Tales From Happy Monday

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 1 April 2013.

The Easter weekend of 2013 was turning out to be a bitterly cold one. After our meek capitulation at Southampton on the Saturday, Chelsea were not able to give us any added warmth on that particular afternoon. As Easter Sunday passed, thoughts turned to the Easter Monday F.A. Cup replay with Manchester United. In all honesty, I wasn’t too worried. After years of supporting the club through thick and thin, it would be “typical Chelsea” for us to follow up a poor performance against one of the division’s lesser teams with a sterling victory against one of the giants. And yet, it would also be “typical Chelsea” for our fine performance in the first game – which seemed like ages ago – to be unrewarded with a defeat in the replay.

Inevitably – everyone knows how my mind works by now – I thought back to previous games in the F.A. Cup with United. In recent memory, there have been two. And the vibes were not great. In 1998-1999, we did well to eke out a 0-0 draw at Old Trafford, despite getting Robbie di Matteo sent off, but then lost in the replay. I didn’t attend the second game; it was the days of doing shift-work and so I had to listen in on the radio at work. I wondered if a similar scenario might exist in 2013. I certainly didn’t fancy a repeat of the horrendous F.A. Cup game of 1998.

We, of course, were F.A. Cup holders; a phrase which we had been unable to utter for a full 27 years. Manchester United were the reigning League Champions. Ruud Gullit was our manager, Dennis Wise was our captain. Our team included some well-loved players; Dan Petrescu, Frank Leboeuf, Mark Hughes. We met United in the third round. It was our first game as defending F.A. Cup holders. What followed was probably one of the most humiliating trouncings that I have ever seen at Stamford Bridge.

At one stage, we were losing 0-5.

Yes, that’s correct.

0-5.

That we scored three very late goals to give the score line a vague hint of acceptability did not fool anyone.

We had been found out.

Not long after, we lost to United again in the League. We also lost to Arsenal in the League and League Cup in quick succession. Soon after, Ruud Gullit was given the sack, with rumours of contract negotiations causing problems in the relationship between the chairman Ken Bates and our dreadlocked manager. As a fan base, we were saddened and confused. That our first manager to bring us a major trophy in 26 years could be dismissed within nine months seemed crazy, cruel and heartless.

Does this ring any bells?

Thought so.

In truth, the team was brilliant one minute, awful the next. I’d say that the football that we played in the autumn of 1997 was the best ever. The midfield of Poyet, Di Matteo, Wise and Petrescu was magnificent. Upfront, we had Hughes and Zola. Great times. But how they can soon change.

Travelling up to Stamford Bridge on Easter Monday 2013, I was sure that there wouldn’t be a 0-5 score line confronting me at any stage of the upcoming game, regardless of Rafa Benitez’ inadequacies.

In the pub, there was a lovely little Tokyo reunion; Mike was over from Brooklyn, Foxy was over from a ship off the coast of New Zealand, via Nottingham. It was great to reminisce about that most magical of foreign trips, regardless of the end result.

Parky was with us too. He has had a rough week or so. His spirits are always up, though. I have to admire his resilience. He came out with a piece of “Classic Parky.”

“Yeah, they wanted to see me in the hospital. I stayed in there a few hours. They gave me a check up. They hooked me up to the scanner. Apparently I cost £2.20.”

On the walk down the North End Road – the cold wind added to the freezing temperatures – we spotted five or six Manchester United fans. To the uninitiated, there would be no clue; they were not wearing scarves, shirts, caps, or even small pin badges. But we knew. The way they were dressed, the fact that they were silent, the fact that they looked a little concerned.

They were United.

The days are gone, really, of having to run the gauntlet at away matches, but there is no point in advertising to the world of your allegiance at certain away games. Anyway, they made their way unhindered. The Shed would be full of 6,000 Mancs for this one; I feared that their noise would drown ours.

As I checked the starting line-ups, my spirits were raised. Juan Mata and Eden Hazard started for us. I checked out the opposition; Manchester United fielded a decidedly unglamorous team, and their personnel suggested a more prosaic form of football, far from their swashbuckling style much admired throughout the footballing world. Crucially, Wayne Rooney was injured and Robin Van Persie was on the bench. This confused me. United have virtually won the league and they are out of Europe; why would Alex Ferguson not start the most prolific striker in British football?

The Shed balcony was adorned with the red / white / black flags of United. There was one which mocked Steven Gerrard’s lack of league titles. He has, of course, twelve less than Ryan Giggs.

The first-half was a strange affair. It was a decidedly slow game; a game of cat and mouse. Chelsea enjoyed most of the possession, but on the first day of the baseball season, it appeared that both teams were attempting a no-hitter. Apart from a slow daisy-cutter from Mikel, the first real shot on target, which warranted a save, took place on 31 minutes; an effort from Demba Ba which De Gaea saved with an outstretched leg. Soon after, Ramires set up Ba again, but his shot was blocked. It took United 37 minutes for their first real effort on goal; an effort from Nani. A lovely dribble from Hazard, a lay-off from Oscar, but Hazard blazed over. Then, a wild, swerving shot from Chicarito was booted clear by Cech.

It had been a strange half. Ashley Cole had pulled up on twenty minutes, of course; we hoped that Ryan Bertrand would cope better than on Saturday.

At half-time, with no match action to distract me, I stood and froze.

The second-half began in a lively fashion. A cheeky back-heel from Ba provided the first attempt on goal. Soon after, the game changed. Mikel won the ball right on the left touchline in our half and the ball was eventually played through to Juan Mata – the king pin – who was in acres of space in the middle of United’s half. Oscar had continued to move up the left wing and I pleaded for Mata to push the ball through for him inside the full-back. Instead, Mata caught us all on the hop. He played a ball which nobody expected, chipping the ball up and into the penalty area. He had spotted the slightest hint of a move by Ba; great vision. With one amazing piece of dexterity, Ba let the ball fall over his shoulder and he cushioned the ball so it flew over De Gaea’s flailing – and failing – body.

The crowd exploded.

I screamed.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

Over in the far corner, Demba fell to his knees in silent prayer and was then mobbed by his team mates.

Rio Ferdinand, who had been booed relentlessly, had been the victim of Ba’s magnificent finish. How we laughed.

Chelsea enjoyed a nice period of possession. The United fans – despite their numbers – were not so loud. We had a special message for our friend in the middle of United’s back-four :

“Rio Ferdinand – fcuk off to Qatar.”

On the hour, a most brilliant piece of football. A blistering cross from the right, a fine leap from Chicarito.

I cringed and grimaced.

It was the equaliser for sure. Damned United.

But, no. Petr Cech threw out an arm and the ball was deflected over the bar.

It was the save of the season, no doubt. The applause for our great goalkeeper was loud and heartfelt.

Free beers for him in the bar after.

The chances for Chelsea then came and went in quick succession.

Juan Mata forced a save which rippled the side-netting, but the linesman did not give a corner. Eden Hazard was clean through, but dragged his shot wide. Ramires belted one off target. At the other end, Valencia well wide. There was intriguing physical battle between Ba and Ferdinand. Our play was more direct than with Fernando Torres in the team.

More chances. Mata over, Mata wide.

No matter.

I was surprised – really surprised – that we had reached 80 minutes with no substitutes being made by Benitez. Ferguson had already brought on Van Persie and Giggs.

Oscar shot meekly wide; he is having a tough time of late.

