Tales From The Memory Game

Chelsea vs. Malmo : 20 October 2021.

Ahead of the game with Malmo, we had assembled in “Simmons” as per our normal midweek match at Stamford Bridge. When we arrived at around 6.15pm, it was pretty quiet. For once, Chelsea supporters were definitely in the minority. In fact, with most of the Chelsea fans present being of around the same age, not only were we outnumbered, we felt a little out of place too. The rest of the fellow revellers were in their teens. Since school desks make up a fair proportion of tables in this cosy bar, I had a wry smile to myself. There was a Guernsey reunion – an old school one at that – with my friends Daryl, Neil, Chris and Simon meeting up for a few beers, along with Simon and Daryl’s two lads. This was the first time I had seen Neil since before lockdown in 2020 and it was great to see him again. Daryl and Neil, brothers, went down to Kingstonian in the afternoon to watch the Chelsea and Malmo under-nineteen teams do battle, a game that Chelsea won 4-2 after being 2-0 down.

Daryl said that while he was at the game, our Europa League match against Malmo in 2019 was brought up. Rather sheepishly, he admitted that he had forgotten that the score was a 3-0 win. I smiled and replied that I had completely forgotten the score too.

How is it that we can remember scores in games against Notts County and Luton Town in 1980, but not from a few years back? I had a similar – brief – conversation with Nick The Whip on the walk from “The Goose” too. Nick is in his ‘seventies – though looks younger – and has a fantastic encyclopaedic knowledge of all the Chelsea games that he has attended, and I am always staggered by his memory. In the brief few minutes we spent walking along the North End Road, he mentioned a couple of games we played against Bury.

Yes, he’s that old.

“But I can’t remember last season’s games.”

Me and Nick both.

My very vague memory of the Malmo game was of their fans. They made a very impressive din, full of noise, and I remember flares too. We wondered how many of their fans would show up in London on this October evening. Surely more than the twenty or thirty Zenit fans in the first group phase game.

I guess it’s only natural that some games remain in the memory more than others. This would be my one hundred and fourth European game at Stamford Bridge. So many fine games. So many battles. So much emotion. Seven have featured Barcelona, five against Liverpool, four against Valencia, Porto and PSG. It is so annoying that the one visit of Real Madrid was played in a vacuum last season.

But here’s a quick exercise in memory recall. Off the top of my head, I would name these ten games as my favourites, in chronological order, not to prove any particular point but to stir some lovely memories of some magical nights under the lights in SW6.

Chelsea vs. Viktoria Zizkov 1994 : the first-one, a hand-shake with Matthew Harding in the pub beforehand, a wet old evening, but an absolutely wonderful occasion.

Chelsea vs. Bruges 1995 : a very noisy night as we swept past Bruges and some say the noisiest in modern times at Stamford Bridge despite a gate of only 28,000.

Chelsea vs. Vicenza 1998 : another wet night, but a stunning performance with three goals from Poyet, Zola and Hughes sending us through to our first European Final since 1971.

Chelsea vs. Milan 1999 : our first Champions League group phase game at home and despite a 0-0 draw, a very intense atmosphere and an equally impressive display against a crack opponent.

Chelsea vs. Barcelona 2000 : we were soon 3-0 up amid hysterical scenes and the noise was again on another level. But oh that away goal.

Chelsea vs. Barcelona 2005 : probably my favourite ever game at Chelsea in terms of excitement, pride and enjoyment. Nights hardly get any better.

Chelsea vs. Liverpool 2008 : a superb win, and the drama of Frank Lampard’s penalty, as we made it to our first ever Champions League Final.

Chelsea vs. Liverpool 2009 : the ridiculous 4-4 draw, just a crazy night against our rivals, that had us all checking our calculators to see how safe we were.

Chelsea vs. Napoli 2012 : another stupendous night, and an incredible recovery considering we presumed ourselves dead and buried after the first leg.

Chelsea vs. Eintracht Frankfurt 2019 : a surprise choice, but a big night for me since I had gambled on us getting to Baku. My elation after Eden’s penalty was off the scale.

I first saw Malmo in the flesh on a stag-weekend in Dublin in 1991, but as I have already recalled that game on two separate occasions, I’ll pass this time.

We were in the ground at around 7.45pm. There had been light queues at the turnstiles and for the first time this season, nobody had bothered to check my COVID19 status. I looked over at The Shed and was impressed with the 1,000 away fans and their decent selection of banners. Many were draped in team scarves.

How cute.

This was a game that we had to win. After the loss against Juventus, there was no other option available. I had no problems with the manager’s team selection. Both Timo and Romelu needed goals to get themselves back in the groove, so I had no issues with them starting.

Mendy

Christensen – Silva – Rudiger

Azpilcueta – Kante – Jorginho – Chilwell

Mount – Lukaku – Werner

Another near full house, and a superb effort from all involved. This was another busy spell with five games in fifteen days.

I loved the atmosphere at the start of the match, and it’s not always the case for these group phase games. Although I could visibly discern that the away fans were bouncing around and singing heartily, the sound didn’t carry particularly well. There was, after all, only a thousand of them. The Matthew Harding was in very fine form, even if we overdid the “Champions of Europe” thing a bit. The noise rattled around Stamford Bridge and, who knows, maybe it helped the team because we certainly began well, with plenty of attacking verve.

A few chances had threatened Dahlin in the Malmo goal before, on nine minutes, Thiago Silva crossed from deep into the box. Andreas Christensen did well to adjust and stab the ball in. A first Chelsea goal for our great Dane against the Swedes.

The rain started to fall heavily.

PD leaned over : “another wet walk back to the car?”

On twenty-one minutes, a swift break found the quick feet of Werner, who played in Lukaku. The Belgian toyed with his marker as he advanced into the box and was just about to take aim on the edge of the six-yard box when his legs were taken from under him. A definite penalty. But Lukaku was on the floor for ages after the foul.

We all wondered if Jorginho would deviate from his Plan A. Deviate he did; rather than a stop, a skip and a prod to his right, the ‘keeper went to the right as the ball went central / left. Easy.

And this was easy.

Lukaku hobbled to the half-way line and I hoped he could run off his injury but he was quickly replaced by Kai Havertz, the hero of Porto.

Malmo would only have one real attack and one goal attempt during the first-half. We completely dominated. I hoped that the away fans had enjoyed their sightseeing in London during the day because I doubted that they were going to get any pleasure from their team. However, to their credit, their fans never stopped singing and offering encouragement. Fair play to the fair haired ones.

A Rudiger run from deep sent us all dizzy with excitement – “shoot” – and this is now his trademark. I love it.

Behind me in the Matthew Harding Upper, I heard an Arsenal chant.

And it annoyed me.

“What do we think of shit?

“Tottenham.”

“What do we think of Tottenham?”

“Shit.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s alright.”

I glowered. For fuck sake. This must not continue.

Go to your rooms.

A shot from Chilwell, a shot from Havertz, we were all over Malmo.

We heard that Manchester United were 0-2 down at home against Atalanta. This engineered a related song from the lower tier.

“Chelsea boys are on a bender. Cristiano’s a sex offender.”

Late on in the half, Timo Werner pulled up and we collectively grimaced. He was replaced by Callum Hudson-Odoi, who joined Kai and Mason in a rather lightweight attacking trio. I could hear all the internet nerds getting high and mighty.

“See. I told you Tuchel should not have started Werner and Lukaku. Where’s my Playstation?”

As the half drew to a close, I commented to PD and Rich from Edinburgh “we should be more than two goals to the good here.” And it was true. We had completely dominated. Malmo looked poor, so poor.

At the break, the Malmo manager said “move over, Dahlin” and replaced the ‘keeper with Diawara.

Lo and behold, the second-half began with a rare Malmo break. As the move broke down on our left, the ball was played to Our Callum, who ran and ran and ran. He avoided an easier ball into the middle to Mount and instead found the overlapping Havertz. With the pink clad ‘keeper out of his goal, a delicate dink sent the ball into the goal off the far post.

Silky.

Diawara had not yet touched the ball.

We were three-up and I was hoping for six.

From the Matthew Harding choir :

“You’re shit but your birds are fit.”

We continued to dominate, and on fifty-seven minutes a great bit of “nibbling” from Rudiger wrestled the ball from a Malmo midfielder. The ball ran to Haverzt, who played it back to Rudi. An industrial challenge gave the referee no option but to award another penalty.

Jorginho stepped up, and again the spot-kick went centre / left, although the skip probably sent the ‘keeper the wrong way. I think it is safe to say that after mixing it a little of late, opposing ‘keepers had best throw away their notes on Jorginho’s penalty techniques. Because nobody knows what he is going to do now.

Meanwhile, United had clawed it back to 2-2 at Old Trafford.

Shots from Hudson-Odoi and Kante were smashed goalwards.

Saul Niguez replaced King Kante.

Marcos Alonso and Reece James were late substitutes too.

Instead of six goals, or even five, the chances were squandered and it looked like no further goals would ensue.

Bastard Ronaldo had scored and United were winning 3-2.

That’s for all those in the lower tier, tempting fate earlier.

When that man Rudiger blasted into row ten of the Matthew Harding Upper, many spectators upped and headed for the exits.

At the final whistle, Chelsea 4 Malmo 0.

“We should have scored seven or eight.”

I had enjoyed the game. It was another tick on my journey back to football.

It was just a bit ironic, though, that on a night when Tuchel was hoping to kick-start the Lukaku and Werner scoring tandem, it was last season’s top scorer Jorginho who led the way with two penalties.

Outside, the spectators scurried away into the night and – yes – we got soaked once again.

Fackinell.

On the drive back home to the West of England, PD battled against torrential rain, huge puddles of surface water, debris on the roads, and fallen trees. I eventually made it home at about 1.30am.

We play Norwich City at Stamford Bridge on Saturday and I’m bringing my boots. With our lack of a decent strike force, I fancy a shot at leading the attack.

See you there.

Tales From Three Stadia In Turin / Racconti Da Tre Stadi Di Torino

Juventus vs. Chelsea : 29 September 2021.

Are you ready to go to the match with me?

“Let’s go. Andiamo!”

It was just after four o’clock. This was a full five hours before the Juventus vs. Chelsea game was due to start at the Allianz Stadium in Continassa to the north of Turin’s city centre. But I was heading south. I had decided that I would undertake a magical mystery tour of the city’s footballing past before our second Champions League game of the autumn. I was ready to immerse myself once more in the city’s footballing heritage and in my football history too. I had sorted out the timings. I was sure it would all work itself out. I would have five hours to soak myself inside Turin’s story.

I was ready.

There was no need for a jacket or top. The weather in the Northern Italian city had been exemplary, a surprising antidote to the increasingly changeable weather back home. I set off out into the warm afternoon wearing the football staples of a polo, a pair of jeans and trainers. In my camera bag, in addition to my Canon SLR and lenses, was the small Sony camera that I had purchased specifically for Porto in May, just in case the stewards at the Juventus stadium were overzealous and would decide that my long lenses were unable to be taken inside. Also inside the bag was my passport, my match ticket and my proof of two vaccinations against COVID19.

My hotel was tucked into the narrow grid of streets to the immediate south and east of Turin’s Porta Nuova train station, and I walked a few hundred yards to the Marconi tube station. The city’s one tube line would serve me well. I caught the train to Lingotto, the site of the famous old Fiat factory with its test-track on the roof, so memorably featured in the wonderful “The Italian Job” from 1969. On my last visit to Turin in 2012, I had enjoyed a very fine meal at the rather posh restaurant on the roof terrace, and had walked around the test-track, a life-time wish fulfilled.

Lingotto was the nearest metro station to my first footballing port of call; Stadio Filadelfia which was around a mile or so to the west. However, when I checked the quickest way to reach this famous old stadium, I was mortified to see that there was no quick walking route from Lingotto.

Bollocks.

It was perhaps typical that my plans had quickly taken a turn for the worse. In the build-up to this away game, there had been much anxiety as I struggled to come to terms with what exactly I needed to do to get myself to Italy. There had been tests, forms, emails, pdf attachments, vouchers, and stress at every turn. For example, when I sat down to take my “pre-flight” lateral flow test at home on the preceding Sunday, I discovered that the liquid within the vial had leaked in transit and so I had to use the kit intended to be used in Turin for my flight home. This would mean that I would need to locate a chemist’s near my hotel to take my second test. What a palaver. Even on the seemingly straightforward drive from deepest Somerset to Stansted in the small hours of Tuesday, there was extra worry. With many garages short of fuel, I became obsessed at how fast my fuel gauge was fading. I was sure that I was OK for the trip to Stansted, but I needed to fill the car with petrol in readiness for my return trip on Friday evening. Four filling stations on the A303 had no fuel. Thankfully, Fleet Services on the M3 were open and fully stocked. There was a heavy sigh of relief. With a section of the M25 closed, I then ludicrously spent twenty minutes following diversion signs that then deposited me back to where I had left the M25 and I found myself heading west and not east. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thankfully, I arrived at my pre-booked parking spot bang on my allotted start time of 4.45am.

Phew.

Undeterred, I returned to the Lingotto subway station and quickly took a train north – retracing my very recent steps – to Carducci Molinette. From here, the stadium was around a twenty-five-minute walk away. I made haste and sped westwards. My route took me over a wide bridge that rose over the train tracks into the city’s main station.

It was along these very tracks that I would have travelled on my inaugural visit to Turin in November 1987, the city bathed in a grey mist that would not disappear all day. I remember sitting alone in the great hall of the main train station and pinning some British football badges onto a board that I had constructed at home prior to my latest Inter-Railing extravaganza. I had bought several hundred football badges from a company in Blackburn and aimed to sell as many as I could at games in Italy and Germany to help finance my travels in Europe. The Juventus vs. Panathinaikos UEFA Cup game later that evening would be my first opportunity to test the water. I had high hopes for this venture, and was equally as excited about seeing Juve, my favourite European team, for the first time.

Why Juve? A quick re-cap. They were the very first “foreign” team that I remembered seeing on TV, a European Cup game in exotic Turin against Derby County in April 1973. I made friends with Mario on an Italian beach in 1975; a Juventus fan, I had found a kindred spirit. In 1981, at the same beach resort, I met his friend Tullio, also a Juve fan. We have been friends ever since. I last saw Mario in that home town in 2019. I last saw Tullio in London in 2018. But these are just the essentials. Our three lives have intertwined for decades now.

As I walked south on Via Giordano Bruno, I stopped at a small shop to buy a “Coke” as my throat was parched. The previous day had been a long one; up at midnight, a flight at 6.45am, a tiring walk from Porta Sousa train station to my hotel, and then two spells of drinking, the second one long into the night with friends old and new at “The Huntsman” on the main drag. I was awake, in total, for around twenty-five hours. The “Coke” gave me just the kick I needed as I approached Stadio Filadelfia.

This stadium was the home of the all-conquering Torino team of the 1940’s, Il Grande Torino, who were so cruelly killed in the Superga air disaster of 4 May 1949. Growing up in England, I had heard Superga mentioned many times. At first I presumed that Superga was a small town near Turin where the plane, returning from a friendly in Lisbon, had crashed. Only later did I realise that Superga was a hill right on the eastern edge of the city. I then, with a mixture of amazement and horror, realised that the plane had crashed into the rear of a basilica perched right on top of that hill.

I always say it was akin to the successful Arsenal team of the ‘thirties crashing into Big Ben.

On the bus from the Turin airport at Caselle on Tuesday morning, I was telling this story to Pete, who along with my great pal Alan (and a host of other familiar Chelsea faces including a fanzine editor, an erstwhile Chelsea media man, a former Headhunter and a porn star) had been on the same Ryanair flight as myself. Just as I mentioned Superga – “you probably can’t see it in this haze” – Pete immediately spotted it away in the distance.

“Is that it?”

Indeed, it was.

As I approached the stadium, which has recently been painstakingly updated after decades of neglect, the memories of a previous visit to Turin came flooding back. In May 1992, three college friends – Pete, Ian, Trev – and I drove through France to attend a Juventus vs. Sampdoria game at Stadio Delle Alpi. On the day after the game, we drove up to Superga on the forty-third anniversary of the crash. We spent some time there. I remember I took my father’s new, and huge, camcorder on this trip and I shot a few segments of our visit. After, we drove down into Turin and parked up outside Stadio Filadelfia and hoped that we could peek inside. In 1992, the terracing on three sides were still intact, if very overgrown. The old main stand was held up with scaffolding. But we were able to walk onto the famous pitch and we even found a football to kick around for a few joyful minutes. The goal frames were still intact. Goals were scored at La Filadelfia. What fun. We then sat on the east terrace in quiet contemplation; Superga in another haze in the distance, the old Fiat factory nearby, the stadium still surrounded by tight working class flats on three of its sides. I imagined the roar of the crowd in those halcyon days. We took it all in.

Then, out of nowhere, we spotted two middle-aged women appear on the far side underneath the faded burgundy of the antiquated main stand. They were carrying two wreaths, and strode slowly on to the pitch, before stopping at the centre-circle to place the flowers on the turf.

It remains one of my most special football memories.

Torino played at Stadio Filadelfia from 1926 to 1960 and then shared the larger Stadio Communale with Juventus from 1961 to 1990. For many years, as the two teams hopped around stadia in the city, it was hoped that Torino would eventually return to their spiritual home. A while back, I was truly saddened to see it was in a very poor condition. So imagine my elation when I recently found out that a startling metamorphosis has taken place. A new main stand has been constructed, and a new pitch has been sewn. It now houses 4,000, and in addition to housing the club HQ, it also hosts the club museum and the team’s youth teams play games on this most sacred of sites.

As I circumnavigated the stadium, I remembered how decrepit the place had become. Its resurgence since 2015 has been sensational. I chatted to a Toro fan as I walked around and took some photographs. He was even wearing a burgundy – officially pomegranate – T-shirt and I thought to myself –

“You can’t get much more Toro than that.”

There is another Torino story, and one that tends to give the city an air of sadness in terms of football, and specifically with regards to the Torino club. I recently read the excellent “Calcio” book by John Foot. One chapter concerned the life and subsequent death of the Torino player, a real maverick, called Gigi Meroni. He joined Torino in 1964 and soon became the idol of the team’s supporters. A skilful and artistic ball-player in the style of George Best – a flamboyant playboy off the pitch, much admired by both sexes – he was out with a team mate after a Torino home game in 1967. Crossing the road near his flat on Corso Re Umberto, he was hit by two cars. He sadly died later in hospital. Bizarrely, the driver of the first car lived thirteen doors down from Meroni on that very street, and idolised Meroni, even adopting the same hairstyle. Over 20,000 people attended the funeral. In a bizarre twist, in 2000 the Torino club appointed a new president; a native of Turin, an executive at Fiat. His name was Attilio Romero, who just happened to be the driver of the first car that had hit Meroni in 1967. On my walk to my hotel on the previous day, I had stopped by the memorial on Corso Re Umberto to pay my respects. With the Juventus tragedy at Heysel haunting many in the city, Turin certainly has its share of sadness.

It was approaching 5pm now and I walked a few blocks west. Next up was Stadio Olimpico, formerly Stadio Communale, and the current home of Torino. The two stadia are only a quarter of a mile apart. I walked past a bar where two friends and I had visited in 1989. This was another trip into Turin for a Juventus game with college friends. We caught a bus down to have a mosey around the stadium on a sunny Saturday morning before the game with Fiorentina on the Sunday and spent a couple of hours chatting and drinking and basically enjoying each other’s company. I was twenty-three, we had just won the Second Division Championship, and I was off to the US in the September. At the time, it seemed like a dream weekend in the middle of a dream summer, and it does even more so now. Bob was Leeds, Pete was Newcastle, I was Chelsea. But for that weekend we were all Juventus. I remember we all bought Juventus polos in the ridiculously small Juve store within a central department store.

