadia.

Midway through the tournament, I replayed a tape of a documentary of England’s crazy assault on the World Cup in the summer of 1990. It portrayed a mad few weeks involving 5,000 loyalists living in dodgy campsites on Sardinia surviving on Italian beer and English hope, getting treated like idiots, but smiling through regardless, the team of Peter Shilton, David Platt and Des Walker, images of Gazza’s tears, Sir Bobby Robson, Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle, the terrace anthem of “Let’s All Have A Disco” and that iconic New Order song “World In Motion”, coolly crossing the football / music divide. I longed for those days…when football was followed by football fans alone, not people drawn in by a variety of other reasons. Hardly any corporates, no wannabee wags, no hangers-on.

In contrast, South Africa seemed plastic and alien to me. On too many occasions, I looked at the reactions on the faces of the spectators after goals were scored and I very rarely saw people “losing it” – that rabid shriek of joy which so often has been uttered by football fans through the years, followed by wild ungainly leaps, often into the arms of strangers, then hugs and kisses, then the panting afterglow. In 2010, I noted polite applause from people who looked like they had just gate-crashed a wedding only to find they had missed out on the buffet and were now fighting over cold leftovers.

The Staropramen was going down well. We were clustered in small groups on the pavement, re-acquainting ourselves after three months “off.” Rob had been on a diet and was looking good, Parky was jabbering away to anyone who would listen, the sun was beating down and I could feel my forehead heating up. Lots of laughs with old friends. The conversation was varied. Not only about football. Fred Perry polo shirts and old-school Adidas trainers were to the fore. I noticed that it was much quieter than May’s Cup Final though. A few of my mates – The Bada Bing Firm – were still on holiday. Gill’s friend Gerry, complete with his trusty guide-dog was sat in the group, too. Four United replikids showed up, but they didn’t stay long…there was no animosity but they were soon flushed out and they left us in peace.

Lacoste Watch

Walnuts – peach

We set off for Marylebone and caught the mainline train up to Wembley Stadium, the carriage rocking with song. As we ascended the steps at the station, I first spotted Dog and then Cathy a few feet ahead…last August, we had caught the same train too.

On the short walk from the station to the stadium, we sensed an altercation a few yards away – some glares, a few words, a stand-off, then a brutal attack leaving a United fan on the road, blood gushing from his forehead. We witnessed something similar on this exact same stretch of road against Villa in April, yet no police to be seen. I was just glad that no young children had witnessed it. To be truthful, the attack was swift and lots of people may not have noticed, but it was a reminder that the dark side of football is always there.

Yet again the soul-less interior of Wembley Stadium saddened me as we ascended the elevators. I’ve commented before about the complete lack of décor inside the walkways and forecourts where food is served and souvenirs sold. It’s all so bland – like the inside of an airport, not our national stadium. There is no clue as to where you are – no photos from previous games, no unique signs, nothing. I’ve just begun re-reading a book about the building of Baltimore’s Camden Yards and it acted as a counterpoint to Wembley. The Orioles’ ball park is quirky, homely, finely-detailed, well-planned and ultimately loved…I just find Wembley so disappointing aesthetically.

We reached our seats and Gianfranco Zola, plus United’s Bobby Charlton, were being presented to the two teams. We had tickets high up in row 23 of the upper deck, six of us in a row…myself, Parky, Rob, Tom, Gary and Alan.

I noted quite a few empty seats and not so many flags as in previous Wembley appearances. United sported a flag which was virtually the same as a Liverpool one from around 1993, aimed at Manchester when United won their first title in 26 years –

“Form Is Temporary, Class Is Forever.”

This time, I guess, it was United having a pop at us.

In the first few minutes, United booed our three English lions, so we reciprocated by cheering all of our boys with every touch. I soon spotted that Frank Lampard was playing with the waistband of his shorts flipped over – this time exposing a belt of red – in the same style as the Umbro shorts from 2003-2005 when he always appeared to play with a white belt.