I have to say that I thought that Ryan Bertrand performed admirably at left-back after replacing Ashley Cole. His positioning was much better, his marking tight. One of the other poorer players at Southampton, Branislav Ivanovic, was much better too. Maybe Southampton was just a bad day at the office. Two late chances for Van Persie were wasted and we held on.

As I made my way down the Fulham Road, my phone was going crazy with incoming texts. We were back at the new Wembley for the twelfth time in under six years.

It is our second home and, quite possibly, our third home too.

As I drove home on the westbound M3, I happened to glance over at the Thorpe Park roller coasters which are easily visible from the motorway.

I had a chuckle to myself.

“Don’t waste your money on that. Just get a Chelsea season ticket.”

At 4.40pm on Sunday 10th March, we were virtually out of the F.A. Cup.

At 2.30pm on Monday 1st April, we were back at Wembley.

No joke.

Tales From Bad Saturday

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 30 March 2013.

It was somewhat typical in this strangest of seasons that as soon as Chelsea hit a little bit of form – a life-affirming draw at Old Trafford plus home wins over Steaua and West Ham at The Bridge – we were then hit with a dreaded international break. Our momentum was stalled, therefore, for a full two weeks. The England games came and went with little interest from myself. I lasted around twenty-five minutes in each game before falling to sleep. I was last genuinely captivated by the national team in 1996, maybe 1998. After forty years of heartbreak – I remember the Poland game at Wembley in 1973 – I just can’t get excited by the national team these days. My views on the pitiful atmosphere at Wembley for England games have been voiced before, so I won’t bore anyone further.

But, strangely, the visit to St. Mary’s for the second time in 2013 didn’t excite me too much. Maybe my momentum was upset too. I knew one thing; Southampton would prove a bigger threat to Chelsea Football Club than in the F.A. Cup game in January when many of their first team were rested.

I set off for Hampshire at 10.45am. The weather was grey and miserable. It was colder than in January. I had purchased the new Depeche Mode album in town an hour previously and as I reversed out of my drive, the first track boomed throughout the car.

“Welcome To my World.”

How very apt. Despite my work and my home life, despite my friends and travels, my other hobbies and past times, this indeed was my life…setting off on a Saturday morning, coffee to hand, music blaring, heading off to watch my boyhood idols once more. This would be game number 939.

“Welcome To My World Part 939.”

I struggled to muster enthusiasm for the day ahead, though, as I headed through Frome and Warminster and down through the thatched-roof villages on the A36. I breathed a sigh of relief when, not far from home, I saw that Southampton was just 48 miles away. It is easily my nearest game. I had a little chuckle to myself when I found myself indicating to turn left just after passing through Warminster.

Not today, Chris. There’s no trip to London today, mate. No need to turn left and head across Salisbury Plain today. It was if my car was thinking for me. I was on automatic pilot. I had to manually intervene –

“Keep going, straight ahead, Southampton is this way.”

Oh boy.

As Salisbury neared, I struggled again with the rest of the season. It was still a bloody mess. Our schedule of games, which are stretching out until May, are never-ending. Some games have been re-arranged, some games are squashed together – three in six days coming up – and some games are waiting to happen. An F.A. Cup semi-final? Maybe. A Europa league semi-final? Maybe. An F.A. Cup final? Maybe. A Europa League final? Maybe. Two trips abroad to plan and finance? Maybe. And then, ludicrously, there was the sudden announcement of the jaunt to the USA for the second time this season. For someone who likes to plan ahead, my brain was frazzled in attempting to evaluate it all. To be honest, I simply couldn’t justify a trip over to the US in May, especially since it might follow a game in Amsterdam so quickly. But then…the ultimate twist of the knife…there were growing rumours of a second game in New York, my second-home, the home of the Yankees. For me to miss out on a Chelsea game in New York just seemed so wrong.

Fcuk it.

To be honest, I hoped that the drive down to Southampton – me alone with my thoughts – might allow me the requisite personal time to evaluate if I could stomach my second trip to the US in the same footballing season.

I failed. It was never going to be that easy. Watch this space.

I was enjoying the album – a few tracks were immediately memorable. The CD began its second “loop” as I hit Salisbury.

I hardly ever listen to the CIA Podcast, but I remembered Campy imitating me a few weeks back –

“…yeah, so there I was…on the road to yet anuver away game following Chowlsea and would you Adam and Eve it, this Depeche Mode song came on and…well…it got me finking…about that Chowlsea game in 1995…I remember like it was yesterday…”

Welcome To My Tales, Danny.

The traffic stalled, as it always does, through the medieval city of Salisbury.

Slow.

At least it allowed me to admire the lovely view of Salisbury Cathedral as I edged along the elevated city-by pass. Now I’m no history buff. Geography is more my game. But I guess the two subjects are indelibly interlinked. My father was the history man. He used to read masses of books on the kings and the queens of England, the archbishops and the cardinals, the cavaliers and the roundheads, the Tolpuddle Martyrs and the Jarrow Marchers, the Magna Carta and the Doomsday Book, Judge Jeffreys and the Bloody Assizes. We used to visit Salisbury quite often in my childhood – gammon and pineapple at the Berni Inn, what a treat – and we would always visit the magnificent cathedral which dates from the thirteenth century. The cathedral has a huge knave, but its spire is the tallest in England. It still takes my breath away to this day. As I slowly drove past, I was in awe of its magnificence.

Depeche Mode were playing still as I drove on. I’m always reminded of one of my favourite ever days when I listen to their music. Right after our game in Palo Alto in 2007, I drove to Las Vegas in one session and Depeche Mode provided the musical backdrop as I drove past Bakersfield and Barstow and through the magnificent scenery approaching Vegas. It was if I was in my own personal Anton Corbijn video.

Heaven.

Southampton was reached at about 12.45pm. I again parked at the train station. Outside, the weather was indeed cold. I buttoned up my Barbour and donned my Yankee cap. The boys were in “Yates” a mere fifteen minutes away. The site of Southampton’s lovely old stadium, The Dell, was around ten minutes to the north. I only ever visited The Dell on three occasions with Chelsea – 1994 to 1996 – and I miss it. It was their home from 1897 to 2001. It was an idiosyncratic and cosy old place. Peter Osgood, of course, graced it with his presence after he left Chelsea in 1974. I remember when it was terraced on four sides and gates of around 30,000 squeezed in, but it only held 15,000 towards the end of its existence.

One of my friends, Neil, grew up with the Southampton and England player Matthew Le Tissier on the island of Guernsey. For the two games in 1996, Neil was able to get tickets for a few of us, in the home seats, from Matthew. For the game in February 1996, Neil arranged for us to meet Matt briefly before the game. We met up in a nearby pub, and then walked over to the match day office. The Dell was very compact, squashed between four roads in the shape of a parallelogram; that is, the two end stands were oddly shaped triangles. Everything about the place was quaint, quintessentially English – and cramped.

We met Matt Le Tissier and posed for a few photographs in a ridiculously small hallway. There were four of us; Neil, his brother Daryl, plus Glenn and myself. It was great to see Neil just chatting away to his old school friend. We looked on in awe. The late Chelsea director Matthew Harding always had a massive crush on Le Tissier and tried desperately to get him to sign for us in around that time. It was rumoured that he always carried a Le Tissier sticker in his wallet. Although a boyhood Spurs fan, Le Tissier loved life at Southampton and was not tempted. He played his entire at Southampton and credit to him for it. ( I would strongly advise any new Chelsea fans to Google his goals; you won’t be disappointed.) This story took an inevitable twist, however, when the Chelsea team suddenly appeared in this most ridiculously small hallway. Before we knew it, we were rubbing shoulders with our heroes as they made their way into the changing rooms. Fair credit to the players, though – we were still able to get our photographs taken with a few of them. They took the time for us and we really appreciated it.