Memories were jumping around inside my head now. I walked along Via Filadelfia and the years evaporated.

On my first visit in 1987, I arrived outside the home turnstiles as thousands of Juventus fans were singing and chanting a full three hours before they made their way inside the preferred home end of the Curva Filadelfia. I set up shop outside and sold around thirty badges – Chelsea and Liverpool the best sellers – before then plotting up outside the Curva Maratona, selling a few more, then heading inside to see Ian Rush and Juventus defeat Panathinaikos 3-2, but sadly get eliminated due to away goals. I remember the pink flares before the game, I remember the noise of the passionate bianconeri, I remember I was positioned in the very back row of the Maratona, right next to the main stand, Gianni Agnelli and all. Antonio Conte’s right-hand man Angelo Alessio scored one of the three Juventus goals that evening. It is a night I will never forget, my first European night, and my first visit to the home of Juventus, a sprawling stadium with those iconic curved goal stanchions, and the team with those baggy white shorts.

I remembered March 1988 and the visit of Internazionale, their masses of fans packing out the Maratona, while I proudly stood on the Filadelfia for the first time. Two banners in the Maratona : “WIN FOR US” and “RUSH – YOUR WIFE IS FUCKING.” Juve won that game 1-0 with a Marino Magrin penalty.

A visit in November 1988, my first flight into Europe for football, and I watched with my friend Tullio on the distinti as Napoli – with Diego Maradona at the very heart of its team in light blue shirts – defeated Juventus by the ridiculous score of 5-3. Tullio, aware that his Napoli friend Giorgio was in the Maratona, memorably wanted to leave at half-time when the visitors were already 3-1 up.

The game against Fiorentina in 1989, and the memory of piles and piles of the magazine “Guerin Sportivo” lying at the base of the Curva Filedelfia, intended to be claimed by home fans and then torn up as the teams entered the pitch. Instead, I gathered three different copies to take away from the game and to add to my collection. In those days, I would often buy “La Gazzetta” in Bath or “Guerin Sportivo” in London to keep up-to-date with Italian football. In 1988/89, I could probably rattle off most starting elevens of the dominant teams in Italy. In 2021/22, I struggle with the starting elevens of the main English teams.

I guess I have seen too much.

Also from that game, Roberto Baggio, of Fiorentina, getting sent-off in a 1-1 draw, but also the 2,000 strong visiting Fiorentina fans leaving early, possibly to avoid an ambush or perhaps to carry out an ambush en route back to the main station.

As with the scene that greeted me in 1987, there was masses of graffiti adorning the wall opposite the turnstiles. In 2021, all football related, and undoubtedly inflammatory against certain teams. In 1987, graffiti of a more political nature; the names Pinochet and Hess hinted at the rumoured right-wing bias of some dominant Juve supporter groups.  The old adage was Juve, Lazio and Inter right, Torino, Roma and Milan left though those rules seem to have diluted and changed in the subsequent years.

I turned the corner and peaked inside at the main stand. From our 1992 visit, I remember the four of us had sidled into the Stadio Communale unhindered – our version of “The Italian Job” – and had scrambled over to the main stand as easy as you like. The stadium was deserted, it was used occasionally for athletics, and I remember I even spent a few minutes sitting in the old directors’ box, possibly the seat used by either the owner Agnelli or the president Giampiero Boniperti.

As I turned north, with the turnstiles to the Curva Maratona in view, I remembered my very last visit to the stadium, in March 2009, with Chelsea. As you can imagine, what with my Juventus side-line, the meeting of the two teams was pretty much my dream tie. I remember I had gambled on Bristol to Turin flights – £37 – and I well remember my old boss coming into a meeting one morning to tell me “Juventus” when the draw was made. My gamble had paid off. While the unloved Delle Alpi was being demolished and then the new Juventus Stadium rebuilt on the same site, both Turin teams decamped to their former home, now remodelled and upgraded for the 2006 Winter Olympics. Now with a roof, and a deeper distinti – but bizarrely looking smaller than the Communale – around 3,000 Chelsea loudly supported the boys on a fantastic evening in Turin, a 2-2 draw enough for us to advance on away goals. It was, indeed, the game of my life.

By the way, the Juventus manager that night? Claudio Ranieri. I wonder what happened to him.

It was now around 6.30pm and I needed to move on. But I liked the view of the Stadio Olimpico from the north. The marathon tower, which I believe was once known as the Mussolini Tower – the stadium was once known as Stadio Benito Mussolini – looks over the roofed stadium and there are huge sculptures by Tony Cragg, similar to those that I saw outside that wonderful art gallery in Baku in 2019. On my hurried walk back to Carducci Molinette – past joggers and cyclists and power-walkers, and folk practising tai-chi – I walked alongside a park that I remembered from my very first visit in 1987, saddened with Juventus’ exit from the UEFA Cup and not sure where – on what train – I would be sleeping that night.

Who would have possibly thought that thirty-four years later, I would be preparing myself for my third Juventus vs. Chelsea game of my life? Certainly not me. That season, Chelsea were relegated to Division Two.

We’ve come a long way baby.

And this was the crux of this whole trip. Despite this trip to Turin coming too soon in a COVID-confused autumn – the first away trip of the campaign – and with the pandemic still active throughout Europe, with all of the allied concerns and stresses, it was the lure of Chelsea playing Juventus that did it for me. I am not bothered about going to Malmo. A trip to St. Petersburg in December would be superb, but maybe too expensive and too “involved”. But Juventus? I just had to be there.

At around 7.10pm, I was headed into the city on the subway and the evening’s game was now in my sights. At every station, I expected more fans to join. But there were hardly any. Admittedly, the attendance would be clipped at around the 20,000 mark – we had allegedly sold 500 of our allotted 1,000 – but I just expected more fans to be on their way north. It was all very odd.

At around 7.30pm, I exited at Bernini station. Here, we had been told on the official Chelsea website, to take a shuttle bus to the stadium. Again, hardly any match-going fans were in the vicinity. The stadium was a good two and a half miles away. I began to worry. What if there was no bus? I toured around all points of the compass and eventually spotted a few likely match-goers at a bus stop. Phew. The bus took maybe twenty-five minutes to finally reach the stadium. Three young Chelsea lads in full replica-shirt regalia were sat close by.

Too noisy. Too full of it. Too eager. Too annoying.

God, I am getting old.

Just after 8pm, the bus deposited us at the northern end of the stadium and I made my way past a few street vendors selling fast food, panini, hot dogs, crisps, wurst, drinks, and also various Juventus trinkets. Outside the away turnstiles, a ring of police guarded our entrance. Ahead stood the two “A” frame supports that are effectively the sole remnants of the old Delle Alpi stadium which stood on the site from 1990 to 2009.

My first visit here was during that 1992 trip; we watched high up along the western side in the upper tier towards the home Curva Scirea. Sadly, the game with Sampdoria – Gianluca Vialli in attack – was a poor 0-0 draw. A couple of years earlier, of course, the stadium witnessed Gazza’s tears amid the tumultuous England vs. West Germany World Cup semi-final.

My only other game at the old Delle Alpi came on a Sunday after Tullio’s wedding to Emanuela on a Saturday in May 1999. Rather bleary-eyed from the excesses of the wedding reception, I caught a cab to the stadium and arranged with the cab driver to pick me up right after the game with Fiorentina, yes them again, and whip me up to Caselle to catch the flight home. Juventus had just lost to Manchester United in the Champions League semi-final the previous midweek, and the mood was a little sombre. I nabbed tickets in the other side stand, again near the Curva Scirea, and watched as Juventus – Zinedine Zidane et al – beat the hated Viola 2-1 with a very late goal from none other than Antonio Conte. Our former manager went into Juventus folklore that afternoon. After scoring, he ran towards the 1,000 or so away fans located, stranded, in the middle tier, and taunted them by pulling out the corner flag and waving it at them in a show of braggadocio.

The time was drawing on and there was a crowd waiting to enter the Allianz Stadium.

“Good job we have time on our side.”

I patiently waited in line, and spotted a few friends amid the Chelsea faithful. This was where it could have gone all so wrong. After I had picked up my match ticket at the city centre hotel at around 3pm – a police van parked outside just to keep us company – I returned to my hotel room. I almost put my passport to one side – “won’t need that again” – but then remembered that in Italy a passport is required at the turnstiles. Time was moving on but the line didn’t seem to be diminishing too quickly. Tempers were getting a little fraught. Just three stewards checking five-hundred passports. Police spotters – Goggles and his cronies – were loitering, and a few unidentified persons were filming our every move. It did feel a little intimidating.

A familiar voice :

“Hurry up. Only two euros.”

Eventually, I made it to the front of the huddle.

The first check married up my passport with my COVID19 pass, and then there was a temperature check.

OK so far.

Then a passport check against my match ticket.

OK.

Then a quick pat down and a very quick check of my camera bag.

OK.

Then, further inside, another passport and match ticket check.

OK.

I walked on, up the steps, a quick visited to use the facilities and I was inside at around 8.35pm.

“Good job I work in logistics.”

I made my way into the sparsely populated lower tier and chatted to a few friends. A quick word with Ryan from Stoke, with whom I had enjoyed some mojitos the previous night.

“Good night, wannit, Ryan?”

“Was it? Can’t remember getting in.”

I soon spotted Alan and Pete and made my way over to see them. We would watch the match from almost the same position as the November 2012 game.

At the time of that visit, the Allianz Stadium was known as the Juventus Stadium and had only opened in 2011. It was a horrible night, Chelsea suffered a lame 0-3 loss, and the game signalled the end of Roberto di Matteo’s short reign as Chelsea manager. I remember the sadness of the following morning and a text from a work colleague that informed me of the sudden news. Nine years later, I remember little of the game. I know we played with no real striker, a false nine, and Juventus were well worth their win. The loss would cost us our place in that season’s competition.

Oh well. We just sailed full steam ahead and won the Europa League in Amsterdam instead.

First thoughts?

It is a decent stadium. But it was odd to see it at half-strength. I had forgotten that there are odd corner roof supports that rise up and cause an irritating intrusion to an otherwise fine view of the pitch. The stands rise steeply. There are more executive areas on the far side, the East Stand, than on the adjacent West Stand. Down below us, the goal frame where – approximately – Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle saddened us in 1990 and where Antonio Conte scored in 1999 stood tantalisingly close.

The colour scheme is, of course, black and white, and there are three yellow stars – denoting Juventus’ 36 title wins – picked out in the seats of the southern Curva Scirea.

The trouble I have with the new pad is that it is still jettisoned out on the northern reaches of the city away from – in my mind – the club’s historical roots to the south of the city. I first fell in love with that amazing team of the ‘seventies of Zoff, Scirea, Gentile, Tardelli, Bettega, Causio, Cabrini et al…then Boniek, Platini, Laudrup, those Ariston shirts, the Stadio Communale, the old lady, the old team, the old club. Juventus at the Allianz Stadium – all flash, all corporate boxes, all show – just seems all rather false.

Modern football, eh?

My visits to the stadia of Turin was now updated.

Stadio Communale : 4 games, 1 visit inside on a non-match-day and 1 visit outside on a non-match day.

Stadio Delle Alpi : 2 games.

Juventus Stadium : 1 game.

Allianz Stadium : 1 game.

Stadio Olimpico : 1 game and 1 visit outside on a non-match day.

Stadio Filadelfia : 1 visit inside on a non-match day ( and at least 1 goal…) and 1 visit outside.

Five stadia, but only three sites. It’s a confusing story, isn’t it?

But there’s more. I helped to arrange a delivery of office chairs to Juventus on Corso Gaetano Scirea a few years ago. And only on the day before I left for Turin, I learned that a company that I use for express vans around Europe takes care of delivering VAR equipment around Europe for UEFA and had just delivered to Juventus.

Small world, eh?

The clock quickly approached the nine o’clock kick-off time. Just as the Juventus anthem was starting to be aired – “La Storia Di Un Grande Amore” – Alan whispered to me.

“Don’t want you singing along.”

I smiled.

“I know the words.”

“I know you do!”

As I changed lenses on my camera, I could not help lip-synching a little. Both teams appeared in blue tracksuit tops. The Champions League anthem played. I was surprised to see a few folk wearing Chelsea replica shirts in the home area to my left, beyond the plexi-glass. They were soon moved along, or out, I know not which.

As the game began, I could hardly believe the amount of Juventus fans wearing replica shirts. There has certainly been a sea change in Italian terrace fashion in the years that I have been attending games in Turin. Just as in England in the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties, hardly anyone bothered with team shirts. In Italy, more than in the UK, it was all about the scarves in those days. Trends change, and there are more replica shirts on offer than ever before these days, yet a huge section of match-going regulars in the UK refuse to be drawn in. For the English connoisseur of football fashion, many look upon the Italians – “Paninaro, oh, oh, oh” – as excellent reference points in the never-ending chase for style and substance. Yet here we all were, a few of us decked out in our finery – Moncler, Boss and Armani made up my Holy Trinity on this warm night in Turin – yet the locals were going 180 degrees in the opposite direction and opted for replica shirts with players’ names.

Et tu Brute? Vaffanculo.

The Chelsea team?

We had heard that King Kante had succumbed to the dreaded COVID, while Reece James was injured. The manager chose an eleven that we hoped would fare better than in the miserable capitulation to Manchester City a few days previously.

Mendy.

Christensen – Silva – Rudiger

Azpilicueta – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Ziyech – Havertz

Lukaku

The match began and we started decently enough. There was a stab at goal from inside the box by Roemelu Lukaku from a corner by Marcos Alonso but this did not cause the former Arsenal ‘keeper Wojciech Szcezsaczsaeisniey any anxiety. Soon into the game, the Chelsea loyalists in the tiny quadrant decided to go Italian and honour some of our former Italian greats.

“One Di Matteo, there’s only one di Matteo.”

“Gianfranco Zola, la, la, la, la, la, la.”

“Vialli! Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”

There wasn’t even a flicker from the black and white fans to my left.

Then a memory from a night in Milan.

“Oh Dennis Wise scored a fackin’ great goal in the San Siro with ten minutes to go.”

We lost possession via Kovacic and Chiesa broke away in the inside right channel, but his speculative shot from an angle was well wide of the far post.

Chelsea enjoyed much of the possession in that first-half. Whereas City had been up and at us, pressurising us in our defensive third, Juve were going old school Italian, defending very deep, with the “low block” of modern parlance. And we found it so hard to break them down. It became a pretty boring game, with few moments of skill and enterprise.

I spoke to Alan.

“There’s not much space in their penalty box. In fact, there’s even less space when Lukaku is in it.”

Despite Romelu’s weight loss from his days at Manchester United, he still resembles the QE2 with a turning circle to match.

It just wasn’t going for us. Very rarely did we get behind the Juventus back line. Balls were played at Lukaku, rather than to him, and the ball bounced away from him on so many times. It seemed that he often had three defenders on him.

He was full of De Ligt.

At the other end, Federico Chiesa looked to be Juventus’ main threat, and a shot flashed wide. He followed this up with another effort that did not trouble Mendy one iota. A rising shot from Rabiot was well over. The former Chelsea player Juan Quadrado rarely got involved. Juventus were easily leading in terms of efforts on goal.

At our end, there were hardly quarter chances let alone half chances.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

The players couldn’t hear us. This was a dull game, and getting poorer by the minute. At half-time, I received a text from Tullio, now living in Moncalieri, a few miles south of Turin, but watching in a Turin pub with friends :

“Boring.”

Tuchel replaced Alonso with Ben Chilwell at the break.

It is my usual modus operandi to mainly use my zoom lens once the action starts, but I often take a few panorama shots with my wide angle lens just at the start of the second-half just to vary things a little. Thus, once the Spanish referee instigated the restart, I lifted my camera and took one and then two shots of the stadium with the game being played out below it. The first photograph was of a Juventus break; the second photograph was of a Juventus goal.

And just like that, crash, bang, wallop, we were losing 1-0.

Fackinell.

The goal was conceded after just eleven seconds of play in the second-half. It was a wicked smash and grab raid by that man Chiesa. The goal shocked and silenced the away fans. In reality, I doubted very much that Juventus, with Bonucci on the pitch and Chiellini waiting in the wings, would let this slip.

We still created little.

On the hour, more substitutions.

Jorginho, Dave and Ziyech off.

Chalobah, Loftus-Cheek and Hudson-Odoi on.

Juventus, mid-way through the half, really should have put the game to bed when a long ball was cushioned by Cuadrado into the path of Bernardeschi, but his heavy touch put the ball wide.

The final substitution with a quarter of an hour to go.

Barkley on for Christensen.

We had all the ball but never ever looked like scoring. I just willed Callum to get his head down and get past his man but he rarely did. There was a lame header from Lukaku, and after Barkley – showing some spirit and a willingness to take people on – tee’d up Lukaku, the Belgian striker fluffed his chance close in on goal.

“We won’t score, mate.”

Late on, a lazy header from Havertz only bothered the ball boys and press photographers at the Curva Scirea.

It was, again, a rotten night in Continassa.

In the last few minutes, Chelsea supporters in the top tier had decided to throw beer on the Juve fans to my left, but ended up soaking myself and a few fellow supporters.

For fuck sake.

We made our slow, silent way out to the waiting fleet of around seven buses that took us back to the centre of the city. Sirens wailed as we were given a police escort, with blue lights flashing.

Did I imagine it, or did someone spray “Osgood Is Good” on one of the buses?

I chatted with a bloke who I had not seen before. He told me that of his seventeen trips to Europe with Chelsea, he had seen just three wins. I begged him to stay away in future.

It was, after the stresses of getting out to Turin in the first place, such a disappointing game. We all walked en masse back into the pubs and hotels of Turin. I chatted briefly to Neil Barnett as we slouched along Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, and we agreed –

“That was a hard watch.”

A chat with Cal.

“Fancy joining us for a beer at The Shamrock?”

“Nah mate. My hotel is just around the corner. I am off to bed.”

It was approaching 12.30am. I darted into a late night café and devoured a kebab, washed down with two iced-teas. It was my first real meal of the day.

It was time to call it a night.

My trip to Turin stretched into Thursday and Friday. On Thursday, there was a quick “tampone rapido” test at a nearby chemist, and thankfully I was negative. I met up with my work colleague Lorenzo and his wife Marina. Although they are both natives of Milan, this was their first ever visit to Turin, despite being in their late ‘fifties. I remarked to Lorenzo, an Inter fan, that it’s “because of Juventus isn’t it?” and he was forced to agree. That Inter / Juve “derby d’Italia” animosity runs deep.

We met up with Serena, who works for a furniture dealership in Turin, and she gave us a super little tour of a few of the palaces and piazzas of the city centre. We visited Palazzo Reale, the former royal palace of the governing Savoy family, and enjoyed an al fresco lunch in the September sun. We later visited Superga – of course – and Lorenzo loved it, despite the sadness. One last photo call at Monte Dei Cappuccini, and he then drove me back to my hotel.