The game began with thrusts from both sides and Rooney seemed to be buzzing around, his bald head getting more pronounced with each passing season. Scholes was playing deep, out of the reach of our midfielders, and he was having a lot of the ball. Then a cross and Ivanovic threw himself at the ball but Van Der Sar saved brilliantly. It seemed we had most of the possession, but chances were even. Gary was his usual passionate self, his tirades of abuse aimed at Scholes drawing many old-fashioned looks from his new neighbours, presumably unused to such venom.

The singing began reasonably OK, but soon subsided. At times, the atmosphere was deathly. Still lots of empty seats, including the Club Wembley section.

Then a Scholes pass, a Rooney cross and our defence was wide-open. Valencia slammed it in and the United end, bathed in sunshine, came to life.

Groans all around, but I felt a goal would come in the second period. I thought it had been an open game, with most of our purposeful attacks coming through Ashley Cole and Florent Malouda. Frank was playing deep and wasn’t too involved.

At half-time, no surprises to hear the programmes had sold out. Another great performance from the FA. Back in my seat for the rest of the break, I noted two hideous twenty foot mascots being paraded behind each goal, but these were met with admirable indifference by both sets of fans. I soon received a text message from Burger, now living on this side of the Atlantic, and I soon spotted his large flag.

The second half developed along similar lines, but with the crowd showing even less willingness to create any noise. Maybe it was the warm summer sun. Shots from Essien and Malouda whizzed past United’s goal, but our approach play seemed to be more laboured. Anelka was dropping deep, as his wont, but he really needed to be leading the line. I still felt a goal would come, though.

Then, another rapid United break and we found ourselves 2-0 down, that man Hernandez causing the United end to roar with approval. Lots of Chelsea left and that annoyed me.

The pass of the day – from Yuri? – carved open the United defence but Sturridge shot tamely. We dug in and played with more conviction. Yossi Benayoun came on – I noted Burger’s flag in the background from the TV feed on the giant screen – and he looked lively. We had a few half-chances and eventually a goal came once a Sturridge shot had been parried into the path of Kalou. Parky’s crutches flew into the air and I dived for cover.

“Come On Chels.”

I then fancied our chances to equalise, but the depressing figure of Berbatov The Undertaker sealed a 3-1 win for United with a deft flick over Hilario.

I didn’t think it was a 3-1 game, but perhaps I’m ever the optimist. There were certainly negative comments being aired on the return to the pub, but I tried my best to remain philosophical amongst the sour words. We didn’t appear 100% match fit, but let’s hope all is resolved by next weekend. We need Drogba firing on all cylinders, we need the strangely subdued Lampard in the thick of it, we need Essien fitter. I thought Ashley Cole was up and down the flank like his life depended on it and seemed to be highly energised. Ivanovic never disappoints, does he? It was a 6/10 performance from Chelsea overall.

And the only vuvuzela I heard was from the United end.

I think that the first month of the season often feels like a phoney war, with teams fighting to get players healthy, with new formations being tested, with the international break upsetting the rhythm of the early weeks and the weather being tough on everyone. I always say we need a month – by the middle of September – for players and fans alike to be back up to 100%. By then, we ought to have a clearer idea.

We won’t be far away.

We called in for a couple or drinks at the pub, then made our way back to West Brompton and home. The first Red Bull of the season was downed and we were on our way back west.

Irritatingly, Sky TV have recently chosen Eric Cantona to headline their new promotional campaign ( a logical choice given half of United’s fan base only stretch their “support” of their club to more than a Sky prescription ), and it was his face which seemed to be on every advertising poster on the drive out of London.

…now that’s just rubbing it in.

I got home at 9.30pm after another 220 miles on the clock…and my spirits were lifted when I read on Sky Sports News that Jose Mourinho had called off his lusty chase of Ashley Cole.

Next week the season starts for real.

Let’s go to work.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2010-2011

Tales From West London

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Tales From A Chelsea Saturday

Tales From The Heart And Soul Of Lancashire

Tales From Boring, Boring Chelsea

Tales From The Phony War