There are photographs of us with Dennis Wise, John Spencer, David Lee and – wait for it – Ruud Gullit.

Chelsea went on to win 3-2, with Wisey scoring two and – if memory serves – Ruud getting the winner after a lovely break with the scores level. I think we tried to restrain ourselves when the winner went in – we were amongst home supporters remember – but I’m sure we gloriously failed. One of the loveliest away games of that Glenn Hoddle era was completed when the four of us stayed the night at Ron Harris’ hotel and bar in Warminster.

Lovely times.

“Yates” was heaving with Chelsea – on two floors – and I eventually found Alan and Gary, along with a gaggle of other away day regulars. There was time for just one pint. I spoke with friends about the priorities for the season. I again uttered disdain that Chelsea has prioritised finishing fourth – and maybe elimination from next year’s Champions League after a single tie – ahead of winning the F.A. Cup Final in May.

Yes…I know…”must get Champions League football, must generate money, must tempt quality new players, must get Champions League football, must generate money, must tempt quality new players…”

That’s all well and good. But I don’t see “Finishing Fourth” in our honours section yet.

Of course, joking aside, this clamour for a Champions League spot every season is not the fault of Chelsea Football Club but the fault of UEFA and their buggering-up of the old established European Cup which served everyone one so well from 1956 to 1992.

And I hate them for it.

We made our way to St. Mary’s, no more than a twenty-minute walk to our east. After Saints moved out of The Dell in 2001, the first game in the league at St. Mary’s was the visit of Chelsea. Surrounded by several gasometers, industrial units and a large cement works, the setting is far from salubrious and far from the residential charm of The Dell.

I was in the seats in good time. I popped down to take several shots of the team warming up. I chatted briefly to Gill and Graeme who were as non-plussed about the game in Missouri as me.

“Foreign tours should be at the start of the season when everyone is fresh and eager and full of enthusiasm.”

I spotted that Fernando Torres was wearing a face-mask. A chap next to me was moaning.

“Bloody ridiculous. You wouldn’t get Peter Osgood wearing a face mask.”

He clearly had it in for Torres, but I am afraid I was not quick-witted enough to mutter –

“Or Demba Ba.”

The team was announced and there were mutters of discontent. There were wholesale changes, but we heard rumours that Mata was ill. We always miss his intelligent play. Hazard – the form player – was on the side-lines. Elsewhere, in came Moses and Marin.

The M and M boys.

Maris and Mantle, they ain’t.

“Well, Benitez – prepare yourself for some flak if we mess this up.”

The game, in the end, was a shocker.

Southampton – just as they did in the cup game in January – were faster out of the traps and their players were evidently more at ease than us. Their passing and movement was causing our defence early problems, with the central pairing of John Terry and Branislav Ivanovic seemingly ill-prepared for the raids of Lambert and Rodriguez. Two early blocks from Ivanovic kept us in the game, but the portents were not good.

Midway through the first-period, disaster struck. A fine move from Southampton found Rodriguez breaking into the box. I almost looked away, so convinced was I that he would score. He neatly tucked the ball past Petr Cech and the home crowd erupted. This was no more than the home team deserved. We hoped for an F.A. Cup style recovery. Our play suggested that we were in for a tougher battle this time around, though.

Then, a Moses cross was deflected for a corner. The diminutive Marin sent over a cross. I snapped a photograph of John Terry rising unhindered and heading easily into the Southampton goal. The defence was nowhere. The simplicity of the goal astounded me.

Soft touch.

Our relief was short-lived. Two minutes later, a Ricky Lambert free-kick from around twenty-five yards out was sent spinning and curving over the wall and past a late dive from Cech. I unfortunately captured that on film, too.

Bugger.

The mood in the Chelsea end was of growing annoyance with the team and manager alike. I chatted to Alan about the resting of players ahead of Monday’s big game with United. Surely Benitez’ resting of Hazard and Cole – the obvious examples – suggested that he was thinking ahead to Monday. Of course, some fans want the best team to play in every game, others claim rotation is the key to success.

What is my opinion? I don’t know. Give me another forty years to work it out and I’ll tell you.

After a few barbed exchanges between the two sets of supporters based on our winning of the Champions League, a Southampton chant made me chuckle amongst the gloom.

“The Johnstone’s Paint Trophy – You’ll Never Win That.”

The first-half finished with Southampton back on top and causing us many headaches. Torres – apart from having a goal called back for offside – wasn’t in the game. Oscar was nowhere to be seen. Marin ran into defenders. The play completely by-passed Frank Lampard. Our defence looked brittle. There were, to sum up, no positives.

During a toilet-break at half time, I heard that the Southampton announcer was barking some nonsense about fans racing from one penalty box to the other in a half-time contest. I groaned. During the race, the theme to the Benny Hill Show was played.

How bloody apt.

Our players had been running around like comedians all game.

The second-half was similarly dire. Our play was slow and our movement poor. At last a touch of skill from Torres, who danced past several challenges, but the move then broke down. A pass from Azpilicueta set up Moses, who blasted over.

On the hour, Benitez changed it, replacing Marin with Hazard. We were surprised that Oscar stayed on to be honest; such was his lack of involvement. A few Southampton chances came and went. Despite a few strong blocks, Ivanovic seemed constantly out of position. Even Terry looked troubled. Azpilicueta often found himself in a good position but his crossing was awful. Ryan Bertrand often looked lost. The Chelsea support was quiet. I haven’t sung so little at an away game for ages.

I commented to Al, with a pained expression on my face –

“There’s nobody talking to each other, nobody encouraging each other.”

With the Chelsea support getting ever more frustrated, Hazard at last showed his class, breaking into the box and flashing the ball across the box where a ball back to Lampard was the better option. Ramires added a little more thrust in place of Mikel. We wanted Ba to enter the game so that Benitez could play Torres and Ba together. Instead, his last roll of the dice was Benayoun for the lacklustre Oscar. Benayoun is not the worst player to play for Chelsea – I’ll admit he was a fair player in the past – but he is clearly disliked with a passion by the Chelsea support. One burst from him almost silenced the critics.

I was watching the clock continually and hoped for salvation. A Lampard free-kick flew over the bar. He had been awful all day long. The miss did not surprise me.

The whistle blew. In truth, a draw would have been unfair on Southampton.

We were dire and we knew it.

The fans knew it.

The players knew it.

What a bloody season.

Tales From The District Line Derby

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 17 March 2013.

I was decidedly under the weather on Friday and Saturday. The drive up to London for the West Ham United game did not overly excite me, despite the prolonged after-glow of the second-half comeback at Old Trafford and our progression into the last eight of the Europa League. With Parky unable to attend again, I set off for London at 10.30am. By the time I had reached Warminster, I was shocked to see the higher ground dusted with snow. We are rarely troubled by snowfall in mid-March. By the time I had headed up and over Salisbury Plain, I was surrounded by the white stuff. I needed to put my sunglasses on; the glare was intense.

The recent story concerning Chelsea’s trip to the United States being tagged on the end of the current season – still nothing more than a tabloid rumour at this stage of course – had left me rather confused and underwhelmed. If true, it just about summed the season up, one which is already on its way to being the longest and messiest in our history.