In the evening, saving the best to last, Tullio collected me outside my hotel and picked up his mother en route to an evening meal at Tullio’s apartment in Moncalieri. Sadly, Tullio lost his father last year, so the evening was tinged with a little sadness. But it was magical to see his family again. His daughters Sofia and Lucrezia are into canoeing and rowing. At seventeen, Sofia – who practices on the nearby River Po – is a national champion in the under-23 age group.

We reminisced about our past and remembered the times spent on the beach in Diano Marina in those lovely days of our youth.

Ah, youth.

Juventus.

Maybe that’s it.

On Friday, it was time to leave Turin. It had been, “assolutamente”, a simply superb four days in the sun. At Caselle airport, there was time for one last meal – gnocchi, my favourite – and one last bottle of iced tea. There was a quick chat with a couple of the Juventus women’s team en route to an away game against Roma. And there was time for a raid on the Robe Di Kappa shop, that famous logo reminding me so much of the Juventus kits of yore. There was even a photo of Roberto Bettega in his prime behind the till.

I walked a few yards across the tarmac to board the waiting 3.30 plane home, and I spotted Superga away on the hill in the distance.

Until next time, Turin, until next time.

Stadio Filadelfia

Stadio Olimpico Grande Torino

Allianz Stadium

Postcards From Turin

Tales From Porto : Part One – The Blue Room And Beyond

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 29 May 2021.

I had set the alarm on my ‘phone for 12.30am in the very small hours, small minutes even, of Saturday. I had only fallen asleep at around 8.30pm on the Friday. This was going to be a trip that would likely end up with battles against tiredness as the day would draw on. But I wasn’t concerned about that. I had overcome larger battles over the previous eight months. And some smaller ones, of a different nature, over the previous week or so.

I closed my last match report with an open question :

“There is a chance that this might be my last report this season. It depends on how Chelsea Football Club looks after its own supporters’ hopes of reaching the Portuguese city of Porto in a fortnight.”

After what seemed like an agonisingly long wait, Chelsea stepped up to the mark. With the 2021 Champions League Final bumped from Istanbul on the Bosporus to Porto on the Douro, there was a tense wait. With rumours of Porto being used as an alternative to the Turkish city, and the more logical stadia of Wembley and Villa Park, I had originally been tempted to gamble on flights before the Wembley FA Cup Final. But I held firm, and hoped for the club to answer some prayers. With an uncanny knack of timing, most unlike the club these days, on the afternoon of Wednesday 19 May it was announced that there would be club-subsidised day trips to Porto for £199.

Within half-an-hour of the announcement at 3pm, I was in.

The game was a mere ten days away and things were moving fast now. If you blinked, there was the chance of missing key information. As I was on the club’s trip, my application for a match ticket was taken care of by the travel company and Chelsea. I surely had enough points to be sure of one of the 5,800 tickets offered to the club. Independent travellers would be able to apply on the very next day, the Thursday (D-Day minus nine), but it was soon apparent that many were unsuccessful. Of course, for various reasons, others decided not to apply for tickets. There was a mixture of protest against UEFA, of not being able to afford the trip with all of the extra add-ons, of the rigorous tests for the COVID19 virus, and of course the real fear of the virus itself. There was no control on where it might flare up once more.

When I returned home from work on the Thursday, I was elated to see that Sportsbreaks had debited my credit card to the tune of £199 for the flight and £60 for the cheapest match day ticket available.

I was immediately grateful, unapologetically ecstatic and calm at last.

And well done Chelsea. Although Sheik Mansour had paid for a sizeable percentage of City’s supporters to travel to Portugal for nowt, the club dipped into its reserves to subsidize official travel. Thankfully, the rumours of a far-from edifying “bubble” was not going to be in place once we were to land in Portugal, but – there is always a but these days – all supporters had to follow strict guidelines to enable us to attend. It all took a fair bit of deciphering, and I didn’t want to fry my brain with worry immediately, so I gave it a day or two. But it eventually all made sense. We had to have a PCR test to cover our outbound and inbound travel. After a couple of deliberations on the timings, I eventually booked a test for 0900 on Thursday 27 May in the nearby city of Bath. We also needed to book a similar test on our return from Portugal, and to have evidence on our ‘phone – or hard copy – of both. The cost for those two beauties? A cool £315. Wallop. There was also the requirement to complete locator forms for both Portugal and the UK. I kept reading and re-reading all of these instructions. Over and over and over. It was a worry; I am not ashamed to admit.

Against the backdrop of all this activity during the week leading up to our third Champions League Final, the actual football match was at the bottom of my list of priorities of thought. Like everyone, I had to work, and to fit in all of these activities around work patterns. I worked from home for the most part, but then did an early stint on the Friday in the office to ostensibly give me an extra few hours to settle myself before heading away for the game.

But then there was an extra worry. When I visited the Dragao Stadium in 2015 for our game with Porto, my SLR camera was confiscated and I had to rely on my mobile ‘phone for match photos. With much annoyance, the ‘phone battery died and I only took a handful of mediocre snaps that night. For a good ten days, I was mulling over all sorts of plans of smuggling my SLR in, a “Great Escape” in reverse, and I even thought about tunnelling in, with tunnels called John, Frank and Didier.

It was frying my brain. In the official UEFA blurb for the final, it strictly mentioned no cameras with long lenses. Damn, there it was in black and white. And it also stated that only a very small A4-sized bag would be allowed. I needed a Plan B. I didn’t call Maurizio Sarri. I decided to buy a bum bag – how 1989 – for the camera that I had bought especially for my trip to Argentina last season. Then, with disbelief, I could not track down a charger for the camera. This was killing me. I remembered Moscow in 2008 and how my SLR ran out of charge two hours before the game and I again had to rely on sub-standard ‘phone photos. Not a good precedent.

My Plan B involved calling into “Curry’s” in Trowbridge after work on the Friday and purchasing a new camera. In my haste, I overlooked being able to simply take my existing camera in and getting a charger. My brain was clearly frazzled.

Friday arrived. My PCR test was negative. Phew. At the shop in Trowbridge, I spotted a Sony camera that met all the requirements.

“Sorry, it’s not in stock.”

It is mate, there it is there, I can see it.”

“That’s just a display model.”

“Fucksake.”

But there were two in stock in Salisbury. Off I drove to the “Curry’s” in the spired city of Salisbury, an hour away. I quickly purchased it. The assistant was Chelsea, a nice twist. I eventually reached home at about 6pm.

I chilled out a little, prepped my clothes and travel goodies and then prayed for a solid four hours of sleep.

Match day began in deepest Somerset and would end in deepest Portugal. It seemed so odd to be travelling so light. And alone. None of my local usual travelling companions would be going with me. I only knew of one local lad, Sir Les, who would be in Porto. The previous night, I had laid out all of my clothes in the front room, on a sofa, away from the piles of books and magazines on my coffee table in my main living room and away from all the other detritus of day to day living. I wanted a little clarity.

And it suddenly dawned on me how apt this was. Over the past year, my house and garden has undergone a major tidy-up, and a main part of this has resulted in my front room becoming part home office and part Chelsea museum. I have named it The Blue Room. It is my pride and joy. There are framed, signed photographs of various players, framed programmes, photo montages, framed posters, framed shirts.

Immediately above the sofa – blue – where my clothes were placed were three items.

At the top, a canvas print of my photo of Didier’s penalty in Munich. A sacred memento of the greatest day of my entire life.

In the middle, a much-loved present from relatives in around 1980, a pub-style mirror featuring our total trophy haul up to that point; the 1955 League Championship, the 1965 League Cup, the 1970 FA Cup and the 1971 European Cup Winners’ Cup. For years upon years I used to gaze up at it and wonder if my club would ever win a damned thing in my lifetime. I became a supporter in 1970, remember nothing of that final nor the 1971 one, so in my mind I had never seen us win a bloody trophy. I was thirty-one years of age in 1997. New fans will never understand how magical that day was. Many new fans now want a fourth place finish over FA Cup glory. It seemed that Thomas Tuchel was of the same opinion a fortnight ago.

At the bottom is a photograph of myself with my favourite-ever footballer, Pat Nevin. The photo was taken pre-match in Moscow in 2008 and is signed by the good man. I have recently started reading his very entertaining autobiography. Not only was he a winger for Chelsea, he loves the Cocteau Twins and went out with Clare Grogan. The holy trinity in my book. However, when I read – open-mouthed – that at the age of eight he was able to do ten thousand keepy-uppies, I just hated him. My record is 246. How could he do that bloody many at eight? Git.

So beneath these three images, I dressed and made sure everything was packed. As a superstition, I decided to take a light top that I wore on that magical night in Barcelona in 2012. I needed something to protect my fair arms from the sun. My light beige Hugo Boss top served me well high up in Camp Nou. I hoped for a similar outcome in Porto. I also took a New York Yankees cap for a similar reason; my thatched roof is getting thinner and thinner these days. I wore a New York Yankees cap in Moscow in 2008, but fear not. This was a new one, not the unlucky one of thirteen years previous. The old one was lost in Bucharest on CL duty in 2013.

Superstitions, there were two more.

The first was easy.

Before the European finals in 2012, 2013 and 2019 I had bought breakfasts the day before travel for the office team at work. I continued the tradition this year.

The other one is a little more bizarre.

In 2012, on the Thursday, my car was absolutely spattered with bird shit. Remembering that if this horrible substance lands on you personally, it is regarded as a good luck charm, I decided not to wash it off. It’s worth a gamble, right? I memorably was hit by a pigeon in The Shed during the first game of the 1983/84 season – the famous 5-0 clobbering of Derby County – and I took this as my CFC reference point. 1983/84 is still my favourite-ever season. In 2013, guess what? Splattered again. Before my jaunt to Baku two years ago, my car also took a direct hit. This is no surprise; seagulls nest in and around our premises. Once a month a chap with a hawk appears and tries to scare the buggers away. On Friday, I popped out to my car mid-morning to make a call. Imagine my elation and amusement when my bonnet and lower windscreen had appeared to have been drenched by a pot of Dulux. Ha.

So, yeah – breakfasts and bird shit. Covered.

I set off – “Jack Kerouac” – at 1.45am. I turned the radio on as I backed out of my driveway.

“I wonder what song it will be? Wonder if it will sum up my thoughts, or be a sign for the day.”

“Even Better Than The Real Thing” by U2 assaulted my shell-likes, and I quickly turned it off. But the words “the real thing” struck home. After a year of ersatz training-game football, this was indeed the real thing, no doubt. As I mentioned in the FA Cup Final report, I have really struggled with watching us on TV this season. At last, here was a game I could witness in person with all of the accompanied involvement and sense of belonging. The FA Cup Final was OK but I struggled acclimatising myself with live football after fourteen months away. I hoped for a better feeling in Porto. Maybe it really would be better than the real thing.

I made really good time en route to Gatwick. Passing over Salisbury Plain for the first time in ages, I passed an owl perched on a roadside post. I imagined it thinking –

“Ah, Mister Axon. I have been expecting you.”

The roads were clear. Hardly anything as I drove past Stonehenge and then onto the deserted A303 and M3. Even the M25 was devoid of much traffic. I pulled in to the car park at Gatwick North just a few minutes before four o’clock.

Four AM. Fackinell.

There were already masses of Chelsea folk in the departure area. I joined the queue. “Hellos” to a few faces – Luke, Aroha, Doreen – then John and Maureen, all on the same 0700 flight. But familiar faces were in short supply. I hardly recognised anyone. To my chagrin, a few were sporting the 2021/22 Zig Zag monstrosity. I was eternally grateful the club chose not to repeat wearing it for this final. Another good decision, Chelsea. This will have to stop; you’ll be ruining your reputation. Many lads chose the bum bag option. Many were in shorts. The usual assortment of Stone Island patches, Lacoste, Gant, Ralph, CP, Adidas trainers a-go-go. But there was a proper mix; more replica shirts than usual for a European trip.

I handed over my passport and the various forms to the official and there were no exclamations nor questions. It was satisfactorily smooth, there had been no balls-ups from my underpaid PA and I was checked in. Inwardly, I did a somersault of joy.

Panic over.

Others had a customary pre-match bevvy. I met up with some good friends; Charlotte and Donna completed the Somerset Section. Rachel from Devon. Rob from Chester. An “A Squad” of European travellers no doubt. I spent a good few minutes chatting to Charlotte who is the same age as me. Charlotte was diagnosed with cancer a while back, has since undergone chemotherapy and is on the road to recovery. We traded health updates. Everyone was pleased to see that I was doing well after my heart attack in October. I wandered a little, spotted a few faces, a chat here and there.

On reaching Gate 49, I spotted Andy and Sophie, father and daughter, good friends from Nuneaton. I famously first met Andy to talk to on Wenceslas Square in Prague after the Zizkov game in 1994 although he was always a face I would spot everywhere including in Glasgow for a Rangers versus Motherwell game in 1987. Andy and Sophie were in Baku, that final being exactly two years ago to the day. I was in Baku for six days two years ago. I would be in Porto for sixteen hours in 2021.

Another anniversary for 29 May.

Heysel Stadium 1985.

Never forgotten.

More of that later.

I wasn’t too happy that TUI’s corporate colour was City sky blue but was just happy to be en route to Porto now. There would be a light breakfast, but also the chance for a small sleep. Every minute counts on breaks like these. While waiting for clearance on the runway, I was just drifting off but I heard my name being called out.

“Chris Axon.”

“Oh God, what have I done now?”

The CFC steward was handing out match tickets, alphabetically, and I was one of the first to be mentioned. Stadium seating plans were studied. I was down in a corner behind the goal in row three, just like at Wembley against Leicester City. A bad omen? Possibly.

I chatted to the two lads to my right. We were seated in the very last row. None of us were too confident. I reckoned our chances to succeed to be around 33%, maybe the same mark as against Bayern in 2012. Against United in 2008 it was bang on 50% from memory. I posted a photo of the ticket on Facebook, turned the phone off and waited.

Flight TOM8400 took off at 7.30am.

After a while, the seatbelt signs were turned off and there ensued a rampage to join the queue for toilets situated right behind us. But the male air steward wanted to start serving breakfast.

“Please go back to your seats, there is no room for so many in the queue. I can’t get past.”

There was no reaction. Eye contact was avoided. Quiet murmurings of discontent. English people queue for fun, and especially for comfort – or discomfort – breaks, nobody was moving.

“Please can you all go back?”

With that, the steward began pushing his trolley down the aisle. The passengers backed off.

I turned to the lads next to me :

“Fucking hell, Chelsea ran by a trolley dolly.”

The flight soon passed. We landed at Porto’s Francisco Sa Carneiro airport at 9.30am. There was a fair wait at passport control. Social distancing simply did not take place. But we all were negative, so I guess it was irrelevant. I handed over my passport and forms. I was in. Another great moment. Andy and Sophie were waiting for me. We had agreed to spend some time together before the day got going. I made a quick visit to the busy gents. While I was turning my bike around, there was an almighty explosion taking place in one of the cubicles behind me. One wag joked :

“Bloody hell, somebody has smuggled someone else in.”

I replied :

“Yeah, a Tottenham fan.”

We were given yellow wristbands on boarding a coach to take us into the city. This would act as evidence of our negative test result and meant we did not have to show security at the fan zone or stadium our forms. A good move, although one friend would later comment that it signalled to the outside world that we had tickets and might be the target for pickpockets. In 2015 on our visit, a few friends were pick-pocketed including my dear friend Alan and Wycombe Stan.

There was cloud overhead but the rising sun soon burned through. We were dropped off at the fan zone on Avenue dos Aliados. It wasn’t far from our hotel in 2015. We decided to enter and kill some time. It was pleasant enough. Andy and Sophie had a beer. But I promised to be tee-total all day long. I had not dropped a touch of alcohol since the first day of September. And the thought of me drinking even a few pints under a burning sun scared me. I wanted to be completely in charge of my senses on this day, especially should there be any sort of plea-bargaining regarding my camera at the stadium.

There was music, a few sideshows, and I met my friends Kenny and then Leigh, lovely Chelsea folk. My good friend Orlin from Sofia appeared outside but did not have his identity wristband so was denied access. We chatted, farcically, through the barricades…we would keep in touch and see each other later no doubt.

Andy spotted Billy Gilmour’s parents, with his two lookalike younger brothers. Billy’s parents looked relaxed and were drinking beer too. As we decided to move on, we walked past them just as Leigh presented Billy’s mother with a “Scottish Iniesta” sticker. I had stopped and decided to say a word or two to Mrs. Gilmour.

“I am sure you are as proud of your son as we are. I hope he goes right to the very top” and gave her a fist-bump. She was lovely.

“Awe, thanks very much.”

Outside, the three of us stood outside a small bar. Beers and Cokes. Andy spotted Michael Gove walk past. Regardless of any political persuasion, he surely has to have the most slappable face in Westminster. A friend back home reminded me that we once saw him walk past “The Three Kings” in West Ken on a match day a few years back. Apparently his son supports us. I reminded Andy how he – much to the bemusement of Sophie – berated former MP Tony Banks, and Chelsea fan, outside the Monaco stadium at the Super Cup game in 1998.

“Leave it out mate, I am here for the football.”

We giggled.

Andy and I have seen some things. We remembered how he said in Monaco “there’s a Real fan in Madrid right now saying…”

I continued “Chelsea always beat us.”

We wondered what he thought about the semi-finals this year.     

Andy and I travelled together to Stockholm and Monaco in 1998. We were both in Moscow in 2008, Munich in 2012, Amsterdam in 2013. I saw him in Baku in 2019. We had heard that City were all mobbed up down by the waterfront. This top part of the town centre was all Chelsea. Everything was pretty quiet to be honest. A few sporadic shouts. We saw Pat Nevin on the stage inside the fan zone.

…mmm, I saw him in Moscow, but not in Munich. Was that a bad sign? Time would tell.

Sophie had heard from two friends who were further south so we trotted down the street to meet up with them. I was waiting to hear from Orlin, who had promised to bring along a power pack for me to charge up my quickly dwindling moby. The City shirts now outnumbered Chelsea ones. Porto tumbles down to the Douro, it is a lovely city, and the streets looked quite familiar. Orlin, who I bumped in to in Porto in 2015, texted me to say he was at a restaurant. We walked on, with City jeers of “Rent Boys” aimed at Chelsea fans every fifty yards or so. We walked into a small square and Andy and Sophie’s friends shouted out from a table outside a restaurant. Lo and behold, who should be sat four yards away but Orlin. What luck. The three of us joined them for lunch at 1.30pm. I was sat with several of the Chelsea Bulgaria contingent. Their flag was near me at Wembley. Two of Orlin’s friends are on the UEFA Away ST Scheme so were sure of tickets. Orlin had to search the black market for his.

It was magical to spend time with him again. We updated each other; travels, health, mutual friends, a little talk about football. He was a lot more confident than me. I always call him “Mister 51%” because he says he is more of a Chelsea fan now, in preference to Levski, his boyhood team.

I remained as Mister 33%.

I had the briefest of words with two City fans in the restaurant itself, the only ones I would talk to all day.

“Good luck tonight. I have no problem with City. We have both had a similar history really. Second Division and all that.”

“Third Division for us. Cheers mate.”

Another fist bump.

I soon realised that we were sat outside on exactly the same table where Parky, Kev and I had an equally enjoyable meal on match day in 2015. Shit, we lost that time. I enjoyed a meal of grilled vegetables and flat breads. Not only no alcohol but a vegetarian meal.

“You’ve changed.”

We said our goodbyes and I needed a little time to myself. It was three o’clock and as I descended to Praca da Ribeira – City Central – some fears enveloped me. There seemed to be way more City in the city than us. This area was mobbed with every City shirt imaginable; like us they have had some shockers. All of this was eerily similar to United dominating Moscow in 2008.

This was my worst case scenario pre-departure from England :

“I won’t meet any close friends, I’ll get sunburned, the bars will be too packed, I won’t enjoy it, my camera will get confiscated again, we’ll concede an early goal ten minutes in, we’ll have to chase the game, City will rip us apart, I think we will get pummeled, delays at the airport, misery in masks.”

Mister 33% for sure.

I left City behind me and slowly ascended a few tight streets. It was close and humid down by the river but nice and airy further north. I popped into a deserted café for a gorgeous fishcake and another Coke. Blue skies overhead. As I slowly walked towards Chelsea Central, I saw a Chelsea Belgium flag draped over a balcony. I inevitably took a few photographs of this highly photogenic city. I loved its trademark blue and white tiled houses. Like Wedgewood or Delft pottery.

Snap, snap, snap.

I met up with the “A Squad” again and bought myself an iced-tea from a nearby shop. The shops around the fan zone were stocked with Super Bock and were doing a fine trade. A large group of around three hundred Chelsea were in good voice…I joined in. We were starting to get our vocal chords prepared. Donna was interviewed for a live piece on “Sky News.” Luke was nicely buoyed by Super Bock. His lovely wife is seven months pregnant. How lovely if we could win tonight so their first-born could claim being present at a European triumph.

My oldest friend Mario sent through a photo of his youngest son Nelson in a Chelsea training top and my heart leapt. Mario lives in Germany and his local team is Bayer Leverkusen. Two of his three boys are Leverkusen fans. Mario and Nelson are ST holders. Nelson met Kai Havertz at a training session a year or so ago. Mario also supports Juventus – he is Italian – and on this date in 1985 he was meant to be in Section Z at Heysel, but had too much school work that week so it was decided he would not attend. And thank God.

On 29 May 1985, I was in England and supporting Juventus in a European Cup Final.

On 29 May 2021, Mario and Nelson were in Germany and supporting Chelsea in a European Cup Final.

Football. Fackinell.

Time was moving on now. Charlotte and I had decided that we would leave earlier than the rest. Chemo has tired Charlotte a little. We needed to allow ourselves plenty of time to travel by subway and then the final mile or so by foot to reach the stadium. I was more than happy to leave. I had thoroughly enjoyed my day thus far. The negative vibes were starting to subside though I had not dwelt on the game at all. We left the others behind at 5.15pm. A subway stop was just a few yards away. We had been given a subway card on the coach with our match ticket; a nice touch.

We walked down the steps into Aliados station just as a huddle of Chelsea fans had the same idea.

We were on our way.

Tales From Our Stadium

Chelsea vs. Bayern Munich : 25 February 2020.

I have mentioned before that I would be quite happy, quite contended, not concerned, if I never went to Munich ever again. The Bavarian city is a gem, make no mistake, but I have visited it often and, after my last visit – perfection – there was a large part of me that would have wanted that last memory of Munich, especially the walk from the stadium to the nearby U-bahn station, to be my last. As days and nights go, Saturday 19 May 2012 will never be beaten. Any subsequent visit would pale by comparison, and might even take a little of the shine off that most beautiful of occasions.

It’s the  geographical equivalent of Didier Drogba returning to Chelsea for one last, odd, season two years after scoring that goal and that penalty.

Some things are best left in the past.

Maybe.

But, as is so often the case, UEFA drew Chelsea with a familiar foe in the final sixteen, so Bayern it was. And, despite my above concerns, there was no way that I was not going to the away game in the middle of March. In 2012, it was from Bristol to Prague to Munich with Glenn. In 2020, it will be from Bristol to Prague to Munich with PD.

Frome will be represented again in the Nord Kurv of the Allianz Arena.

To be frank, there is a common view that our European adventures, which might even have passed many supporters’ expectations already, will come to an abrupt end in Munich.

So, one last European trip in 2019/20? It seemed like it from the off.

And I am sure that we will have a blast.

We are spending St. Patrick’s Day in Prague. I have briefly visited the Czech capital twice before but have not enjoyed a lengthy night out in its bars and restaurants. I am looking forward to that. I even want to squeeze in a visit to Viktoria Zizkov’s home stadium – our first European opposition in 1994 after twenty-three barren years – as their stadium is only a twenty-minute walk from our hotel. In 1994, our game was a Bohemian rhapsody in the small city of Jablonec due to fears of crowd violence. The only violence I heard about on that particular day was sadly between Chelsea supporters.

And I am spending another day in Munich. I have visited it in 1985, 1987 – twice – 1988 and 1990, in addition to 2012 – and I am relishing my first pint of Paulaner or Spaten or Lowenbrau in a city-centre bar.

But more of that in March.

On the drive to London with PD and LP, I again took advantage of the situation and drifted off to sleep for an hour. As I awoke, passing through Twickenham and touching Richmond, I looked out of the window of the car and was in awe of the evening sky, which was a deep purple, an angry colour, and I wondered if the thunderous hue of the sky was a foretaste of the evening ahead. But the sun was still shining, low down, in the west – behind us – and it highlighted the yellow bricks of the low-lying street-side houses and buildings in a scintillating fashion. It was, dear reader, a vivid and vibrant welcome to London. It was deserving of a Turner oil painting.

Colourful, atmospheric, emotional.

Maybe the upcoming game would be similarly described?

PD was parked at around 5.45pm. In “The Goose” we met some of the troops, including my mate Ben from Boston who last made the trip over to England in 2012. It was a pleasure to see him again. I think I saw him last in New York in 2015. We then trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with a different set of pals, but with some more mates from the US; Andy from Orange County, his mate Antony – we last saw those two together in Budapest – and also Jaro, from DC, who was running a little late.

By 7pm we were all together, a little “Chelsea In America” reunion. It was lovely. I first started posting these match day reports on the old CIA bulletin board in around 2006, and regularly so in 2008/9. In those days, these reports would open up conversations on the bulletin board and would often draw over one thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get two hundred.

The CIA Bulletin Board is really missed; I think in the same way that the old Chelsea Chat on the official website is missed too. It allowed me to make loads of new friends, and the conversations were well thought out and rewarding unlike some of the bitter interactions now prevalent on social media. This should, perhaps, be called unsocial media.

Sadly, CIA was hacked by ISIS – true story – in around 2013 and never really recovered.

It was time to head to the game. Jaro had spotted a few Bayern Munich supporters at Earl’s Court but I had seen none on the North End Road and the Fulham Road.

I was in with time to spare, and we had been promised fireworks – if not on the pitch – from the top of both the East and West Stands.

Season 1994/95 came into my head once again. For the Bruges home game in March 1995, the Chelsea Independent Supporters Association, who ran the Chelsea Independent fanzine – some of whose members were attacked in Jablonec by some supporters of Chelsea who held differing political views – had planned to set off some fireworks from the still-in-situ Shed (closed the previous May) but the local authorities were not able to offer the appropriate backing. A real shame. In the end we did not the extra push of fireworks; we won 2-0, Paul Furlong’s finest hour and the noisiest Chelsea home game that I can ever remember, attendance only 28,000.

In the pub, we had heard that Frank Lampard had selected the exact same starting-eleven as against Tottenham on Saturday. I was surprised that the European veteran Willian was not starting. But what do I know?

As promised, fireworks fizzed overhead for ten seconds or so, and I think the crowd were underwhelmed.

It’s just not an English thing, is it?

As the teams massed in the tunnel, the second of the evening’s “special events” took place. To my left in the main bulk of the Matthew Harding, blue and white mosaics were held overhead. Two banners – “OUR CITY – OUR STADIUM” – were held over the balcony and a large banner of the European Cup was unfurled centrally.

But then, typically, we got it wrong. Morons in the MHU decided to “crowd surf” the “OUR CITY” banner and it all went to pot.

10/10 for ingenuity, 3/10 for execution.

This was obviously a visual pun on the Bayern banner in 2012, but it filled me with gloom that we couldn’t get it right.

I sensed all of Europe thinking “Leave the displays to the Europeans. Never mind Brexit, you can’t even hold a banner up correctly.”

As ominous signs go, this was very fucking ominous, and this one was twenty yards in length and heading diagonally up the top tier.

Fackinell.

Jaro was sat next to me in the heart of The Sleepy Hollow. This had been a whirlwind trip for him, and after the game against Tottenham, we had a right old natter about football, and how – for many kids of our generation – the attending of games acted as a “rights of passage” that is just not the same anymore.

There is a book there, I feel.

In those days, pocket money was saved, concerned and cautious parents were told “not to worry”, it was pay-on-the-day in terraces without cover, there was a threat of trouble, the thrill of it all, the passage from boy to man.

These days, youngsters are priced out, attending a match – with stifling parents – takes on the planning of a military manoeuvre, and the thrill is surely not the same.

Jaro had spoken of his first-ever European game, back in his native Poland, in 1986. He had to get to the stadium for the Legia Warsaw game with Internazionale a good three hours before the kick-off to be sure of a good bench seat. My first-ever European match was a year later in Turin, Juventus vs. Panathinaikos, when I had to get to the stadium three hours before the start to be sure of a standing ticket in the less-popular Curva Maratona.

These days, everyone shows up with fifteen minutes to go.

Different eras, different times, different vibes, different thrills and different spills.

…”to be continued.”

I am not too wary of Bayern’s current team nor form, but three players remained from 2012.

Manuel Neuer

Jerome Boateng

Thomas Muller

Our Chelsea?

Caballero

Azpilicueta – Chistensen – Rudiger

James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Alonso

Barkley – Mount

Giroud

Bayern were supported by around 1,800. Not too impressed with that. They came armed with banners – RED FANATICS, REBELS – and many many scarves.

The game began.

Very quickly, a low shot and Willy Caballero dropped to save easily from that man Muller.

Off the pitch, in the stands, there were songs which reminded everyone of “that day in May.”

“One nil and you fucked it up.”

“Didier Drogba, tra la la la la.”

“One Di Matteo.”

“Champions of Europe – in your own back yard.”

Good noise. Good stuff. Heartening.

In the first ten minutes, we dominated possession and I was comforted. But there were two rapier breaks into our defence which certainly sobered everyone. The early shot from Muller was followed by a shot from Kingsley Coman that hit the side-netting. However, we had our moments. There were chances from Mason Mount in this opening spell and the mood was fine. And then, typically, Bayern upped their involvement. Caballero did ever so well to react and smother a break from Robert Lewandowski, right in the middle of the box. A fine save.

An effort from Olivier Giroud from a Reece James corner gave us hope.

Then Muller looked up, shaped, and curled a fine effort just past the far post.

Things were hotting up.

On the half-hour mark, with Bayern now in absolute ascendancy, the noise quietened.

Then, a cross from Mount just evaded Giroud. Not for the first time during the game would I lament the lack of bodies in the box. Call me old fashioned, but oh for playing with two bona fide strikers.

As on Saturday, Mount and Barkley were playing behind Giroud but were often in different postal districts. They are no second-strikers and lack the ingenuity and guile to be so. Upfront for Bayern, Lewandowski was ably supported by Muller, and others.

Muller contorted himself beneath the crossbar at the Matthew Harding and back-headed against the bar with Big Willy floundering. I slumped in horror at the memory of his header in Munich, and my body language changed instantly from terror to relief as the chance went begging.

This was turning into an engrossing game. We were second best now, but we were hanging on. The thought of taking a 0-0 to Bavaria was a dream, but we just might be able to do it.

Very often, I found myself bellowing –

“Reece. Just get past your man.”

Nearing the end of the half, Mateo Kovacic – our best player – pushed forward and played in Marcos Alonso with a lovely pass into space. Our left wing-back changed his body shape, his boots, his oil, his hairstyle, his religion and his underpants in order to address the ball with his favoured left foot as he broke inside the box. In the end, a weak shot was played too close to Neuer and our best chance of the half was spurned.

At the break, we agreed that we had rode our luck somewhat -” they could be three-up” – but we had enjoyed it. These European nights are on a different scale. There were nerves, but everyone was involved, everyone was agitated. It felt like a real game of football. And that, sadly, is not always the case these days. I wondered if Willian would appear as a second-half saviour, maybe even a second-half match winner.

“Forty-five minutes to go, boys. Come on.”

No changes at the break.

Very early in the second-half, Mount raced onto an early ball and found himself free. He struggled to get the ball completely under control and a combination of defender and goalkeeper snuffed out the chance. The ball rebounded to Barkley but he misfired at Neuer. It would prove to be, sadly, our last real chance of the match.

The game soon changed, and so quickly.

On fifty-one minutes, Bayern proved too strong and too physical in the midfield and, as Azpilicueta slipped, the ball was played through our ranks. The ball was pushed wide for Lewandowski to cross low for Serge Gnabry to slot home.

Bollocks.

Three minutes later, a move developed on our right once more.

A header from Levandowski and a pass from Gnabry. A ball back to Levandowski – “oh fuck” – and a subtle touch back to Gnabry – “oh fuck” – and (real fear now) a shot from the raiding Gnabry – “oh fuck.”

A goal of “three fucks” and we were down by two goals to nil.

Sigh.

This was mature, incisive stuff from Bayern and our team seemed smaller, without much direction, totally second-best.

The away fans unveiled banners in the Shed Lower.

“STOP CLUB’S PRICING INSANITY. TWENTY IS PLENTY.”

Well said.

Gnabry blasted over and we were well and truly on the ropes.

Jorginho – poor, really – was booked.

Some substitutions on the hour :

Tammy Abraham for Olivier Giroud.

Willian for Ross Barkley.

A rogue chance for Mason, but he looked tired as he snatched at it and the ball ended up where the “OUR CITY” banner ended up before the game.

The crowd was quiet now.

Ever the optimist, I kept whispering to Jaro that “a goal to us now changes this tie” but this was through blind hope than any rational thought.

This was – cliché warning – men versus boys. We were – ditto – chasing shadows. Bayern were a well-oiled machine and we slipped away. But then, a feint and a twist from Willian out on the right, and a heavenly bolt into the box, but Tammy just missed it. What was I saying earlier about bodies in the box?

Pedro replaced Dave. We changed to a four at the back.

On seventy-six minutes, the wonderfully-named Alfonso Davies broke at pace down his left and was able to square to Lewandowski.

3-0, game over, tie-over, see you in Prague.

Two final moments.

On eighty minutes, much hesitation from Tammy on a slow dribble in a central position. He redefined the verb “to dither.”

“Just hit it.”

An easy tackle robbed him of even a shot.

On eighty-three minutes, I saw Lewandowski go sprawling dramatically after a challenge from Alonso. The initial yellow was changed to a red. No complaints there, no complaints on the night.

We were second best.

All night long.

Sadly, this was our heaviest-ever home defeat at Stamford Bridge in European football.

Next up, on the face of it, a calmer match and a more peaceful trip to Bournemouth. It should be a much easier game, but we lost 0-4 there just over a year ago.

Hard hats on. Let’s go.

See you there.

Tales From Our Chelsea

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2019.

The Saturday afternoon encounter with Brighton was our third home game of the week and our fourth consecutive home match. When did that last happen? I am struggling to remember.

Glenn, PD and little old me were seated in our favourite corner of our favourite Chelsea pub. We first walked in to “The Eight Bells” down in deepest Fulham almost a complete year earlier; it was the starting point of our “SW6 Pub Crawl” before the Liverpool game on Saturday 29 September 2018. And we immediately fell in love with it, as have many.

In the previous week or so, I had been in contact with my friend Mac, who spends half his life in England and half his life in the Czech Republic, or Czechia as it likes to be called these days, and he was planning to meet us at some stage. While we waited, some other friends and acquaintances had decided to visit the cosy boozer too. First, Alex and Pat – Stafford and London – and a few of their mates arrived. Then, Mark – now living in Zoetermeer in The Netherlands – and Kelly – High Wycombe – arrived and sat down beside us for a chat. Seeing Mark always evokes a special memory for Glenn and I. We first met Mark on the last U-bahn train back into the centre of Munich on that special night in 2012. Gary, mentioned in dispatches in the Grimsby Town report – from Perth in Australia –  joined us, and soon launched into a plate of bangers and mash. At some stage in the proceedings, Brian – Northampton – sat close by too. It was a real gathering of the clans. There had been plans to meet up with Dale – Chicago – and Ollie – Normandy – but they never made it.

At about 11.30am or so, Mac burst into the pub.

“The Seagulls have landed.”

Yes, dear reader, Mac is a Brighton supporter. I have already detailed how Mac and I became friends in these match reports, but a brief summary.

May 2013, “Foley’s”, West 33 Street, Manhattan. I was in New York for the Manchester City friendly, and Brighton had just lost to Crystal Palace in the play-offs. It was me hearing Mac talking about those games that initiated a reaction from me – partial smile, partial grimace – which in turn lead to this from his then girlfriend.

“You’re not Palace, are you?”

“Chelsea.”

We immediately clicked. Two football-mad blokes in a foreign city. Sometimes distance from England makes the memories of the game and the impact of the game on our lives stronger, clearer, more profound. Or was that just the beer? Regardless, we just loved chatting about the game and we shared some laughs.

It was lovely to see him again; the last time was before our game in December 2017 in “The Goose.” Mac was with some fellow Brighton followers Gary and Barry, and a couple more of his friends joined later.

While I chatted to the three Brighton supporters, Glenn and PD were chatting away to Mark and Kelly and at times they were making so much noise that I had trouble concentrating. The cosy corner was becoming our very own Chuckle Land.

Good times.

We did our usual flit along to the “King’s Arms” and spotted a fair few Brighton fans drinking in this much larger pub. The Sheffield United vs. Liverpool game was on TV. Despite a screen only ten feet away, we gave it scant attention. But we certainly howled when the Blades’ ‘keeper let a shot slither through his legs to give Liverpool a late win. We talked football, we talked about VAR, we spoke about the good old bad old days. We made plans to meet up in Lewes ahead of the return game on New Year’s Day in deepest Sussex.

It was soon time to head off to Stamford Bridge. We hopped on the northbound District Line at Putney Bridge and soon alighted at good old Fulham Broadway. For the fourth time in just twelve days, I was home.

After the odd, and obviously embarrassing, appearance of the Eden Hazard banner at the Liverpool game, it was reassuring to see the correct Frank Lampard one being carried over the heads of those down below us in the lower tier.

It was neither warm nor cold, neither overcast nor sunny. There were three thousand away fans at The Shed End. We had heard that, sadly, N’Golo Kante was out for us.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Tomori – Alonso

Jorginho – Barkley

Willian – Pedro – Mount

Abraham

No huge thoughts about the line-up. In Frank We Trust and all that. But I was a little surprised that Ross Barkley started again. It is interesting how Mason Mount has been played in a wide berth this season; I expected him to join the log-jam in the centre. Maybe Frank rates him that highly that he needs to shoe-horn him into the starting eleven regardless. No problems with Fikayo Tomori starting. He has really impressed of late. I can hardly remember any serious errors at all. More of the same please.

The game began. The away team were in all black, the default colour for alternate kits these days in the same way that yellow shirts seemed to be de rigueur in the ‘seventies.

In the pub beforehand, Mac was rather effusive about Graham Potter, the new Albion manager, and his new way of playing, which seems to be a lot more attack-minded and entertaining than that of Chris Houghton. So, the three of us that had been privy to these comments expected that the away team might have a go at us. In the first-half, for starters, how wrong we were. The first period was totally dominated by ourselves. Brighton rarely entered our half. However, despite all of our possession, at half-time the mood among the home sections was of quiet frustration.