To recap once more; eight different competitions, two managers, Civil War amongst the supporters, games from Seattle in the west to Yokohama in the east, games in Kiev and Kazan, five games against Manchester United, possibly four games against Manchester City, possibly three Cup Finals, the games go on and on, mile after mile, time zone after time zone.

And at the end of it, when the players are almost down and out, a return trip to New York?

To me, that makes no sense.

In fact, personally speaking, I was totally disinterested by the prospect of a US tour. I’ve been lucky enough to attend games at each and every one of our 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009 and 2012 US tours and yet this one, to be possibly added at the end of this hangover of a season, left me cold. My ambivalence truly shocked me.

“You know what, Chelsea – I’m boycotting it.”

In truth, with a potential Europa League Cup Final taking place on Wednesday 15 May, it will surprise nobody to know that I’d be unlikely to be able to do both. Contrary to popular opinion, I do show up for work occasionally.

I tried re-focusing on the game against West Ham United. I wondered if Joe Cole might play a part. Should he do so, I was convinced that we would shower him with thanks and applause in lieu of his seven years with us, rather than mirror the venomous scorn which greets Frank Lampard every time he plays West Ham. They are truly obsessed by him, aren’t they? How very unhealthy for them. All that negativity. I guess they will never change.

I collected Bournemouth Steve at Amesbury at 11.30am and the weather soon deteriorated further. We were hit with a grey melange of rain and road spray. The driving conditions were terrible. Steve’s last game was against QPR – what a shocker that was – and we spent a few minutes reviewing the state of affairs at the club. I answered a few of his questions and – maybe it was the weather which darkened my mood – my responses obviously surprised him.

“You seem disillusioned, Chris.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

This has been, after all, a pretty shambolic follow-up to our coronation as Champions of Europe last May.

I stopped for a coffee at Fleet and then made good speed on the approach into London. I travelled in past Twickenham, then over the Thames. A mile or so to the north, Chelsea were playing Juventus in the Next Gen Cup at Brentford’s Griffin Park. Had I been feeling slightly better, there’s no doubt I would have attempted to catch that game on the way in to London. Instead, I was only “up” for the main event.

I strolled into the busy pub at about 1.45pm. There were St. Patricks Day hats being worn by the bar-staff and clientele alike. I had made a conscious decision of not choosing a green pullover for the day out of protest. The lads were already up to their eyes in lager. Feeling rather groggy, I was giving it all a rather large swerve. Dave, one of the New York Blues who now resides in London, arrived and we had a good old natter while Sunderland and Norwich struggled to attract our attention on the TV screen above. The length of the current season caused us much amazement.

Dave exclaimed “we could still have eighteen games to play yet!”

I was, to be quite plain, stunned.

Eighteen more games? I quickly did some arithmetic.

League – ten.
Europa – five.
F.A. Cup – three.

Yep – eighteen games.

If you add in the potential US tour, twenty games plus.

“Stop the season. I want to get off.”

It was a cold and wet walk down to Stamford Bridge. By the time Dave and I had reached the turnstiles to the MHU – he had tickets a few seats away from me – my jacket was sodden. We decided to head inside to “Jimmy’s” to dry out and for yet more dissection of the current state of affairs at Chelsea Football Club. We spoke – in general terms – about the size of our club and, specifically, of previous US tours and our American fan base, the reluctance of the club to seriously consider plans for stadium enlargement, the thorny subject of ticket prices and the idiosyncratic way in which Roman runs the club. After our chat, there is little wonder that the mood was hardly lifted.

I made my way up the stairs to the upper tier. Once inside, Stamford Bridge looked grey and still. Alan, himself still struggling with a head cold, was able to confirm that Fulham were still beating Tottenham at White Hart Lane. If we could beat West Ham, a little daylight would appear between us and Spurs. With a game in hand on them, we could open up a nice little gap. And here is the strange dichotomy. Despite our warm feelings for last season, we need no reminding that we finished a lowly sixth at the end of the league campaign. This season, despite a tough run-in, I still feel that a third place finish is very achievable.

So – an improvement in the league.

But, my goodness, it doesn’t feel like it does it?

There were plenty of team changes from the win against Steaua on Thursday. In came Gary Cahill, Frank Lampard, Victor Moses and Demba Ba. In the end, Joe Cole was not involved.

What an array of missed chances in the first-half. Demba Ba was presented with the first real chance. He was clean through with only Jaaskelainan to beat. However, against his former team, he had the Fernando Torres jitters and poked the ball well wide. At the other end, Collins crashed a shot over the bar.

John Terry then produced a little piece of pure theatre. He began warming up in front of the family section in the East Lower, but then drifted down to the corner flag adjacent to the baying away support. If the West Ham fans dislike Frank first and foremost, then John is just behind. There were chants about – I am sure – John’s mother. He just stood by the corner flag and took it all. I looked away and then heard a roar. Alan told me that our captain made a point of bending over, with his backside towards the Hammers.

He then walked over to the corner flag once more, turned towards the away fans and began reciting the famous soliloquy from Hamlet –

“To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”

The West Ham supporters, such Philistines, were clearly no fans of William Shakespeare and the booing continued. Not to be outdone, John Terry then set light to five torches which he then began juggling in front of the claret and blue hordes. He showed great manual dexterity as the torches flew up into the air, then returned, the smoke adding to the drama. Still, the booing did not relent.

“Tough crowd” whispered our captain.

He then produced a flipchart in which he detailed a cure for the common cold.

Still more boos.

“Ah, fcuk you, then…”

On the pitch, a few yards away, a shot from Eden Hazard was cleared, but only as far as Juan Mata. With the West Ham defence apparently sleeping, he spotted the unmarked Frank Lampard and hooked a ball back towards the penalty spot. A looping header easily beat the West Ham ‘keeper.

The Stamford Bridge crowd were in rapture. How fantastic that Frank should reach the magnificent milestone of two hundred career Chelsea goals against his former team and in front of their fans. He raced down to the corner, kicked away John Terry’s flipchart and joined his captain in joyous celebration. The rest of his team mates soon joined in.

How perfect.

Well, not quite. How on earth had I not put some money on Frank to be the first goal scorer?

“Twas written in the stars.”

Just after, West Ham had a goal ruled out for a foul, but then the Chelsea attacks began again. We dominated possession. Efforts from Luiz, Moses and Mata went close. Ba had two more efforts which did not trouble the West Ham ‘keeper.

“This scoring lark isn’t easy, is it?”

Although the forward play of Mata and Hazard excited us, I commented to Alan that it was lovely to see Cesar Azpilicueta play so well. His chasing back and general marking was excellent. By this stage, we had heard that Fulham had held on to win at Tottenham. This was indeed excellent news.

It was more of the same during the second-half. With Mata and Hazard at the heart of all of our attacking play, Alan called them “the fireflies” and I appreciated this term of affection. They were certainly flitting around, with the defenders mesmerized by their movement. Eden Hazard spun away from a marker and initiated a mazy run at the heart of the West Ham defence and soon found himself smothered. With no less than four defenders surrounding him, he managed to extricate himself from this tightest of spots with an exquisite rabona – one of Torres’ tricks – across the box. He was buzzing. Not long after, a lovely move involving the two fireflies resulted in Hazard slamming the ball in with his left foot.

2-0.

The crowd roared again.

He slid towards us on his knees, down in the north-west corner. He was soon mobbed by his smiling team mates.