In the first part of the game, there were shots from Jorginho, Abraham and Willian. Typically, a couple of these were blocked. On a quarter of an hour, a sweet cross from Mason Mount was met by Tammy Abraham, but the effort touched the goal frame and the chance was gone.

As Brighton began to be more adventurous, I really enjoyed seeing Mason Mount make an energetic burst down below me in the corner when he spotted that a Brighton player had miss-controlled slightly. He immediately sniffed out the chance to make a challenge, a tackle, and we applauded him as he won a throw-in. The run-down was indicative of his energy and enthusiasm. Some of our more established players please take note.

Neal Maupay caused us the first moment of concern, bursting through the middle, but Kepa read the situation well and ran to block on the edge of his box, using his chest rather than attempting to thwart the attack with his hands.

All of our attempts seemed to be fastidiously blocked. Willian had his usual three or four shots on goal. The best chance came from a cross on the Chelsea left from Marcos Alonso. He carefully picked out Ross Barkley and – cliché coming up – put it on a plate for him. His perfect cross towards the six yard box was met first time by Barkley, but the volley was straight at Brighton ‘keeper Mat Ryan.

The home fans howled in agony.

It was the story of the first-half.

Pedro was set free but fluffed his lines, and Alonso skied another late chance. We had peppered the Brighton goal all half, but the game was scoreless. Throughout the first period, the noise was hardly great, it was hardly average. The away fans provided most of the noise, as per usual. Ross Barkley endured a poor half with little real impact.

As the second-half began, we hoped for better things.

Thankfully, after just five minutes of play, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, defender Adam Webster made a hash of an intended back pass to his ‘keeper. Mount pounced, and Webster clumsily tried to rob our raiding midfielder. The penalty was nailed on.

Surely?

Not these days.

VAR. We waited. Brighton players stood around the referee. The penalty decision was upheld. Shocker.

Annoyingly, some Brighton players still kept chattering away to the referee. Under the circumstances, a quick yellow to the noisiest complainer should have been used. Backchat after VAR? A booking. Bloody good job supporters don’t get yellow cards, though, eh?

Jorginho took the ball, despite Barkley and Pedro being on the pitch.

Is everyone keeping up?

Me neither.

A run, a skip, and the ball was placed into the goal.

Blues 1 Blacks 0.

GET IN.

We kept on the front foot. A fierce effort from Pedro was saved by Ryan, Tammy went close. But then Brighton came to life a little, attacking us in the way that perhaps we had expected from the off. The visitors’ best chance came from an in swinging corner, their first of the entire match, taken from in front of their supporters, and the delivery was headed down by Dan Burn and the ball bounced up onto the Chelsea crossbar.

We sighed a collective “phew.”

Callum Hudson-Odoi replaced Pedro and then there was a Sarri-esque substitution with Mateo Kovacic replacing the under-firing Ross Barkley. Callum began on the Chelsea left, and it was his confident run from a deep run into a central area that allowed a pass towards Willian. The winger, often the subject of much wittering and complaining from some in our midst, advanced before a trademark shimmy to gain a yard of space. His slash past Burn was deflected in at the near post.

Blues 2 Blacks 0.

GET IN.

I looked at one of Willian’s chief detractors in the eye.

Surely the game was safe now? It absolutely felt like it. There was one extra golden chance, when Tammy attempted a subtle dink over the Brighton ‘keeper from inside the penalty box but the chance went begging.

At last a home win, at last a clean sheet, and there was relief from us all. As we made our exit, the sight of Frank Lampard walking on the Stamford Bridge turf and clapping, his arms above his head, was a welcome sight. This is an evolving motif of this season, at Stamford Bridge, and it is a lovely development. A simple act, but it brings so much warmth.

Let’s hope we all have more to cheer, to applaud, in games to come.

There is a positive vibe at Chelsea at the moment. It seems that our Chelsea has been handed back to us on a silver salver.

And it feels good.

Safe travels to all those heading over to Lille for the game on Wednesday.

My next game is on this side of the English Channel, just.

See you at Southampton.

Tales From The Front Row

Chelsea vs. Derby County : 31 October 2018.

A Frank Fest.

During the day, I mentioned to a work colleague – fellow Chelsea fan Paul, who came up with us for the Huddersfield Town game last season – that I didn’t want the return to Stamford Bridge of Frank Lampard to dominate things too greatly throughout the evening’s game with Derby County. In 2017, Frank appeared at half-time against Swansea City, and everything on that day was nigh-on perfect. Tons of affection for Frank, flags in honour of him, and feelings between player and fans reciprocated nicely. He took the microphone, and his words were of love and appreciation. So, we have already experienced a “Frank Lampard Day” at Stamford Bridge, and I wasn’t too keen on things getting awkwardly out of control during the upcoming game. Frank was returning as a former hero, but as also a rival. The League Cup is not high on my list of priorities each season, but here was another game we needed to win. I had visions of it all going a bit OTT.

I said to Paul :

“We need to get behind our team. We need to win the game.”

But I knew how these things develop these days. I was sure that there would be songs for Frank Lampard throughout the game.

The Gang Of Five.

The Chuckle Bus was at capacity on the drive to London; PD, Sir Les, Lord Parky, Glenn and I were crammed inside as PD took over driving duties once again. There was the usual heavy traffic and we were not parked until around 6.30pm. There would only be time for a couple of liveners in “Simmons Bar” down at the bottom end of the North End Road, which was unsurprisingly busy, before the game. Of the five of us, only Glenn seemed super-excited about the evening’s match. Not that I was underwhelmed. Just not bitten by the same bug as Glenn. If anything, I was more excited about being able to watch the game from a slightly different perspective. As Derby County – some four thousand strong – had been given most of The Shed, Parky was bounced over to the West Lower. In a secret pact, the two of us had agreed to swap seats. I would be in row two of the West Lower, while he would be watching from my usual seat in row four of the Matthew Harding Upper. We decided to keep it a secret from Alan, PD and Glenn. In the bar, it was lovely to meet up with King Jim, among others, at a game again. Jim comes to the occasional match these days and it is always a pleasure to see him. There were people everywhere as I walked quickly towards Stamford Bridge. This was yet another full house at Stamford Bridge. Good efforts everyone.

Flags And Banners.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, the image of Frank Lampard on a banner – the same one as against Swansea City in 2017 – dominated the Matthew Harding to my left. It hung from the balcony, flanked by two other banners, although not all together at the same time.

“GOAL AFTER GOAL, GAME AFTER GAME” and “FOREVER A BLUE, FOREVER A LEGEND.”

And a legend he most certainly is. Our greatest ever player? Probably.

One Of Our Own.

Late on Tuesday night, just as I was finishing off my match report of the Burnley game, I heard through a Chelsea mate of mine that our former Chelsea player, youth team coach and manager Ken Shellito had sadly passed away. Ken had been a Facebook friend of mine for quite a few years, and although we rarely interacted, Ken seemed like a thoroughly decent man, and Chelsea through-and-through. I met him – very briefly – on two occasions. The first time was in 2008 after a CPO event in London when my friend Beth, from Texas – everyone knows Beth – and I enjoyed a few boozy hours in the company of some former players in a cosy boozer after the main event. Ken seemed overwhelmed by the attention and love that other fellow fans were showing him. He seemed humble and courteous. I only spoke to him for a few moments. I later saw him – maybe three years ago – in the Chelsea hotel before a game. Again, our meeting was fleeting. It is often said that had Ken Shellito not suffered a career-ending knee injury in the early ‘sixties, he would have been remembered as an England World Cup winner in 1966. Commentators from that era say his presence would have been assured. He was that good. In the end, he played just one game for England.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, I was aware of his presence at Chelsea as the youth team manager during our barren and financially-weakened years of 1975 to 1977. After Eddie McCreadie left our club before the start of the 1977/78 season – we were all mortified – the club turned to Ken Shellito to manage the team. Even though I was only twelve, I remember thinking that following McCreadie would be a tough act to follow. But our Ken did a reasonable job in his first season as we returned to the top flight for the first time since 1975. Pride of place were the two home victories against reigning English and European champions Liverpool. Everyone talks about the 4-2 FA Cup win in January, but just as impressive was the 3-1 league win in March, a game that I attended, and which fulfilled all my fantasies about Chelsea as unfancied underdog overcoming all of the odds. It was only my twelfth Chelsea game, but one which I wondered would ever be surpassed in terms of excitement and joy. I need not have worried, eh? In the following season, we suffered from the off and the club decided to sack Ken Shellito around the Christmas period. His Chelsea career was over. He spent many of the latter years in Malaysia with his wife Jeanie and young daughter. Until the end, he ran a training camp which I believe had links with Chelsea Football Club.

After the teams entered the pitch, and after there was a mention of Glenn Hoddle and his recent hospitalisation, and then the tragedy in Leicester involving the City chairman Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, the players formed in the centre circle as an image of Ken Shellito was flashed up on the TV screens and we applauded the memory of both. It had been a horrid few days for us all.

I clapped heartily.

I knew him and yet I did not know him, but another loyal Chelsea servant and supporter has sadly passed.

Ken Shellito RIP.

The Team.

Manager Maurizio Sarri had unsurprisingly changed the Chelsea team for the visit of Derby County. In came a few squad players. Willy Caballero in goal. A back four of Davide Zappacosta, Andreas Christensen Gary Cahill and Emerson. A midfield three of Cesc Fabregas, N’Golo Kante and Mateo Kovacic. Up front were Willian, Alvaro Morata and Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

The Lowdown.

This was only my fourth game in the West Lower since its birth in 1997 and eventual completion in 2001. There had been previously been games against Coventry City in 2000, Leeds United in 2004 and Fulham in 2011. I was officially in row two, but the rows were staggered a little and I was effectively sat in the front row. I was as low down as I could possibly be. The view was far from great to be honest. It was lovely to see some players up close – in the first-half, Zappacosta, Loftus-Cheek and Kante especially – but I generally found it hard to concentrate as my perspective was so awful. Apart from a small wedge of around eight-hundred Chelsea fans in the south-east corner, where the away support is usually based, Derby had the entire end. In front of the Chelsea support, was a banner honouring Frank’s assistant.

“JODY MORRIS – CHELSEA THROUGH AND THROUGH.”

Jody’s story is pretty incredible. I remember seeing his debut in the 5-0 rout of Middlesbrough in 1996. He was quite a wild child in his youth. Who would ever have thought that he would develop into a respected coach? Certainly not me.

Soon into the game, a familiar face steadied herself, aided by a steward, and sat down in the front row a few seats away.

“Hiya Felicity.”

She looked fleetingly at me, but there was no reaction. She watched the entire game in silence, alone in her own world. Felicity used to watch the lads train at Harlington. She used to bring them cakes. I saw her, briefly, last season at a game and I was surprised to see that she still attends matches. I am sure she has some form of dementia, bless her, but it was a lift for me to see her still attending games, bedecked in her Chelsea coat.

I thought to myself : “Felicity. Chelsea through and through.”

Rammed.

The Shed was going to be the epicentre of any noise during the game. Derby had come in numbers. Four thousand? It seemed more like five thousand. They were making a din right from the start.

Derby have their own version of “the bouncy.”

“If you don’t fuckin’ bounce. If you don’t fuckin’ bounce you’re a red.”

They had one for Frank.

“Frankie Lampard is a ram. He hates Forest.”

And then one for us.

“Football in a library, tra la la la la.”

Déjà vu.

Here are some observations from our League Cup tie with Fulham in September 2011, which we narrowly won on penalties, and when I was also seated in the same section of Stamford Bridge.

“My seat was in row 6, all of the way down towards the Fulham fans in The Shed. I looked around and saw hundreds of unfamiliar faces. I heard a few foreign accents. I took a few photos of The Bridge from this new angle. I sat myself down – not much legroom – and prepared myself for a mind-numbingly quiet evening. It’s another cliché that the West Lower is one of more reserved parts of The Bridge. By the time of the kick-off at 7.45pm, the 3,500 away fans had all arrived and were singing their hearts out. The rest of the place took some time to fill up, but I was very pleasantly surprised to see few empty seats.”

“The Fulham fans were getting behind their team, singing a whole host of songs, some of which I had never heard before. In comparison, the West Stand was silent and the MHU barely murmured.”

“A few chances for both sides, but from my angle, I was struggling to make sense of the shape of the play.”

“If I am honest, I wasn’t enjoying the game. The Fulham fans were making too much noise and I was getting rather frustrated with the lack of support from the Chelsea fans around me. In the West lower, many couples weren’t even talking to each other, let alone getting behind the team via songs of encouragement. Despite the songs of derision cascading down on us from the away fans, I couldn’t bring myself to truly despise them, unlike the supporters of other teams. I tried to put myself in their shoes. It reminded me of life as a Chelsea fan in my youth, railing against the bigger teams, forever the underdog. Forever the underachiever.”

“The referee blew his whistle to end the 90 minutes and I inwardly groaned. I had been in purgatory for the whole game – surrounded by predominantly silent fans – and I was only able to yell out a few shouts of support on a few occasions throughout the duration.”

In 2018, seven years later, I experienced a lot of these same feelings.

The First-Half.

After only five minutes, I was able to watch at close-hand as Ruben Loftus-Cheek played the ball to Davide Zappacosta. His low cross was comically turned into his own net by Chelsea loanee Fikayo Tomori. As easy as that we were 1-0 up. We were all over Derby County in the first part of the game.

It was deathly quiet in the West Lower. To my right, the Derby fans mocked us.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Within five minutes, however, Derby had equalised. The lump that is Tom Huddlestone played the ball out to Jack Marriott and it looked to me like the angle was too acute. Imagine my surprise when he calmly slotted the ball past Caballero. The away fans bounced.

Martin Waghorn, a solid rock of a striker, fluffed his lines when through on goal, seemingly tripping over the ball and wasting a golden opportunity.

On twenty minutes, as a move developed, I held my camera to my eyes and snapped a rather blurry photograph – certainly not worth sharing – of Zappacosta as he blasted across the goal. I looked up to see that the ball had ended up in the net. Another Derby OG, this time from their skipper Richard Keogh.

I took a few photos as Ruben wiggled his way towards goal, moving the ball nicely, but his shot was wide. Willian then blasted over.

Soon after, just before the halfway mark, Mason Mount played a perfect ball across the six-yard box. Caballero was not close to it. Waghorn poked it home easily.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

The away fans bounced again, and then aimed another dig our way.

“Shall we score a goal for you?”

I lost count of the number of times that Zappacosta, in acres of space, pleaded with his arms wide open to receive the ball from Christensen or Cahill. Often he was ignored. He is a basic player really, but he was again involved on forty minutes as he found himself inside the Derby box. Eventually the ball spun loose, and Cesc Fabregas was on hand to smash the ball in at Scott Carson’s near post.

Bloody hell, 3-2.

The highlight of the rest of the half was the magnificent way that Willian brought a high ball down with the subtlest of touches. It reminded me of Zola doing the same thing at Anfield in around 2003, when the Scousers in the Centenary Stand applauded him.

Banners.

At half-time, I checked out a few of the banners that I would not normally get a chance to see from my usual position in The Sleepy Hollow. I love the old “547 SW6” flag which pays homage to the old – and much-missed – HQ of the original Chelsea Supporters Club at 547 Fulham Road, which I used to frequent before home games until the mid-eighties. I still see one of the chaps who used to serve inside – Peter Kemp – at many away games, although we have never spoken. He is another who the “through and through” phrase could easily be applied. Behind and above me were banners from everywhere.

Adelaide, Vancouver, Devon & Somerset, York, Perth Western Australia, East Belfast, Bermuda, Slovenia.

Just in front of The Sleepy Hollow, a banner which has recently been added.

“ONE93 KERRY DIXON.”

Not So Super.

Five minutes into the second period, came our noisiest chant of the game thus far.

“Super, super Frank. Super, super Frank. Super, super Frank. Super Frankie Lampard.”

The noise roared down from the Matthew Harding. Frank, obviously, turned and applauded. But he then signalled “enough, support them on the pitch.”

I agreed with Frank. It annoys myself and quite a few others how a sizeable section of the Chelsea support wastes no time at all – every bloody match – in singing about Frankie Lampard scoring against West Ham, Dennis Wise scoring against Milan and Demba Ba scoring against Liverpool. And yet there are few raucous songs in support of players actually playing.

And yet I thought back to September 2014 when we watched in horror as Frank Lampard played as a substitute for Manchester City against as at The Etihad. I cannot lie. I can’t hide the truth. I can’t hide from the sense of hypocrisy I felt. I did sing his name that day. We had, though, not been able to give him a proper send-off at the end of the previous campaign. His last game in Chelsea colours was the insipid 0-0 with Norwich City when he was substituted by Jose Mourinho at half-time. It was as an inglorious end to a Chelsea career as I have ever seen, certainly not befitting one of our all-time greats. He did not appear in the final game away to Cardiff City. So, in my defence, I think there were extenuating circumstances for the songs at Manchester City in 2014. I thought, as did many, that we had not said “goodbye and thank you” in a way that was correct. And here was an opportunity to show him some love. After all, we might not have seen him as a player ever again. That is my explanation for it. If you don’t agree, sue me.

But we said thankyou to him then, in the autumn of 2014. And we said thank you to him at Stamford Bridge in the January of 2015. And again in February 2017.

Enough was enough.

Suffice to say, I didn’t join in with the singing of his name during the game in October 2018. I’m not so sure I even sung before the game if I am honest.

The Second-Half.

Would more goals follow? I expected so. I had been impressed with Derby. We had played beneath ourselves, almost disinterested almost. We worked a few forays into the Derby box in the first part of the second-half but there was no cutting edge. On the hour, a Cahill header from a corner was palmed over by Carson. If I am honest, by now I was finding the game rather painful to watch. Everything was squeezed into a narrow field of vision. And we were hardly in exhilarating form.

David Luiz replaced Andreas Christensen.

Pedro replaced Ruben.

Marriott forced a fine save from Cabellero on a quick break. Mount then shot wide. Derby were still in it. There was a moment when the away fans reacted noisily and passionately to a shot, igniting the entire away end, and I longed for the days when our home fans were similarly partisan. Those days, the days when the atmosphere was venomous, seem so far away now.

Yeah, I know. A familiar story.

A great cross from Zappacosta – him again – found Morata in acres of space but his header was not worthy of the name. Another header from Morata went well wide. The same player then jumped with great body shape, twisting in the box to meet a Willian corner and getting a great deal of power on it – another photo too blurred to share, damn it – but Carson did well to save.

Two saves from Caballero kept us ahead. A hand was dabbed on a close effort from Keogh and he then smothered another Mount shot. Things were getting nervy now. An effort from Marriott was saved. Then the old warhorse David Newgent, a late substitute, shot across Caballero and I watched, painfully, as the ball seemed to be going in. Thankfully it hit the far post, and miraculously bounced back straight into big Willy’s arms.

Phew.

Not long after, the final whistle blew and we counted our blessings.

It been a strange old game. It had not been pretty. But, on Halloween, we were thankful it didn’t turn into a horror show.

Into the last eight we went.

Shots.

As I was watching from a different viewpoint, it would have been amiss of me not to take a greater share of photographs than usual. I took over two-hundred and fifty with most in concentrated bursts, and the majority before the game and then after. Here are a few from the match itself.

Frank & Jody.

There was the inevitable post-game hugs and handshakes between the players and management of both teams. All eyes were on two of our own.

Pictures.

A gallery of some of the images of the night. Down low, the immense height of the East Stand still staggers me. It was even more impressive when it was first built in 1974. There was no stand like it in England.

Postscript : 1985.

On the drive home in PD’s Chuckle Bus, I happened to mention a video clip to Glenn that I had revisited during the week but which was first aired on a “Facebook / Chelsea In The Eighties” group at the start of the year. In the quarter finals of the League Cup in the 1984/85 season, we drew 1-1 at home to Sheffield Wednesday. We then drew the replay at Hillsborough 4-4, and then beat them 2-1 in the second replay at Stamford Bridge. I didn’t attend any of those games, but I can remember watching the highlights of them all on TV. Wednesday were huge rivals with us in that period. At the end of the final game, there was a pitch invasion, such was the hysteria among our support in reaching a semi-final for the first time in thirteen seasons.

The video that I spoke about was a rare six-minute clip – never aired on TV – at the end of the game, when the cameras were left to roll and the immediate post-match euphoria was captured for eternity. It shows an edgy mass of lads – honestly, virtually no females – in The Shed, The Benches and the North Stand singing and chanting and taunting the away fans. It shows a few scuffles with the police, trying to keep order, and of a vibrant, excited and noisy Stamford Bridge. Nobody wanted to go home. The areas mentioned were full of lads. Jeans and jackets. Hardly any Chelsea colours, it was 1985. Lads standing on the fences. Attitude. A baying mass of humanity. Police horses trotting up and down in front of The Benches. And the noise was loud, as loud as hell. I quickly fumbled for my ‘phone and thankfully found the video. The commentator, who spoke briefly about wanting to see a few unruly Chelsea fans get hit by the truncheons of the Old Bill, was Peter Brackley, who recently passed away.

While Parky slept, and PD and Les were silent in the front, Glenn and I watched – intensely and intently – at the images from thirty-three years ago.

We were mesmerized.

“We’re going to Wembley. We’re going to Wembley. You’re not. You’re not.”

“You come all this way. And you lost. And you lost.”

We even caught a hearty rendition of Chelsea singing “You’ll never walk alone.”

It was a Chelsea song too in those days.

And all because we had reached a League Cup semi-final.

On the drive home, we had heard that we had drawn Bournemouth – again, same as last season – in the final eight, and I knew that if we were to be victorious in that game, the difference between 1985 and 2018 would be vast. And I understand that. In 1985, Chelsea Football Club was a different beast. In 2018, we are ridiculously successful. Reaching a League Cup semi really is no big deal.

But it would be bloody lovely to have some of that adrenaline, passion and boisterousness once again. Or just 50 percent of it.

We can dream, eh?

 

Tales From Pure Football

Chelsea vs. Barcelona : 20 February 2018.

There is no bloody doubt about it. I simply cannot lie. When I awoke at just before 5am, my first thoughts were of the game against Barcelona, but these were not positive thoughts. I was so worried that our Chelsea – living up to my nickname of The Great Unpredictables this season – might suffer a calamitous humiliation at the hands of Messi, Iniesta, Suarez et al. Let us face the truth; Barcelona are a hugely talented football team.

“I’ll be happy with a 0-0” I told colleagues at work.

As the day progressed, this was my mantra; keep the buggers from scoring an away goal. Keep it tight. Maybe, just maybe, nab a 2012-style 1-0 win.

Ah, 2012.

That game seems so fresh in my mind, but it is almost six years ago. And there have been so many more. I’ve been lucky enough to have seen all our Champions League matches against the Cules from Catalonia at Stamford Bridge.

Let’s wander down memory lane.

5 April 2000 : This was a fine Chelsea team, but we were under performing in the league, and would go on to finish fifth. In the pub beforehand – in the front part of The Goose for a change, I can remember it to this day – we were pragmatic at best and pessimistic at worst. We seriously doubted our progress over the two legs of this quarter final. But what did we know? We stormed into a stunning 3-0 lead with all goals in an eight-minute spell during the first-half.  I remember racing up the steps behind my seat when the third one went in to expel some energy. Two came from from Tore Andre Flo and one from Gianfranco Zola. A goal from Luis Figo midway through the second-half took the smile off our collective faces. Fackinell, Chelsea. But what a night. The atmosphere crackled all night long. Superb.

8 March 2005 : We were 2-1 down from the first-leg and this was as good a game as any I have witnessed in forty-four years of Chelsea games. We repeated the feat of 2000, accelerating away to a 3-0 lead, but such was our dominance that all goals came in the first twenty-minutes. Stamford Bridge was again shaking thanks to goals from Eidur Gudjohnsen, Frank Lampard and Damian Duff. And then the game turned against us. A Ronaldinho brace – a penalty and then that gut-wrenching toe-poke – before the break meant it was advantage Barca. We roared the team on. A towering John Terry header from a corner (pictured) gave us the win and the place erupted. There have been few nights at Chelsea like that one.

22 February 2006 : The two clubs were drawn together in the knock-out phase, and this game was a tetchy affair. This was our first viewing of Lionel Messi – just eighteen – and the Argentine’s scuffle with Asier del Horno over in the corner of the Matthew Harding and the East Stand resulted in our full-back getting sent-off early in the game. But we re-grouped well and went ahead when Thiago Motta headed an own-goal from a Frank Lampard free-kick (pictured). Sadly, this was cancelled out by a John Terry own goal. Samuel Eto’o then headed a late winner. In the return leg in Catalonia, the two teams drew 1-1 and out we went.

18 October 2006 : We were becoming regular foes by now. This time, the two teams met in the autumnal group phase set of matches. A stunning solitary Didier Drogba goal gave us a narrow 1-0 win, and our striker celebrated in fine fashion down below us (pictured). After injuries to both Petr Cech and Carlo Cudicini at Reading four days earlier, this was a game in which Hilario started. To be fair to him, he pulled off a few great saves to see us hang on to the win.

6 May 2009 : We held out for a gutsy 0-0 in the first leg of the semi-final at Camp Nou, and travel plans were afoot among our little group of friends in the pub before the game. It felt like we were favourites to progress. We took the lead through a stunning Michael Essien volley after just ten minutes into the first-half. We held off Barcelona and their constant probing with a fantastic performance. Then came calls of conspiracy after penalty appeal after penalty appeal were turned down. The referee waving away the hand-ball against Gerard Pique sent me into meltdown. Barcelona were reduced to ten men with Eric Abidal sent-off for a clumsy challenge on Nicolas Anelka. We were heading to our second successive Champions League Final against Manchester United, this time in Rome. And then Andres bloody Iniesta scored with virtually their only shot on target with seconds remaining. This was heartbreak. Gut-wrenching, nauseous, sickening heartbreak. It felt like we would never ever win the Champions League.

18 April 2012 : Another heady night at Stamford Bridge. This was turning out to be the most bizarre of seasons, with us faltering in the league under Ande Villas-Boas before finding our feet under new gaffer Roberto di Matteo. But this was still a stunning Barcelona team, and our squad seemed to be aging together. We were blowing hot and cold. I held out little hope of us reaching the final if I am truthful. In another never-to-be-forgotten night at Stamford Bridge, Didier Drogba swept in a cross from Ramires at the near post just before half-time and the stadium exploded. We held on for the narrowest of wins, and with the return leg in Barcelona less than a week away, we began to dream.

In a bar before the game, there was a typical mix of Chelsea faces from near and far. The usual suspects – Parky, PD, Daryl, Chris, Simon, Calvin, Milo, Ed, Duncan, Lol – were gathered around one table. Andy and Antony from California were back from their mini-tour of Europe and were joined by Sean from New York and Steve from Dallas. Friends from near and far. A spare ticket was given a good home. The banter was rife. After a good hour or so, Andy whispered in my ear :

“You realise that nobody is talking about the match?”

I smiled.

As I have said before : “the first rule of fight club is you don’t talk about fight club.”

There was simply too much other stuff to talk about, especially how many we would take to the away leg in three weeks. I had expected a sell-out of 4,850 but sales had allegedly been slower than expected. Maybe some supporters were waiting to see how the first-leg would pan out. In 2012, we took that number, but it was a semi-final. As ever, I regarded the away game as a test for us, a test to see how far we had come as a club.

By the way, the cynical me had a little thought for the millions of new Chelsea fans the world over who chose us primarily because our club could “guarantee” – probably their words and not mine – them Champions League football each season.

“This game’s for you.”

The bar was full for this game. Stood quietly at the bar for a while was former player Alan Hudson. A fine footballer for us in the early ‘seventies, he rarely finds anything good to say about us these days. I nodded a “hello” to him which he reciprocated, but that was about it. Most fellow fans were blissfully unaware who he was, or were going down the same path as myself. I remember seeing him in a pub in Stoke around ten years ago. To be fair to him, after a spell of ill health, at least he looked healthier than the last time I saw him.

There were groans of discontent when news of the starting eleven came through on mobile phones.

“No centre forward, fackinell.”

It was indeed a surprise.

Courtois

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Rudiger

Moses – Fabregas – Kante – Alonso

Willian – Hazard – Pedro

Sadly, Mike from New York was caught up in a personal battle to secure match tickets and was unable to join us. Andy was worried since whenever Andy and Mike meet up for a game, we always win.

I was inside the stadium with a good twenty minutes to go. I need not have worried about not seeing Mike from NYC; he was sat just ten feet away from me.

The away section would fill to only around two thousand, which was a huge surprise for arguably a club which are one of the biggest three clubs in the world. They usually bring three thousand, no questions asked. There seemed to be an absence of colour this time around too. Maybe the scarves and shirts were hidden under the darker coats and jackets. Not so many puffa coats as the Italians. Only a few flags on show. The stadium filled.

There were blue flags on every seat with blue and white bar scarves for those in the East Middle; nice to see the eight Chelsea Pensioners wearing them.

Red. White. Blue.

“Blue Is The Colour” played with ten minutes to go and the flags were waved…not by me, nor too many around me for that matter. The highest percentage of flag wavers were in the West Lower, maybe due to the dynamics of the demographic of that particular sub-section of support; a higher percentage of young’uns, a higher percentage of tourists, but a far lower percentage of cynical bastards like us in the MHU.

The teams entered the pitch.

In 2012, Cesc and Pedro were among the opposition.

Now we had to contend with Suarez, Rakitic, Ter Stegen, Umtiti, Roberto, Alba and Paulinho who were first time visitors to Stamford Bridge. Messi, Busquets, Iniesta and Pique were returning to SW6 once more.

Barcelona were in an untidy camouflage kit of burgundy. At least there was no bright yellow to remind me of 2009. I noted Lionel Messi and Eden Hazard embrace and maybe share a word.

“You stay here, Eden. Real Madrid are SHITE.”

The game began.

I snapped away like a fool as the game began but soon realised that I needed to slow down, and enjoy the football. The first few minutes were very promising for us, and the atmosphere was equally fine.

“ANTONIO” rang out and the manager showed his appreciation.

After a few minutes, Eden Hazard let fly with a rasping and rising shot which certainly energised the crowd. The noise was hitting fine levels. There were songs for Frank Lampard and John Terry; see my comments for the Hull City match. In the early period, it was Iniesta who was seeing more of the ball, and I wished that we could close him down. Rudiger went close with a header from a corner. This was a very bright start from us and I could not be happier. At the other end, Paulinho headed meekly wide from a Messi cross.

Ah, Lionel. I could not help but focus on the little man. His shirt seemed too large for him, and he shuffled around when not in possession, but I could not take my eyes off him.

After twenty minutes though, Barca had recovered and were now enjoying much of the ball. But there was resolute defending from everyone in royal blue. Messi was unable to find Suarez, nor anyone else. Willian burst from deep – the crowd roaring him on – before getting clipped. Alonso for once did not score from the centrally-located free-kick. This was fascinating stuff and I was loving it.

I popped down to have a quick word with Big John who sits a few rows in front of me. I told him that I had a bet on how long it would take him to shout :

“Come on Chelsea. They’re fucking shit.”

Alan was handing out the Maynards wine gums – always a lucky charm on these European Nights – and he was wearing his lucky Ossie badge on The King’s birthday. We had a fine spell of play on the half-hour and the crowd responded well. Hazard found Willian, who moved the ball on to his right foot and unleashed a gorgeous effort which slammed against a Barcelona post.

Head in our hands time.

But this was a lovely game and a pleasure to witness.

On forty minutes, the crowd sang “The Shed looked up and they saw a great star” – God Bless you, Ossie – and as the song continued, Willian struck the other post with another venomous effort.

Fackinell.

The support was now hitting the high volumes.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

In the pub, Calvin and I had warned Texas Steve that the atmosphere at The Bridge is poor these days, but there are always games when we can rank with the best of them. Over in the far corner, the Cules were quiet. A Fabregas free-kick was cleared and Hazard volleyed over. We were playing so well – as a team – and I was so relieved. All this talk of the manager losing the dressing room and of players “downing tools” – my most hated, my most reviled phrase of the past two seasons – seemed just silly and just wrong.

The half-time whistle blew. Alan, quite correctly, noted that no trainer had been on the pitch, there had been few bad tackles, so that the assistant linesman had not signaled a single minute of added time. I think I have never seen that before. This was testament itself to the quality of football being played before our eyes.

Pure football.

And I bloody loved it.

Fine vibes at half-time. We should, undoubtedly, been ahead. Fantastic.

Soon into the second period, that man Andres Iniesta let fly from around the same patch of terra firma that produced heartache in 2009. The shot flew wide.

“Not this time sunshine, not this time.”

Luis Suarez – booed, of course – then went wide and forced a finger-tipped save on the floor from Courtois. It was a miracle that nobody was present in the six-yard box to pounce. The away team were enjoying tons of the ball but our defending was still a match for the trickery of Messi and the intelligence of Iniesta. N’Golo Kante was having a particularly fine game, and top marks for Antonio Rudiger too, who was enjoying a storming match.

Suarez – the villain for this match and many more – was the subject of a loud personal attack from the home support.

“Suarez – you’re a cunt.”

Quite.

The game continued.

There was half an hour remaining when Hazard, out wide, picked out the central Willian. He stopped the ball still. He then flashed away from his marker – such ridiculous acceleration – and thumped the ball low into the net.

Pandemonium in Stamford Bridge.

Magical, magical scenes.

Alan : “Hauran d’arribar a nosaltres ara.”

Chris : “Vine als meus petits diamants.”

Oh my oh my. The Great Unpredictables were at it again.

Now the noise really got going. I stood and roared. “Carefree wherever you may be we are the famous CFC.” This was surely the loudest so far this season. Fantastic.

“He hates Totnum and he hates Totnum.”

On the game went. Barcelona with the ball, Chelsea covering space and defending. A lot of their attacks were at virtually walking pace; it was all about moving the ball early. When they lost possession, they hunted in packs to retain it. I remember a ball being pushed into the path of Eden with four Barcelona players haring after him. Quite an image.

Sadly, with a quarter of an hour to go, a Chelsea defender deep in Parkyville chose to play the ball across the box.  We gasped. We feared the worse. It reached Iniesta. He played it back to Messi. The ball was slammed low into our goal.

Chelsea 1 Barcelona 1.

Bollocks.

Messi looked ecstatic and celebrated wildly in front of the hordes from Sabadell, Sant Cugat del Valles, Montcada I Reixach, Cornella de Llobregat and Vilassar de Dalt.

All the Chelsea nerds deleted their “Messi still hasn’t scored against Chelsea” memes.

There was a quick most mortem.

“Who played the ball across the box?”

“Dunno. Alonso?”

“Schoolboy error, fucking hell.”

The away support were still not too loud, but their upper tier was one bouncing mass.

A text from Glenn in Frome :

“Christensen FFS.”

Ugh.

Alvaro Morata came on for Pedro. Danny Drinkwater replaced Cesc Fabregas.

Unlike in 2009, thank high heavens there was no last minute heartache from Iniesta, nor anyone else. The assistant referee signaled three minutes, and these passed with no incident. This was indeed a lovely game of football. We had gone toe-to-toe with one of the finest teams of the modern era and we  – let’s again be honest – surely deserved the win. For all their possession, Barca had hardly caused Thibaut any worries. There was that daisy-cutter from Suarez, but little else. He had claimed a few high crosses, but had not been really tested. Willian had enjoyed a wonderful match, and on another day could have returned to his flat with the match ball. Every player had performed so well. Huge respect to the manager too. I hope Roman, watching from his box, took heed.

We assemble again, deep in Catalonia, and high at the Nou Camp, in three weeks.

“Anem a trebellar.”

Tales From A Wembley High

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 22 April 2017.

We all knew how important this FA Cup semi-final was. We had suffered a recent blip in the league with two defeats out of the past four games and so we all realised that this game against Tottenham Hotspur – aka “that lot” – had the potential to make or break our season. A once seemingly impenetrable lead of ten points had been frittered away to a meagre four. A defeat – God forbid – at the hands of that lot at Wembley, we reasoned, would strike a horrible blow to our self-belief, while handing a lifeline to them.

No further build-up required. It was a massive match.

I woke early – again before the alarm – and unsurprisingly nervous. I was, if I am honest, full of trepidation. And this certainly felt odd. In recent years I have rarely felt so unsure of a Chelsea win and, with it, a grand day out from start to finish.

The four Chuckle Brothers – Lord Parky, PD, Glenn and myself – had travelled up by train once again. It brought back memories, thankfully briefly, of the train trip that we all took just a few days after my mother passed away for the League Cup semi-final against the same opponent just over two years ago. On that day, I didn’t feel much like football, but my friends famously pulled me through. We had set off from Frome at 8am, and were soon at the lovely and delightful Paddington Station. There is something quite wonderful about alighting at a grand terminus, especially on a football day out. We had not spotted fans of either team on the journey to London. I certainly expected to bump into groups of “them” throughout the day.

As we strode out across the busy concourse towards Praed Street, I pointed out the metallic bench seats where the four of us had slumped – silent, stony-faced, sad – after the away game at The Emirates in September, and we all remembered those fleeting moments of pain and worry. The bench really sticks in my mind. It is undoubtedly one my personal totems of this incredible season. It made me think of another football club and one with which our current manager is heavily linked. I always remember that during the ceremony to mark the opening of the new Juventus Stadium in 2011, a bench played a starring role, since the famous old club was formed by some youngsters who met by a bench in one of Turin’s main streets. A replica of that bench was floodlit, in the middle of the pitch, as all other lights were dimmed. It was a simple and fine image. It represented a pivotal moment in time for that club. I promised the boys that if we ever made it to the FA Cup Final in May, we would make a point of returning to sit on that same bench on the Paddington concourse – maybe as league champions – and remember how far this team has come. Imagine returning on the evening of Saturday 27 May after an FA Cup Final with some silverware in our back pockets. Sometimes it is easy to forget how far we have travelled in 2016/2017. After that game at Arsenal, it felt like we were down and out. We had a team in need of fresh blood. The mess of the previous season was set to continue. Our new manager had been found out. We were to face a long and testing season.

I had sorted out a little pub crawl. After scoffing a great breakfast outside the station, we were the first patrons to enter “Sawyers Arms” bang on 11am. We had already admitted to ourselves that we were all nervous about the game. Over a “Peroni”, the talk continued about the game. We all admitted that the result at Old Trafford had really been a “bad day at the office” especially when the news broke that a few players had been stricken with a stomach bug. The team had obviously been knocked sideways by the pre-match changes. In retrospect, everything looked out of kilter. But we were sure that the manager would be suitably prepared for the semi-final. Of course, the loss of Gary Cahill would be a tough one. We favoured Nathan Ake over Kurt Zouma and John Terry.