As the second-half played on, Chelsea carved out more and more chances, though our finishing was quite profligate. A high shot from Lampard was particularly wasteful. One suspects that the West Ham fans were soon muttering “Scott Canham would have scored that.” Despite our chances, West Ham themselves occasionally peppered Petr Cech’s goal, though he was only rarely troubled.

Sam Allardyce brought on Carlton Cole as a late substitute. The Chelsea fans showed some class by warmly applauding our former striker. I can remember his debut, way back in the spring of 2002.

“See, West Ham. That’s how to honour former players.”

I guess they just wouldn’t understand.

Tales From Thursday Night Football

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Steaua Bucharest : 14 March 2013.

I wasn’t one of the 150 or so Chelsea who ventured out to the Romanian capital last week for the first leg of this Europa Cup tie. From what I have heard, it was one of the best European trips for a while. Because there were so few travelers, everyone kept together and a boozy time, aided by ridiculously cheap alcohol, resulted in a fine trip. The game, as is so often the case, was the least enjoyable part of the trip. In The Goose before the return leg, I briefly chatted to Mick, who had been one of the 150. The strangest thing during his short stay was being greeted by a family of locals who were sleeping in the lobby of the apartment he had rented for the three days. By the time he had awoken in the morning, they had disappeared. Mick shrugged it off. I wondered if this sort of thing was common…in Liverpool.

Parky and I had reached The Goose in good time, but I soon realised how quiet the pub seemed to be. My good friend Orlin, the Bulgarian who now lives in San Francisco, was in town en route to Sofia and soon joined us. We had managed to wangle a spare ticket for a mate of his too, so everything was looking rosy. I noted that the Chelsea website mentioned that ticket sales for the game had been suspended, which obviously indicated that tickets had still been on sale. I was asked during the day what I thought the gate might be. I really had no clue, though the figure of 32,000 stuck in my head.

Daryl mentioned that it was exactly one year to the day since that amazing 4-1 victory over Napoli. Our greatest ever journey started that night. In comparison, the game with Steaua seemed to be something of an afterthought. Personally speaking, a lot of my focus was still on the F.A. Cup tie with Manchester United. However, going into the game, I had no real fears about us exiting the competition to Steaua. They were for the taking, despite the woeful performance in Bucharest.

Alan had sold my ticket for the game in Romania to one of around twenty Chelsea supporting Bulgarians from Varna. I mentioned this to Orlin, who was one of the leading lights in setting up the oft-seen Chelsea/Bulgaria Supporters Club. As I have mentioned before, Orlin’s club of birth is Levski Sofia; he still holds a season ticket at the stadium. The price? A whopping £35. Parky and I almost spat our drinks out when we heard that. Anyway, Orlin mentioned the various friendships that exist between clubs in Sofia and further beyond in the old communist bloc. For example, Levski’s main rival is CSKA Sofia, the old army team. It seems that supporters of the three “army” clubs of Bulgaria, Romania and the former Yugoslavia (CSKA Sofia, Steaua Bucharest and Dynamo Belgrade) often cross borders to attend each other’s games. Additionally, there are many Levski / Chelsea fans. Therefore, for the game in Bucharest, Orlin explained that many Levski fans travelled to Romania to support Chelsea and many CSKA fans travelled to support Steaua.

With that, I looked up and spotted a “Bulgaria Spurs” banner at the San Siro.

What does this all prove? Maybe that the standard of Bulgarian football is not so great and football fanatics will travel vast distances to get their fix.

From Bulgaria to Tottenham, though? Oh boy.

Of course, Chelsea has their own little band of allies in Rangers, Hearts, Linfield, Feyenoord and Lazio. We spoke briefly about the chances of meeting Spurs in the final in Amsterdam. Tottenham, of course, has a link with Ajax, the old Jewish club of Amsterdam, so the thought of a Chelsea versus Tottenham in Amsterdam, with a side portion of Ajax versus Feyenoord thrown in for good measure brought wry looks from the two of us.

Orlin’s mate arrived just in time to see William Gallas put through his own net to tie things at the San Siro. The pub exploded with glee. To see that lot go out would set things up nicely before we set off for the match. We crossed our fingers as we set off for the stadium. It was another cold night in SW6. There were many Romanians outside Stamford Bridge, obviously without tickets. A chap was using a tannoy to dissuade away fans from entering the forecourt. There were more police than usual on show.

Outside the turnstiles, all was quiet. Deathly quiet. There was no line, no queue. I wondered how low this attendance could possibly be. Please don’t embarrass me, Chelsea.

Once inside, I glanced across at the East Stand and it was just over half-full.

Oh boy…

Thankfully, the other stands were in better shape. The three thousand Romanians in the opposite corner were in good voice already. As the teams entered the pitch, I spotted many away fans holding up their phones and there were many doing the same in the designated home areas. Our home areas had obviously been infiltrated by Steaua fans. We could be in for an interesting evening.

Alongside me, Alan – like myself – was suffering with a cold and a chest infection. He excused himself from singing too much. He had said that the noise created by the home fans in Bucharest was very impressive. I wasn’t so sure we’d be able to generate one tenth of that, to be honest.

Soon into the game, I texted a few friends to say that I predicted a gate of 28,000.

What did I know of Steaua? Very little. Our paths almost crossed in early 1988 when I sold some English football badges outside the San Siro when they played Milan in a friendly. Only 14,000 were at that Sunday game some 25 years ago, but I was not one of them. I chose to stay outside and attempt to sell some more badges to late-comers and early-leavers. I made £40 that afternoon; enough for a few more meals as I travelled by train between friends in Germany and Italy. Unbeknown to me at the time, the game foretold the 1989 European Cup Final when a Milan team including Ruud Gullit defeated a Steaua team including Dan Petrescu. There was, in fact, a nice interview with Dan Petrescu – what a lovely player he was – in the programme.

The first real chance of the game took place when Mikel lost possession and a ball was pumped through for Rusescu. I thought that there was a hint of offside, but – not to worry – the shot was easily saved by Petr Cech. A couple more away efforts on Cech’s goal signalled that this would be no walk in the park. We were treated to two rare Jon Obi Mikel shots on goal midway through the first period, but the ‘keeper was untroubled. Then, thankfully a breakthrough. Ramires threaded in Mata, who danced a few more steps inside the box and nudged the ball goal wards. It almost apologetically limped over the line.

Phew.

Torres blasted wide, and then the lively Hazard shot at the ‘keeper. However, just on half-time, a Steaua corner was not cleared and Chiriches blasted high into the net from only a few yards out.

Hell.

A hundred or so Steaua fans in the West Lower danced with glee, but were oddly not escorted out.

We now had to score two more goals to advance.

The second-half began slowly, but came to life when we were given a free-kick near the corner flag down below me. I captured Juan Mata’s kick on film. Alan shouted – “Go on JT. Get your head on this, son.”

I then just caught John Terry’s perfect leap to meet the ball and send it crashing down and into the Steaua goal.

The crowd roared and the captain reeled away in delight.

No time to waste. Let’s get another.

Chelsea were now enjoying more and more of the ball as the opposition tired. Their fans, who had spent the first-half noisily whistling every time we were in possession, grew quieter. On several occasions, Eden Hazard was just a blur. One rapier-like sprint into the Steaua box was the most exciting piece of play of the entire match. When he is on fire, he is lovely to watch. However, a fine one-handed save from Petr Cech kept us in the game.

On seventy minutes, Hazard played in Fernando Torres and the whole of the Matthew Harding held their breath. One touch, then a split second to steady himself.

Torres thought of ice cubes, of a bitterly cold wind, of liquid nitrogen, of absolute zero.

It worked.

Rather than a heated, flustered finish, his body froze and he only thought of one thing. He coolly and calmly used his weaker left foot to score, slipping the ball past the ‘keeper at the far post.

Again, the crowd erupted. I watched through my lens as he celebrated with team mates at the corner flag only a few yards away.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Only Petr Cech and John Terry did not clamber all over him.

Phew.

Was this the match winner? It looked like it.

Just after, Szukala appeared to clip Torres as he raided the penalty box again. The referee’s assistant behind the goal line was incredibly well placed but – surprise! – elected not to give anything. I am yet to see these officials actively engage in any game I have attended. What a waste of time. Torres must have been clipped as he lay on his front for ages. He was taken off, re-appeared with a shirt which did not have a number, then had to go off to get that replaced. His bloodied nose was not obvious to me.

With five minutes to go, a desperate lunge at the excellent Hazard and the referee rewarded Chelsea with a penalty. I watched as Torres took the ball and – with memories of Sunderland – we all hoped for a similar result.

I chose to photograph the moment of impact.

Snap.

I looked up to see the ball smack against the bar.

Torres in a nutshell…one step forward, two steps back.

A couple more Chelsea chances came and went. The referee blew for the end of the game and we all heaved a sigh of relief. As I walked away, I saw the Steaua team in one extended huddle. They had acquitted themselves well over the two legs and really should have sewn it up in Bucharest. I made my way out into the cold of a London night. Outside the back of the Matthew Harding, a small group of Chelsea fans were singing about Rafa Benitez. I suddenly realised that it was the very first such song that I had heard the entire evening. Outside on the Fulham Road I spotted even more Romanians. It was clear that many had not made it inside.

Before I knew it I was back inside in my car and headed home, sneezing away like a good’un, my cold now making life quite unpleasant.

It was a long and weary drive back to Somerset.

Tales From The Match

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 10 March 2013.

There was every reason to suggest that the trip to Old Trafford for our F.A.Cup quarter final with Manchester United would be a tough one. Our season seems to have taken a downward trajectory in recent weeks, culminating in that dire ninety minutes in Bucharest, one of the worst Chelsea performances in living memory. One phrase kept resonating in my mind on Sunday morning.

I was travelling in blind faith.

I’d try to make the most of the day – of course I would – and I already had a visit to the Lowry Art Gallery planned to take place before the match, but there were negative vibes running through to my core. I chose a black Henri Lloyd polo to wear to the game and I did wonder if it might be an ominous sign for the day ahead.

The man in black.

Gulp.

This would be my seventeenth visit to Old Trafford to watch the boys play Manchester United. I have only visited Anfield – eighteen – on more occasions. Of course, there have been good and bad memories. There were two previous F.A. Cup games that I had attended; in 1988 and in 1999. In truth, we have only been totally outclassed on a few of those seventeen occasions. Who remembers the surreal atmosphere and the false dawn last season under Andre Villas-Boas? We lost 3-1 but left the stadium singing “we’re gonna win the league” – and meaning it. Of course, there was a Torres goal, but also the career-defining Torres miss, too, both in front of the Stretford End. Somehow the Rooney penalty fluff seems to have been forgotten. Such is life.

I left home in Somerset at 9.45am. This was yet another solo away trip, this one. Not to worry. Music was soon blaring – Robin Guthrie, then Depeche Mode – as I drove north and onto the motorway network. It was mightily cold outside, but at least the grey skies were not issuing forth some of Manchester’s finest rain. No doubt that would come later.

I texted Alan – due to set off from Chelsea on one of the club coaches – to tell him that I was now “on the road.”

“Spring-Heeled Jack Kerouac.”

He soon replied “Ian Dury.”

As I headed north, I tried not to ruminate too much about the game. However, one topic kept dominating my thoughts. Ron Gourlay had recently reconfirmed the club’s priorities for the rest of the season; that of securing a Champions League place rather than silverware. Now, I’m no fool, and I understand the pure economic reasons behind that thought process. His view has probably placated some of our fans. But what a sad indictment on the modern game that my beloved Chelsea Football Club would put finishing fourth higher than winning the F.A. Cup.

“If that is the case, Ron…why the hell am I bothering with this eight hour return trip to Manchester?”

At just after 10.30am, I received a text from Californian Andy Wray, evidently over for the game.

“Kerouac.”

I had seen on “Facebook” that he was meeting up with Cathy and was travelling up by train. It would be his first-ever match at Old Trafford.

Then, an hour later, I received the exact same text. This time it was from Burger, the transplanted Canadian, and now living in Stafford.

“Kerouac.”

At 11.45am, I spotted the first United coach – from Devon, I believe – as I drove past West Bromwich.

Just after, I again texted Alan to let him know my progress.

“Five Goal Gordon.”

On the CD, Depeche Mode sang about a “Black Day.” In my mind, things were starting to take shape. A theme was definitely starting to evolve here. Would the day be black or would it be white? To be truthful, I expected a black thumping. The chances of the opposite seemed desperately remote. When snow started to fall, fleetingly, at around Stoke, the white flakes brought a smile to my face.

I changed the music and chose The Stranglers.

The men in black.

This was a proper black and white day. At that exact moment, I glanced to my right and spotted a herd of black and white Friesian cattle. Around thirty minutes earlier, I had spotted a large flock of both black and white birds suddenly take off from a field adjacent to the M6. This seemed an odd occurrence to me.

Yep – black and white…the theme for the day.

As I headed north through Staffordshire, there were the first few spots of rain. And then I saw some snow on the highest parts of the Peak District to my east. However, I was making good time and – I’ll be honest – I was in my element.

“What else ya gonna do on a Sunday?”

I’m rather familiar with the sights of Manchester now. It was, after all, only two weeks since that dire trip to Eastlands. Away in the distance, in the city centre, I spotted the tall hotel where Real Madrid had recently stayed. Further beyond, the desolate moors. More snow.

At 1.15am, I had parked-up, just three-and-a-half hours after leaving home. This was probably a personal best for Old Trafford. But my goodness, the wind was bitterly cold. I briskly walked through Gorse Park, with the European-style floodlight pylons of the Lancashire cricket ground to my right and the local council office block where Morrissey worked in his first ever job to my left.

Welcome to Manchest’oh. The home of Unih’ed.

Outside the stadium, the “half-and-half scarves” sellers were busy, as were the lads selling the two main United fanzines (“United We Stand” and “Red Issue”). Not many Chelsea were on the forecourt. I had a look around. The Munich memorial always looks classy. Without further ado, I headed north and soon found myself at the Salford Quays. Originally, this busy inland dock area allowed the products of the world’s first industrialised city to be transported west on the Manchester Ship Canal and out into the Irish Sea and beyond. The deep-seated rivalry between the cities of Liverpool and Manchester was, if not initiated, deepened by the building of this canal by Manchester’s entrepreneurs, who were unwilling to pay the expensive dock fees at Liverpool. The area has been revitalised in recent years, with the BBC having moved many of their staff north from the TV centre in London to the Media City complex at Salford Quays. In addition to waterside apartments, there is the Imperial War Museum North and the Lowry Art Gallery on either side of one of the widest channels.