As we approached “The Sussex Arms” I spotted a gaggle of Herberts supping pints outside.

“Oh here we go. This could be them.”

As I got closer, I recognised a few familiar faces. Inside the dark boozer, I recognised even more. Many of the Chelsea fans from our neck of the woods had evidently decided to forego the bars closer to the station. I took my pint of San Miguel and chatted to one of the Swindon lads, Paul. Close by were lads from Melksham, Westbury, Trowbridge and Gloucester. Outside, the banter continued. None of us were overly confident. We were joined by three Chelsea lads from California – Tom, Brad and Mike, all in and out for just the one game – and we then headed off to the next pub on the list.

“The Victoria” is a cracking pub and I last visited it on the day of the 2012 FA Cup Final with Parky. The return visit in 2017 was, I will admit, a superstitious move by myself. But it is a fantastic boozer and it has retained its charm. A couple more drinks went down well. It was approaching 2pm.

We hailed a cab and darted off to “The Green Man” by Edgware Road tube. Daryl, Ed, Gary, Alan, John, Simon and Milo were already there, and the pub soon became swamped with many of the West of England Chelsea that we had met in “The Sussex Arms”. There was a moment when I looked up and each and every one of my London mates were chatting to lads from my part of England. It was a lovely moment. It encapsulated the buzz that I get out of following the team all over this country and beyond. All of us united by our love of Chelsea. All of us loving a beer. All of us loving a laugh.

The pub is nestled under the Westway and we were able to spot the Manchester City team bus that became stuck in traffic It was daubed with the club crest and a huge image of their players doing a “Poznan.”

I hope that Sergio Aguero, David Silva and Vincent Kopmany appreciated the variety of hand signals that welcomed their slow advance into London.

Believe it or not, we were yet to see any opposing fans. Not one. Or at least, none that were wearing club colours. Maybe a few had sidled past us at Paddington but we would not have known. We had spotted little knots of police at Paddington, but there had been no Spurs fans. We walked to Marylebone train station. On the ten-minute ride to Wembley Stadium train station, right next to the ground, I spotted my first two Spurs fans of the day. One of them overheard me say “oh, there’s one” and apologised.

“Sorry.”

That made me smile.

The team news had broken through and it surprised us. Completely.

Out went Eden Hazard and Diego Costa, in came Willian and Michy Batshuayi.

Wow.

As for Gary Cahill’s replacement, we were right. In came Nathan Ake.

Unlike in previous years, there was no last-minute struggle to get in before the kick-off. We were all in with plenty of time to spare. The four of us were high behind the west end goal. Just like in the 2009 and 2012 finals, we were in that small section right above the TV screen. More positive superstition. Wembley is huge, of course. We preferred to be up high, since the patterns of play are able to be followed easier. Nearer the pitch, it becomes difficult to get much of a perspective.

Overhead, a mixture of sun and cloud.

Hardly any flags and banners were on show. New stadium regulations had meant that flags over a certain size needed to be pre-registered and have fire-certificates, thus stopping most from being allowed in. The cynical view is that banners obstruct advertisements along the balcony walls. Only one winner there, I am afraid.

It was lovely to spot thirty Chelsea Pensioners sitting in the lower deck to my left.

A few songs boomed out of the PA. A white flag wended its way from left to right in the lower tier of the east terrace, a blue flag moved over the heads of our supporters down below us. As the teams entered the pitch, supporters in our end frantically waved thousands of royal blue flags, while the other end depicted “COYS” amid alternate white and navy sections.

The scene was set.

But first, a minute of applause as the football world remembered Ugo Ehiogu, the former Aston Villa and Middlesbrough defender, who had sadly passed away the previous day. He was a fine player. Both sets of players wore black armbands. Towards the end of the minute’s applause, we joined in chanting “Ugo” too.

We stood the entire game as did the majority around us and below us.

The match began and we started very well indeed. We thwarted an early attack which resulted in a corner but a fine Nathan Ake tackle set us off on a rapid attack of our own. A lovely touch from Michy set the raiding Pedro on his way. As he approached the penalty box, he was clumsily tackled by Toby Alderweireld. Barely three minutes had passed. A free-kick in “Willian territory.”

He steadied himself before clipping a fine shot just over the line of defenders. The net rippled and we roared. What a dream start and other clichés. The players raced over towards the side of the pitch, no doubt winding up both the opposing fans and also Mauricio Pocchetino, watching on like Rodney Bewes in a dark grey flasher mac.

I spotted a plane trailing an “ANTONIO ANTONIO” banner.

The pre-match worry had been temporarily lifted. For a while, we looked in control and at ease. Nathan Ake, bless him, looked particularly good. His movement is so natural. Sadly, this purple period did not last. A corner from Cristian Eriksen was cleared but he had a second bite of the cherry. A cross towards the near post was met by a stooping header from Harry bloody Kane, whose slight touch took the ball bouncing into goal way past the dive of Thibaut Courtois.

Ugh.

Game, as they say, on.

There wasn’t constant noise, but the atmosphere wasn’t at all bad. The slow and dirge like “oh when that lot go marching in” was matched by a few “carefrees.”  I was able to spot a few empty seats around and about but this was virtually a full house. There were little battles everywhere. N’Golo Kante was right in the middle of everything. I couldn’t work out why Son was playing at left-back. Victor Moses had a few trademark runs down that flank. That lot began to dominate and our defenders did well the repel their attacks. Luiz was at the centre of those blocks, ably aided by Ake to his left and Dave to his right.

Just before the break, the ball was pushed forward to Moses. He took a touch, but the poorly-timed challenge from Son immediately looked promising. After a split second, the referee Martin Atkinson pointed to the spot.

“Get in.”

We waited. It looked like Batshuayi wanted to take it. Silly boy. Thankfully, Willian grabbed the ball. There was a slight stall as he approached the spot. Hugo Lloris was already on his way to his left as Willian struck it to his right.

“Yes.”

We punched the sky. But whereas there was wild euphoria with his first goal, there was just relief with this one.

The French ‘keeper appeared to touch the ball outside of the box, but we were one hundred yards away. At the break, texts came through to say that the touch was outside the box.

But the mood was buoyant at the break. We were halfway to paradise.

Our old rivals started the second-half the brighter. Luiz was soon heading and blocking in fine style. As Eriksen was allowed a little space, Glenn uttered the immortal words “no, don’t let him” and at that moment, we let him float a superb ball in and Delle Alli was able to meet the bounce of the ball and prod it high past Courtois.

“Bollocks.”

Only seven minutes of the second-half were on the clock.

That lot then dominated for quite some time, though in all honesty rarely threatened our goal. Luiz headed cross after cross away. A strip of sun edged slowly towards the eastern side of the stadium as the game continued. Elsewhere the pitch was in shadow. The songs ebbed and flowed.

On the hour, our manager pulled the strings. Off came Willian the goal scorer and on came Eden Hazard. Off came Batshuayi and on came Diego Costa. After a bright start, Michy had been largely stranded up front as the game continued. I heaved a sigh of relief. What a bonus for us to bring on such quality from our bench. They still had most of the ball though, but again found it so difficult to get behind us or even through us. Our royal blue wall was not going to be easily breached. Time after time, their attacks petered out.

Cesc Fabregas then replaced Pedro, who had also started brightly but was beginning to fade. Very soon, we won our first corner of the game. The ball reached an unmarked Eden Hazard, lurking just outside the box. He took one touch and shot low, through a forest of legs, and we watched – on tenterhooks – as the ball continued unhindered into the goal.

GET. FUCKING. IN.

Our end boomed.

A quarter of an hour remained.

“And its super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

This was the loudest that I think that I had ever heard us at the new Wembley Stadium.

Five minutes later, our two craftsmen combined inside the box. Fabregas twisted a ball back to Hazard from the bye-line, and Eden took a couple of touches as he ran across the pitch, just keeping the ball under control. The ball was pushed towards Nemanja Matic, some thirty yards out.

Smack.

The ball crashed in off the underside of the bar, Lloris beaten, the whole team beaten.

Our end roared once again.

Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 2.

Oh my bloody goodness.

At the other end, red seats started appearing. They had seen this all before. They were off home. In 2012 we administered their sixth consecutive semi-final defeat. Now, in 2017, we had given them their seventh in a row.

Incredibly, Hazard and then Costa came close in the final few moments. A Kane free-kick in the dying embers of a fantastic game was saved by Courtois.

At the final whistle, of course many more red seats visible now, the joy of reaching another FA Cup Final almost matched the joy of beating “that lot” in a hugely important game in this most incredible, mesmerising, entertaining and dramatic of seasons.

The players cavorted down below. The manager looked breathless. The twin staples “One Step Beyond” and “Blue Is The Colour” boomed.

“Sing Chelsea everyone.”

The return train trip into the centre of London was full of smiles. At a bar outside Marylebone station, we met up with more Chelsea pals. Outside the redbrick hotel opposite, we spotted the Manchester City coach. Apparently, the Chelsea team had stayed at the very same hotel the previous night. We caught the 10pm train home, and there was time for one last gin and tonic from the buffet. Looking back, I should have asked for a double.

We reached home at midnight. It had been another fantastic day.

On Tuesday, the show rolls on. There is no time to rest. Southampton at home. See you there.

IMG_4596

Tales From An Evening Of Cat And Mouse

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 5 April 2017.

There is no need for a fanciful and overly-elaborate scene-setter for this one.

The loss to Crystal Palace on April Fool’s Day was an unwanted shock to the system. As a result, Tottenham Hotspur were – if not breathing down our neck, yet – then at least shouting abuse at us from a shorter distance than before. The home game with Manchester City was a – cliche #418 – must-win game.

If Tottenham were to win, out west in Wales, and we were to lose to City – God forbid – then our once impregnable lead at the top would be cut to just four points, with eight games left. Even a draw against City, in my mind, would not be enough.

“Three points or bust, Chelsea.”

Before the possible dramatic events at Stamford Bridge were able to unfold, I was embroiled in my own little moment of drama at work. As the day rolled on – with work piling up – I wondered if I would be able to get away on time. At just after 2pm, I called over to see PD and LP who were just about to launch into their traditional pre-Chelsea home game gammon and chips at “The Milk Churn.” I passed over Glenn’s season ticket to PD so he could in turn pass it on to Bournemouth Steve. Reluctantly, I had to tell PD to make his own way up. There were severe doubts that I would be able to make kick-off, at best, or the game itself, at worst. Thankfully, things fell in to place during the next two hours and, with a big chunk of onerous work being able to be delayed for others in the morning, I was able to leave for SW6 at 4pm. I could relax a little, even though I would now hit all of the traffic going in to London. A journey that usually takes two and a quarter hours would now take three. And it felt odd to be driving to a game alone. It unsurprisingly felt like a potentially seismic Champions League night. A massive game, for sure.

As is so often the case, I noted one car – a red mini – that I constantly passed on the tedious last ten miles, as we accelerated and then slowed, passing each other every few minutes, and I wondered if this was a metaphor for the final stage of the season. Would one team slow right down, allowing another to catch up, before their positions changing over the very final stretch? I remembered a similar instance a few years back when I played one particular bout of cat-and-mouse with one car on the last few miles of the M4, before eventually seeing it lose me at Chiswick. It rather freaked me out when I saw it was parked up just a few yards away from my usual parking space at Chelsea. As I saw the little red mini disappear over the Hammersmith flyover, I waited with baited breath to see if I would spot it again in the streets that surround Queens Club. Thankfully I didn’t. My own little bout of football madness was over. And in any case, the girl who was driving the red mini was unlikely to be a Spurs supporter, right?

Bloody hell, relax.

It still took me a further ten minutes to find a parking spot in the usual areas. At around 7pm, I was evidently one of the last ones to arrive. Bramber Road, Normand Road, Chesson Road, Archel Road, Turneville Road were all chocker. I eventually parked up on Star Road, a good few hundred yards from where I saw PD’s car.

I briefly met up with the troops in The Goose. Time for a bolted “Peroni” and the briefest of chats. Bournemouth Steve eventually arrived to collect the ST card. Rush, rush, rush. A few US pals were still in town and I wanted to meet up with them briefly in “The Cock Tavern” before they disappeared into the ether of international travel. They were leaving just as I arrived; perfect timing. No time for a beer, the time was racing on. We walked to the stadium together.

The Chelsea team had been re-arranged by the manager since the previous game.

Courtois.

Zouma, Luiz, Cahill.

Azpilicueta, Fabregas, Kante, Alonso.

Pedro, Costa, Hazard.

My first worry – perhaps there were many – was that the guile of the slight Aguero, Silva, Sane and De Bruyne might be too much for the tall trio at the back. A big test for Kurt Zouma. He just needed to stay tight to his man and do the simple stuff. I was concerned.

My second worry was that I would be suffering an intense migraine by the end of the night after being blinded by the shocking orange of the Manchester City kit. Bloody hell, if that is an indication of our upcoming life with Nike, I might even pine for the days of the Chelsea Collection of 1986/1987. Kevin de Bruyne, the strawberry-blonde and rosy-faced winger, must bloody well hate it, in exactly the same way that David Hopkin must have detested wearing the tangerine and graphite debacle of 1994 to 1996.

Shudder.

City had three-thousand away fans. As they should. One poxy flag : “Kidderminster.” Must do better.

The atmosphere was buzzing at the start. Ripples of noise grew louder as each chant enveloped the stadium. This felt like a proper game of football.

I wondered if Chelsea would spend the entire night confirming one of modern football’s oxymorons –

“The Manchester City defender.”

City had the infrequently-used Kompany alongside the maligned Stones, with the attack-minded Clichy and Navas on the flanks. Going forward, they looked fearsome. But our team looked top-heavy too, with Cesc in place of Matic. It looked like N’Golo would have his work cut out.

I whispered to Steve : “Never mind, if any man can, Kante can” and immediately sounded like Suzi Quatro.

Almost astonishingly, we heard that Swansea City were 1-0 up against “that lot.”

I wondered if this might, just might, turn out to be a legendary night.

We certainly began well. I soon spotted that we kept hitting early balls out wide in an attempt to stretch their defence. After just ten minutes, the ball was worked forward by Azpilicueta to Pedro on the right. Pedro held the ball momentarily, but Dave had pushed on and Pedro slipped the ball through to him. A quick look up, and the ball was ably played into the path of Eden Hazard. Much to my surprise, his low shot ended up flashing past Caballero.

In my mind I was thinking “how the hell did that go in?” but outside I was shrieking a loud and sustained roar of pleasure. I soon turned to Alan and said “of course, on bloody Saturday, that would have been deflected wide.”

In the replay, it was unclear to me that the slightest of deflections off Kompany’s shiny pate had edged the ball away from Caballero’s sway to his left. Football games are often won and lost by inches.

However, I turned to Alan and admitted my worry : “You know it won’t stay 1-0?”

The crowd were roaring, but Manchester City began working the defensive three, five, seven. Their movement impressed us all. It seemed that everyone of their attacking players were never seen in the same place twice. They tested Thibaut a few times.

A pass from the excellent Hazard to Fabregas resulted in a shot which deflected high off a defender and dropped on to the crossbar. This was such an open game. Sadly, on twenty-six minutes, a dithering Courtois hacked a clearance away, but it fell right at the feet of the neat and tidy David Silva. We groaned the hugest groan. He advanced and shot straight at Courtois. The ball travelled only a few yards from Thibaut’s block and now ended up at Aguero’s feet. He easily dispatched the ball home.

Luiz comforted the ‘keeper with a slapped handshake, but Thibaut must have been hurting.

It was an equaliser that, if I am truthful City, warranted. I remembered that their play in the opening segment of our 2-1 win against them in 2011/2012 was as good as I could recall by an away team at Stamford Bridge over the years, and this was an updated version of it. Constant movement everywhere. On the touchline, the two suited Europeans Guardiola and Conte were stood the whole game.

Courtois shifted his feet well to tip over a Leroy Sane lob. We were under the cosh alright.

For a few fleeting moments, the City fans could be heard.

“We’re not really here.”

With thoughts of keeping it tight and reaching half-time – a Conte half-time masterclass from us to counter a Pep-talk from them – the ball found Pedro inside the City box. A crude chop by Fernandinho made referee Mike Dean quickly point to the spot.

“Nailed on penalty, that.”

Without any need of a prompt, Albert – who sits in front of me – upped and visited the gents. We have lost count of the number of times over the years that we have scored when he has disappeared off to turn his bike around.

Eden placed the ball on the spot. We waited. His shot was low and saved by the ‘keeper. Thankfully, the ball rebounded right in to the path of Eden and as Caballero dived to his right, the ball was stroked to his left.

GET. IN.

Albert returned to his seat, beaming.

“Job done, saahn.”

A few more City attacks were thwarted. After a few dodgy moments by both, both Luiz and Zouma defended well.

It was still Swansea City 1 Tottenham 0.

At the break, Neil Barnett spoke of the recent passing of former goalkeeper John Phillips, who played 149 games for us in the days of my childhood. In fact, he played in goal in my very first game : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, 1974. You could argue he is the first Chelsea player I saw play. He is certainly the first-name entered in the 48,762 cells of my ever-increasing “Chelsea Games Spreadsheet” which sits proudly in my computer at home.

Garry Stanley – he of the US Tour this summer – toured the pitch as images of three players from the ‘seventies were featured on the TV screen.

John Phillips.

David Stride.

Ian Britton.

There was clear structural changes to our team at the break. Simply put, Nemanja Matic replaced Kurt Zouma, but the pack was significantly re-shuffled.

Courtois.

Azpilicueta, Luiz, Cahil,

Pedro, Kante, Matic, Alonso

Fabregas, Costa, Hazard.

And what a half of football. Chelsea chances were at a premium as City swarmed at us throughout the forty-five minutes. I seemed to spend the entire period clock-watching. Thankfully, the Chelsea defence was proving a tough nut to crack, but that didn’t stop everyone’s’ nerves from jangling.

The first major worry involved a header from a deep City free-kick that bounced on to the bar with Dave right underneath if needed. We heaved a sigh of relief, but City kept us worried. For all of their possession, however, they did not pepper our goal. As tackles crunched, Fernandinho volleyed ridiculously wide and Stones headed right at Courtois.

We were nervy in the stands, but there was a great reaction to a Marcos Alonso pass to Eden which was miss-hit and went off for a throw-in. Rather than howls of derision, the Matthew Harding replied – loudly, with encouragement – “CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

It warmed my heart.

But generally we were too nervous to sing constantly. There were great “Carefree” moments when the whole ground were together, but the nerves were in control alright. I watched the clock, tick-tock.

A rare Chelsea chance but a David Luiz free-kick went to waste.

Then, a gift-wrapped chance after a fine move, starting with a break from the inimitable Hazard down our left. The ball was moved across the pitch, several players involved, and eventually played back by the intelligent Pedro towards the central Hazard. He kicked through the ball, but it flew over. It was the hat-trick goal that never was. Bollocks.

Sadly, it got worse.

Late on – FUCK – we heard that Spurs had not only equalised at the Liberty Stadium, but had scored two and then three.

That car in the rear view mirror – white, navy trim – was getting closer.

A ten-point gap had shrunk to seven within minutes.