I visited the Lowry once before, on the day that Avram Grant made his bow as Chelsea boss, and I could hardly believe that it was over five years ago. As I walked over the gently swaying footbridge, the wind was bitter as it came off the choppy waters of the former docks. Away to my right, the hulking structure of Old Trafford dominated the view.

I spent a very enjoyable hour and a quarter inside The Lowry. I made a confession to the rosy-faced chap on the information desk.

“I’m a Chelsea fan and I’m here just to take my mind off the game.”

He smiled and replied “oh, I’ll be a fan for you today.”

“Are you City? Ah,good man.”

What is it that they say about your enemy’s enemy being your friend?

L.S. Lowry was one of England’s most revered painters of the twentieth century, with his heavily stylised images of urban life in the industrialised centres of northern England. A short twenty minute film, including black and white film of him at work, was utterly fascinating. It was wonderful to hear his voice, too, matter-of-factly explaining how he went about his daily painting routine. He seemed a very complex character. A loner. Possibly autistic. In love with his work.

I then spent a while viewing a selection of his work in four or five rooms. His home in Pendlebury – in Salford, no more than a couple of miles to the north – afforded him easy access to the streets and mills, the bustling city-scapes, the desolation of urban blight, which became the focus of his work.

His trademark was of simplistic pencil-thin figures made famous in a 1978 song which I found myself constantly singing to myself –

“He painted Salford ‘s smokey tops.
On cardboard boxes from the shops.
And parts of Ancoats where I used to play.
I’m sure he once walked down our street.
Cause he painted kids who had nowt on their feet.
The clothes we wore had all seen better days.”

His famous painting “Going to the match” – based not on Old Trafford or Maine Road, but Bolton Wanderers’ Burnden Park – drew this comment from Jack Charlton, the brother of Bobby –

“This is just like it was when I was young; wooden open stands, cinders underfoot, terrible conditions in the toilets…it’s fabulous.”

Some script alongside the photo told its own story –

“Lowry’s interest in football was partly in the crowd itself and how a match brought them together. It is this, rather than the match itself, that he depicts.”

As I left, I looked over to Old Trafford and took a few photographs of the 21st Century equivalents of his Bolton spectators heading over the bridge, the skies now clear and blue, their eyes set on the stadium.

Adjacent to the art gallery, there is a large shopping outlet – surprisingly, I did not venture in. There were a couple of restaurants nearby and these were full of singing United fans. However, as I myself headed back over the bridge, I heard a defiant “Oh Dennis Wise” and then “Carefree.”

Accents from all parts of England were being spoken by the United fans going to the match. There was even a voice from Yorkshire. Now, even to my ears, that didn’t sound right. Yorkshire and Lancashire have animosities far out-reaching those of Manchester and Liverpool. For a Yorkshire native to support Manchester United was surely the oddest marriage. I immediately thought of my college mate Bob, a Leeds fan from Bramley in West Yorkshire, a few miles from Elland Road. He memorably once announced to me that “I’ve hated Manchester United longer than I’ve liked Leeds.”

I thought back to the cup game in 1988. On that day, Bob attended the game alongside me and some eight thousand rabid Chelsea fans. Of course, that 1987-1988 season eventually resulted in relegation via the dreaded play-offs (we are the only team to finish fourth from bottom and still get relegated – imagine how I felt that summer. Black ain’t half of it.)

However, in January 1988, we had not yet reached the relegation places, though manager John Hollins was under considerable pressure. I had just eleven days previously seen us lose 4-0 to Swindon Town in the Full Members Cup. Things were getting grim. Yet on that day some 25 years ago – and despite gates averaging only around 20,000 – we were roared on by almost half of our home crowd…the equivalent today of 16,000 away followers.

My diary from the day tells the story…

”pink Lacoste, Marc O’Polo sweatshirt, Aquascutum scarf, leather jacket, Reeboks…caught the train from Frome…there were ten familiar faces – all MUFC – who were on the train too, but they got off at Bath (probably to catch the supporters’ bus to Old Trafford)…sat with a young Chelsea lad from Bath…chatted to two girls from Cardiff who were Spurs fans on the way to Port Vale…missed our connection at Birmingham, so had to go via Stafford…a can of Grolsch…Chelsea lads joined at Crewe…got to Piccadilly at 2pm, a raucous bus to Old Trafford…pleased to see Bob already present…we had all of K Stand…we played poorly…Freestone saved a 7 minute McClair penalty…but Whiteside (42) and McClair (71) sealed our doom…no confidence in our team…we hardly had any attacks at all…brightened up when Nevin and Hazard came on…alas no fat copper to take the piss out of this time…a bloody long wait in the mud to catch the train back to Piccadilly…a row at the station, but not severe…eventually back to Bristol at 10.40pm…Dad picked me up…Spurs lost too…so much for Wembley.”

I was soon outside the away entrance. Unlike 1988, our “allowance” was 6,000 but I had heard that we had only sold 4,500 or so. I hoped that there would be no gaping holes in our section. The last thing I wanted was to hear the “WWYWYWS” nonsense being sung at us by 70,000 United fans.

In the bar areas, Chelsea were in good voice. I noticed the DJ Trevor Nelson, quietly stood to one side, and caught his eye. He nodded back. I suspect that his work for the BBC brings him up to Salford quite often. I bumped into Alan and Gary, then the Bristol lads – fresh from Bucharest – and then Burger and Julie. It would be Julie’s first ever game at Old Trafford. I said to one of my Chelsea acquaintances “well, we need to keep them out for the first twenty minutes…hell, no…the first five.”

I got to my seat…row 12 of the large upper deck, right in line with the penalty spot…the roof overhead afforded little light and there was a dark and gloomy atmosphere inside Old Trafford. For the first time ever at Old Trafford, I was able to see the outside world; a thin sliver of land above the lower main stand roof and the high roof overhead. Old Trafford is huge. The three-tiered North Stand was immense…the upper tier wasn’t even in view.

I took a look at all of the United flags and banners which decorate the balconies. They add so much character to the stadium in the same way that those at The Bridge add to our match experience.

The surprising news was that Van Persie was on the bench for United. As for Chelsea, there were masses of team changes since Bucharest.

The main one; Axon in.

As the two teams entered the pitch, the Stretford End unfurled a large banner featuring a photograph of the Busby Babes…black and white…but with bright scarlet shirts…from the fateful game in Belgrade, prior to the crash.

A Ba effort went wide and I commented to the bloke to my right “well, that’s one more shot than I thought we’d get.” I wasn’t smiling for long, though.

Before we had time to settle, Carrick pumped a great ball through to Chicarito. There was indecision from Cech and Cahill was lost at sea. A softly cushioned header from the little Mexican sent the ball looping up and over the stranded Cech and into the United goal. The stadium erupted. I looked at the clock to my left.

We hadn’t even lasted five minutes.

For Fcuk’s Sake.

Within five more minutes, a Wayne Rooney free-kick was played towards the far post and – how often do we see this in modern football? – the ball evaded everyone’s lunge and bounced past Cech into the goal.

Ten minutes gone.

2-0 down.

This could be a long day. With thoughts of a score resembling that of a rugby match, I sighed a million sighs. The Chelsea crowd, originally quite buoyant, were now resorting to the chants which have trademarked this season.

“We don’t care about Rafa…”

“When Rafa leaves Chelsea…”

“Roman Abramovich – is this what you want?”

“We want our Chelsea back…”

United were singing their songs too, needling the benched John Terry.