Whether or not it was because of Pep Guardiola’s reappearance again at Stamford Bridge, but as City kept searching for a late equaliser, I kept thinking of that Iniesta heart-breaker in 2009. The linesman on the far side continually flashing the red and yellow flag of Catalonia clearly did not help.

It was evident I was suffering. We all were. I have never seen Alan look so nervous.

Willian replaced Cesc.

Tick tick tick tick.

A long searching ball towards the far post was ably reached by the lunge of Aguero. We could not see if his toe-poke was saved by ‘keeper or post.

“Not long left now, Chelsea, keep going.”

Loftus-Cheek replaced Hazard, our best player on the night.

One last corner was swung in. The ball evaded everyone at the front post – all it needed was a nod – and Stones stabbed at it from a few yards out. Ridiculously, miraculously, the ball thumped against the turf and ballooned over. It was another of those “clasp the back of your neck with your hands” moments.

“Phew.”

The three minutes of added-time were running out. The ball was deflected for a Chelsea goal-kick. My eyes, and camera, was on referee Dean.

I snapped at the moment he blew up. It seemed the most significant moment of the entire night.

“Thank fuck for that.”

Another “phew.”

“One Step Beyond” boomed around The Bridge, but I let others bounce up and down. I was just grateful that it had ended in our favour.

As you were. Seven points. Catch us if you can.

Big John looked up and smiled.

“Didn’t enjoy one bit of that.”

I knew what he meant.

Outside, Andy admitted City had been impressive. Over the past two home games, we bossed one yet lost, and were dominated in another yet won. Such is football, such is life. We even spoke about how Spurs don’t give up; they deserve a little praise from us for that. Ugh.

“But imagine how gutted they must feel. Coming back to score three late goals to win. Get inside the dressing room. Wait twenty minutes for our result. And then hear that we hung on. Ha.”

Outside, as a trip to a curry house was aborted, I waited to hear from a few US friends. I spotted Claudio Ranieri brush past and I seized the moment. We posed for a selfie. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, him or me.

I was able to meet up with a few pals – Atlanta, New York, Chicago, Pennsylvania – in “The Butcher’s Hook” for a while. The place was packed and buzzing at first, but eventually thinned out a little. The visitors had enjoyed two varying games at Stamford Bridge from the supporters’ club section of the Shed Lower over the past few days. They had seen both of our goals at The Shed tonight of course. They loved the atmosphere. It was reassuring to hear. Neil Barnett popped in and we had the first real chat since Minneapolis in the summer. Like me, he did not predict us to win the league this season. I had us finishing third behind City and United. Neil had us finishing sixth. This season has fooled us all, eh?

Late on, I scoffed down a late night kebab with Frank from Queens, New York and Taryn from Reading, Pennsylvania. It had been Taryn’s birthday and what a lovely result for her. I soon realised that the premises of the kebab shop on Fulham Broadway were the same as the “Wimpy” restaurant where my parents and I stopped for burger and chips after my very first game all those years ago.

At 1.30am, I left London. At 3.45am, I reached home, tired but contented.

Eight games to go, four at home, four away.

Keep it tight Chelsea.

On Saturday, this busy week finishes with the jolly to Bournemouth.

I will see some of the very lucky ones there.

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Tales From Munich : Part Three – Beyond Words

Bayern Munich vs. Chelsea : 19 May 2012.

At 11.30pm in the north of Munich, Chelsea had miraculously become European Champions. In the final analysis, the season’s competition was decided by four penalty kicks, taken within four minutes of each other. Two Bayern misses and two Chelsea hits. In 2008, we missed the ultimate prize by a couple of inches. How fitting that our triumph four years later should be via penalties.

In truth, these facts were condensed into a nano second of thought as I stumbled to my feet. It is impossible for me to retell my innermost feelings during this most emotional and bewildering of moments.

All around me, fellow fans – followers of the royal blue – were screaming our delight.

BOOM.

The Nord Kurv was a cacophonous cauldron of noise.

BOOM.

Moscow was remembered briefly and then forgotten forever.

BOOM.

Chelsea, as overwhelming underdog in a foreign city, had triumphed.

BOOM.

Another miracle.

BOOM.

Destiny.

BOOM.

My beloved Chelsea had won the European Cup.

There were hugs for Ed, for Neil, and also for Glenn’s tormentor to my right. I shuffled to my left and hugged, Daryl, Gal, Glenn and Alan.

“We fcuking did it boys – we fcuking did it.”

I looked to my right and saw Simon and Milo scurrying down the terraces to be with us.

Everyone together.

I was aware that the players were rampaging towards us down below and so I started to take some photographs of the scene of carnage on the pitch and in the stands. The Chelsea faithful then bellowed a song of adulation and honour – one which was sung for each of our three domestic titles – but which now felt properly at home in this foreign field.

“Campiones, campiones – ole, ole , ole.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5c1AT…hannel&list=UL

The scene was of wild delirium. Glenn wiping tears from his eyes, Simon and Milo bouncing and hugging each other, Alan with the widest ever grin on his face. I clambered up on to the seat and just tried to take it all in.

I looked at my phone and saw that there were some texts awaiting my attention. I didn’t want to read them just yet; it was all about the moment. I needed to concentrate on what was happening all around me. These precious minutes after the final penalty were my lifeblood.

I was aware that the Bayern fans were slowly leaving the arena. There would be no fifth title for them.

It was all about us.

The PA soon helped us celebrate further.

“Blue Is the Colour, Football Is the Game…”

How I love this song from my childhood. Memories of listening to Ed “Stewpot” Stewart’s “Junior Choice” programme on Radio One on Saturday mornings. This song was in the charts over forty years ago – to commemorate our 1972 Wembley appearance – and it still affects me every time. As a listening seven year old, it was just enough for me to hear the name “Chelsea” on the radio to send me wild with a paroxysm of delight. That Chelsea should have a pop record was just too much. Football and music is often intertwined, but for me it all began in the Spring of 1972. Chelsea in the charts? It amazed me back then. It was ridiculously perfect.

And I stood on my seat, singing along to every word, knowing full well that if I let the moment get to me, I would be wailing again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZlYa…&feature=g-upl

“Cus Chelsea…Chelsea Is Our Name.”

I then looked through my incoming texts.

There were messages of congratulations from fans of Liverpool, from fans of Juventus, from fans of Manchester United, from fans of Newcastle United and, of course, from fans of Chelsea.

There was even a little message – a smile, a kiss – from my former girlfriend Judy.

Fantastic.

Down below, the players were cavorting like school kids, but the moment soon came for them to assemble on the pitch, in front of the stairs which led to the balcony where the glittering prize was waiting. How I wished I had my telephoto lens with me. The heavy-legged Bayern players summoned enough strength to ascend the flight of steps. Like the new Wembley, the players momentarily disappeared from view, and then became visible to all.

I had a bemused smirk to myself. What now for the Chelsea fans who had been so convinced that UEFA would never allow us to win football’s biggest prize? What now for those conspiracy theorists? What now for the paranoid ones in our midst? I for one never bought this theory. I never bought the theory that UEFA instructed Tom Henning Ovrebo to gift Barcelona that match in 2009. Ovrebo made four supremely horrendous decisions in that game; that is beyond question. But if he had been so besotted in making life as easy as possible for Barcelona, why did he send Abidal off with ages to go in the game and Chelsea 1-0 up? If UEFA had cooked the books – and if one single person had let the cat out of the onion bag – UEFA’s credibility would be zero and, more importantly, its commercial partners would have dropped the Champions League in an instant.

Never worth the risk.

And here’s the proof – Chelsea were European Champions.

The players – forming a beautiful line of blue against the dark suited inhabitants of the corporate lower tier – made their way to the balcony. My mind was racing now…I wanted this moment to last forever but I so wanted to see that mammoth trophy hoisted by the Chelsea team. All around me, there seemed to be a quietening of song and a concentration of thought.

I had my camera poised for the moment.

Somewhere in the midst was Michel Platini. Somewhere in the midst was Frank Lampard, the captain on the night. Somewhere in the midst was John Terry, captain fantastic.

A delay…then a sudden thrust skywards of the magnificent trophy.

Click, click, click.

A tumultuous roar.

Wembley 1997 was magnificent. Bolton 2005 was historic.

Munich 2012 was the best ever.

It was the greatest night of my life on the greatest weekend of my life.

We were happy and glorious.

From Drogba’s final kick of destiny, we stayed in the stadium for about an hour. It was a gorgeous hour full of tears and laughter, merriment and pride.

Just to see my heroes holding that huge silver cup. Oh my. What an image.

Chelsea songs were played on the PA…”Liquidator”, “Blue Day”, “One Step Beyond”, “London Calling” – and then, strangely “Mr. Blue Sky” by ELO.

The players still cavorted on the pitch…a momentary period of calm when the official team photo took place, but then madness. It really was, one step beyond –

Fernando Torres with the Spanish flag, Petr Cech being hoisted high on team mates’ shoulders and the cup way in the air, Drogba running towards the Chelsea in the lower tier of the east stand…players as kids, fans as proud parents.

Magical times.

In truth, I probably stayed relatively quiet. Sometimes, the moment just takes hold. A full hour after victory, I sent out my first text to a few friends –

“Beyond Words.”

We were, typically, some of the last to leave, but the players were still enjoying themselves in the north goalmouth when the nine of us reluctantly left the arena. We were all gasping for a drink and, as there is no alcohol served at UEFA games, the nine of us had our own little celebration party on the concourse outside gate 341. We dutifully lined up and bought ice cold Sprites.

I swear that the first mouthful was the finest tasting drink of all time.

We stood in a little circle. We sipped Sprite, but tasted champagne. We were pumped with adrenalin, euphoric with pleasure – befuddled, bewildered, besides ourselves.

It is a moment I will always remember.

“What was the first thing you did after you won the European Cup, Chris?”

“I drank some Sprite, mate.”

“Ah, of course, of course.”

A few faces drifted past – I shook hands with Callum. He was right after all. It was never in any doubt.

Unfortunately, amongst the crazy drift of Chelsea fans heading south to the tube stop, Glenn and I lost contact with Alan and the boys. All of a sudden, the Chelsea lexicon of songs had been augmented by a few new editions.

“We won in Munich, Munich. We won in Munich, Munich.”

“We’ll be running ‘round Tottenham with a European Cup.
We’ll be running ‘round Tottenham with a European Cup.
We’ll be running ‘round Tottenham, running ‘round Tottenham.
Running ‘round Tottenham with a European Cup.
Singing I’ve got a trophy haven’t you?
Singing I’ve got a trophy haven’t you?
Singing I’ve got a trophy, I’ve got a trophy, I’ve got a trophy haven’t you?”

And then, a song which doesn’t get aired too often. A song which I always attribute to Leeds United (remember them?) after they lost to Bayern Munich(ditto) in the European Cup Final of 1975. Although, Leeds lost, they lost under suspicious circumstances – a good Peter Lorimer goal was cancelled out due to a dubious offside call – and so the Leeds fans sang this for years after, in defiance of the actual result –

“We Are The Champions – The Champions Of Europe.”
“We Are The Champions – The Champions Of Europe.”
“We Are The Champions – The Champions Of Europe.”
“We Are The Champions – The Champions Of Europe.”

It was my song of the night, despite Kraftwerk still echoing in my mind.

“I’d like to take her home, that’s understood.”

There was an air of elation, but of sustained bewilderment too, as we walked around the stadium. Glenn was wearing his “lucky” lime green Napapijri polo shirt and I was wearing a royal blue Lacoste; the colours, in fact, used as the colour scheme of the final. The tickets were printed in these colours. The stadium, now shining bright at 12.30am, was also lit in these twin hues. The stadium looked perfectly photogenic and I took many snaps of it as we slowly walked south.

I contacted Andy Wray – whose hotel room Glenn and I were crashing in – to see where he was headed.

“The Shakespeare, near the train station.”

It was 12.45am. I was hoping to bump into Alan and the boys, but our paths never crossed again. At just after 1am, we hopped into one of the very last trains to leave the stadium. It was another nightmare journey, taking around an hour. Several Chelsea were so hot and tired, they got off to get a taxi…Glenn and I decided to stay on board. We chatted to two Chelsea ex-pats from Holland.

At 1.45am, the train pulled in to Marienplatz, the most central of central locations in the city of Munich. At street level, we crunched the glass of hundreds of beer bottles. In truth, we never really experienced what the pre-game atmosphere was like in the centre. Now, the Bayern fans quiet with sadness, still dominated, but pockets of Chelsea provided huge contrasts in mood.

“Campiones, campiones…”

Thankfully, despite vast quantities of alcohol being consumed all day, we did not see a hint of trouble. It was one of my fears, that should we have lost, the old Chelsea stereotype may have reared its unwanted head.

“…we’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose.”

Glenn and I collected our bags from the train station, stepping over hundreds of snoozing Bayern fans, in town for the night with no hope of being able to return to Nurnburg, Hamburg, Dusseldorf or Frankfurt until the morning. The hauptbanhof was as I remembered it from my last visit for the Oktoberfest of 1990, when I – like hundreds of others – slept like babies on the station forecourt.

We tried to track down The Shakespeare. Just as I thought about giving up, we bumped into Cathy and Barbara who were able to point us in the right direction. Finally, at 2.30am, we turned a corner to find what seemed like the only boozer open in the entire city.

“The Shakespeare – there it is Glenn!”

Inside, I spotted three familiar faces…first Andy Wray, then Steve Mantle, then his twin brother Daz.

Hugs and clenched fists, smiles and back slaps.

After that Sprite, came the real deal.

Beer has never tasted better.

“Champion.”

“The Shakespeare” was a tiny pub, with its clientele spilling out onto the road. While I was supping at the bottle of beer, who should walk right by but Mike Neat – the leader of the NYBs – and three of his troops; Alex, Napoli Frank and Matt. What a small world. We hugged – and Mike gave me a ridiculously long kiss on my neck. I looked up – and there was Susan Harvey, who I first met in Chicago in 2006, then Palo Alto in 2007.

“Great to see you!”

Cathy then turned up a few minutes later.

Icky – The General – was also in attendance. He had flown over from The Phillipines, but had been unable to get a ticket. I asked him where he had seen the game and he replied that he had watched it in an open air park somewhere. He joked with Cathy that he has never seen us win in Europe; our success that night was all down to him. I wasn’t going to argue.

So there we all were – drinking in Munich in the small hours, our smiles making our cheeks ache, our rapid fire comments and laughter never ending. There was an overwhelming sense of pride and joy. It is very likely that the phrases uttered by us in Munich were uttered, in various guises, by thousands upon thousands of Chelsea fans all over the globe.

Mike – “We did it. I don’t know how. We played shit, but we did it.”

Chris – “The ultimate away game mate.”

Frank – “Incredible, Chris. Just incredible.”

Chris – “The first London team to win it!”

Andy – “Drogba!”

Susan –“Oh…what about Tottenham!”

Chris – “Ha! What about Tottenham? Could it possibly get any better?”

Mike – “We were beaten. Two minutes to go. Incredible.”

Andy – “1905…19/05.”

Chris – “And what about Cech saving Robben’s penalty!”

Susan – “Written in the Gods.”

Chris – “And of all the people to miss a penalty, that fcuker Schweinsteiger.”

Mike – “We never win on penalties.”

Chris – “We did tonight, son!”

By now, Glenn was sleeping on the pavement, his head propped against his Quiksilver back-pack. He was OK. Just tired. I had a couple more beers. Photos with the last ones standing. It seemed like our little group, right there and then, was the epicentre of Chelsea Football Club.

I stamped my foot right down in the middle of our little group.

“The very hub of this club. Right here.”

Mike smiled.

I said to him – “and my next Chelsea game? At Yankee Stadium!”

We laughed.

“Life is good mate.”

I remember writing a three part piece about my experience in Moscow after the game in 2008. I remember that my whole day in Moscow was blighted by the fact that I knew that, should Chelsea win, my match going experience as a Chelsea fan would have reached its zenith. Anything which followed, by nature, would be of lesser value. It would always pale in comparison.

In Munich 2012, I simply didn’t care.

We were European Champions.

At 4am, I scooped Glenn up from the kerb and we said our goodbyes. We wearily tried to locate a cab to take us back to Andy’s hotel two miles to the east.

At 5am, Glenn was asleep but I was listening to the dawn chorus. My mind was still racing. It had been the most perfect of days, the most perfect of nights. Andy eventually rolled in at 7am and the three of us amalgamated to win the Chelsea Fans In Germany Synchronised Snoring Competition.

On the Sunday, I was up at 10.30am. Glenn soon followed. We said our goodbyes to Andy. He was to stay on for one more day. In the hotel’s reception, we spoke with a Chelsea fan from Brisbane, Australia who had travelled without a ticket just to be in the city. The saddest story I had heard involved my good mate Pete from San Francisco. His ticket was stuck in customs in New York and he had no way of expediting them before he was due to depart. He also travelled to Munich without a ticket – and didn’t get in. At the game, a few fans in the row behind us had stormed the gates after the game had begun. With strength in numbers, this was always an option for some.

Outside, the weather was blisteringly hot. On the U-bahn to the main station, a pragmatic Bayern fan told us ruefully –

“English teams know how to take corners.”

We smiled.

We travelled back to Prague, blissfully happy. The amazing thing was that I was 100% devoid of a hangover.

Oh Munich – I love you and I love your beer.

Twenty minutes into the trip north, just before we got stuck in some horrendous traffic near the airport, we drove past the Allianz Arena once more. In the bright afternoon sun, it looked divine.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zg3NraIDPa4

“There she goes. We are the Champions. The Champions of Europe.”

At Prague airport, we bumped into Young Dave, who looked as happy as me, but five times as tired. His mate Pav, bless him, had an amazing story to tell. Without a match ticket, he resorted to desperate measures. He arrived at the stadium, dressed in smart clothes, with a Ford lanyard and a handmade Champions League pass around his neck. The Ford lanyard was handed out at a Champions League corporate event at Stamford Bridge a few years back. He pieced together some printed matter from a Chelsea magazine to give the impression that he was one of the corporate guests of Ford. Believe it or not, it worked. He chose his moment and got past the first ticket check. Once inside, he blagged his way in to the seating bowl. He was close to welling up when he told us this story.

“I had my Mum with me. I knew I’d get in.”

He showed me the card that he had used and I unfolded it. Part of the text – hidden from view – mentioned this –

“Win one of 14 VIP tickets for the CL Final.”

Indeed. Simple as that.

We howled with laughter.

“That’s not what it meant, Pav!”

We had one last dark Czech beer at Prague airport. We were still smiling on the return flight home as we reviewed the previous 48 hours of history-making. For me, it was the last flight of a long season. From Kuala Lumpur to Bangkok to Leverkusen to Naples to Barcelona to Munich, glorious Munich. Dave and Pav were sitting opposite. Talk was of Monaco and Tokyo. The banter was still flying around. Glenn always has an eye for the ladies and I caught him eyeing up the bespectacled air hostess. I knew what was coming.

Glenn : “I would.”

Chris: “I know you would.”

Glenn : “Would you?”

Chris : “It would go to penalties, but – yeah – I would too.”

We landed back at Bristol and by midnight, I was home.

It had been, without exception, the most perfect of weekends. Simply everything had gone our way; from the timings to the travel, from flight prices to hotels, from the weather to the food and drink…the stadium, the football, the friendships…the goals, the penalties, the drama.

The European Cup.

Bloody hell.

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