“Viva John Terry…”

“Where’s your racist centre-half?”

To be honest, I wanted to hide. We seemed to be on the end of a leathering both on and off the pitch. We had a few half-chances, but shots from Moses and Lampard were wasted. Cech made a sublime double-save, first from Rooney and then from the rebound which Luiz inexpicably headed back towards him. He rose, like Gordon Banks in Guadalajara in 1970, to tip it over. It was a sublime save.

We did manage to create a few more attempts on goal. I began talking to the two chaps to my left. Face Familiar Name Unknown #1, Face Familiar Name Unknown #2 and I agreed that although United had been on top, the first half had not been without chances. But then we agreed; United didn’t really have to attack. The mood was mixed…there was derision from some quarters, but I was ever hopeful. It was gratifying to note a few seeds of optimism amongst my two neighbours. To be honest, amongst the wailing and gnashing of teeth in the away section, it was lovely to chat with two lads who were forever cheering the team on – like me – and who were intelligent in their comments. There had already been an altercation further along the row which almost ended up in a fight. It was another example of near Civil War in the Chelsea ranks this season.

I chatted with Tim at half-time and we mulled over the game…”they don’t have to attack…they can just wait for us to attack and exploit our gaps…”

We expected more goals.

Soon into the second-half, I almost wanted the referee to blow up such was my fear for conceding more goals.

In the end it was the clichéd game of two halves.

One black, one white.

Soon into the second period, the manager made two key substitutions. Firstly, Mikel for Lampard. To be truthful, Frank had not enjoyed a great game and I thought that he gave Rooney far too much space. Secondly, Hazard – not the 1988 version – for Moses. Again no complaints.

In the upper tier of the East Stand our support increased.

Out of nowhere, a goal. Hazard picked the ball up on the edge of the box and, with hardly a moment’s thought, curled an exquisite shot past De Gea into the United goal. It was the same corner that United’s two goals had ended up.

Oh boy. The Chelsea support went crazy, jumping up and punching the air. I felt the sharp plastic of the seat in front cutting into my shin as I jumped and cavorted like a drunken fool.

Game on.

From then on, we dominated the game in a way that I have rarely seen. It was certainly our best 45 minutes this season and our best ever 45 minutes that I had ever seen at the home of United. With every passing minute, United’s support diminished.

Van Persie replaced Hernandez.

Worried? Of course.

“She said no, Robin, she said no…”

As I remember it, the increasingly confident Luiz won possession deep in our box and the worked the ball through. It found Oscar and he played in Ramires. Our little Brazilian dynamo wriggled inside Evans and found himself inside the box. With the entire Chelsea support roaring him on – “go on Rami!” – he coolly slotted the ball past the goalkeeper.

We went berserk.

Pandemonium.

Complete madness.

Arms up, bodies bouncing, screams of ecstasy, bodies falling, noise.

It was a Munich Moment all over again.

Ouch, my bloody shins.

The game now opened up further with Van Persie wasting several chances. However, United’s midfield gave us so much space that we were able to run at them each time we were in possession. Oscar and Mata twisted and turned, rarely losing the ball and Hazard provided much-needed thrust. A special word, though, for Mikel who continually broke up play in that indomitable way of his and provided the de facto defensive shield for Luiz and Cahill. Cahill, who had suffered badly in the first-half, grew with each minute. Luiz was very good.

With United fans starting to stream out, we chided them –

“Race you back to London – we’re gonna race you back to London…”

We roared the team on.

Torres replaced Mata. After last season’s game, could he be the saviour?

With the time running out, one amazing chance. Mata, stretching to take control of Luiz’ pass, and miraculously holding on to the ball despite appearing to run out of pitch in which to play, stayed on his feet, then twisted inside before prodding the ball towards goal. I immediately thought of Gianfranco Zola against United in 1997. I’m sure I saw the bloody net bulge.We jumped up as one, but turned aghast as the ball flew off of De Gea’s boot for a corner.

Phew.

The referee blew soon after and the Chelsea crowd roared their approval.

The United support was full of moans as I hot-footed back across Gorse Park. I was back at my car at 6.45pm…warmth! The incoming texts had provided me with a few moments of satisfaction on that walk back to the car.

From United fan Mike –

“Well done mate. Can’t see how you didn’t win that though. We were awful second half, mediocre in the first.”

From United fan Pete –

“Unlucky mate. The best team drew. Great pressing and control from your lot. Never seen us give the ball away so badly, so often.”

From me to them –

“Proud as fcuk.”

From United fan Pete –

“Rightly so.”

From United fan Mike –

“You should be mate. Showed great team spirit and were the better team over ninety minutes.”

I got back to the M6 in super-quick time. However, detours through Stoke and then the Black Country meant that I didn’t get home until 11.20pm. I was still buzzing when I got home…still buzzing as I trawled the internet at 1am.

Still buzzing at 1.30am…

Buzzing now…

Tales From The Same Old Scene

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 2 March 2013.

At 10am, I collected Glenn from The Royal Oak in Frome and then Andy from The Black Horse in Trowbridge about twenty minutes later. I pointed my car towards The Goose in Fulham. From pub to pub to pub. A football Saturday. A 3pm kick-off.

Bada bing.

Of course, my friendship with Glenn goes back as far as 1977. At Oakfield Middle School in Frome, Glenn’s Liverpool-supporting brother Paul was in the same class as me. Once Glenn joined us at the same school – he is two years younger – it didn’t take Paul long to introduce him to me. My first game at Stamford Bridge was in March 1974. Glenn’s first game was the home-opener with Everton in 1977. Our Chelsea match-going pedigree goes back almost forty years. A chance meeting in The Shed in August 1983 fired up our friendship to a new level and in that most cherished of seasons – the promotion campaign of Dixon, Speedie and Nevin – we accompanied each other to several games. The first game in which we travelled up together was against Newcastle United and we were rewarded with an immense game, a 4-0 Chelsea win and plenty of memories. With each trip to see our heroes, the bonds were strengthened and the friendship grew.

I have known Andy for almost thirty years. I have told the story of how we met before; a chance meeting in The Crown in Frome’s Market Place in the fantastic sun-kissed summer of 1984. I was with a couple of mates. He was with some chaps from Trowbridge. His little gaggle of friends and me were all wearing football schmutter and we tentatively edged around the prickly subject of starting up a conversation. A few glances were exchanged. I looked for clues. There were no small Chelsea pin badges on show. The four Trowbridge lads were obviously wary; they were the visitors to Frome and, at the time, there was a little unhealthy rivalry between the two towns, separated by only eight miles. Fisticuffs between the hooligan-element from Frome, Westbury and Trowbridge was a common occurrence at weekends. However, once I declared myself a Chelsea fan, the barriers fell.

“Yeah, we’re Chelsea too. Where did you get those Nikes mate?”

Unbeknown to me until recently, these four lads were mates with Parky. One of the lads – Laszlo – and I were wearing the exact same blue and white Pringle pullover.

“Of all the bars, in all the towns…”

Why this fascination with that 1983-1984 era?

It’s easy really. It acts as a benchmark. Despite all of our recent successes, I was probably never happier as a Chelsea fan than during the summer of 1984. I can remember, as though it was yesterday, sitting on a low wall, overlooking the river which circumnavigated the dairy where I worked for four months in that summer.

An early morning tea-break. My overalls undone to the waist. The sun already beating down on my back. Thoughts of away days to Arsenal, Tottenham, Liverpool and United. The resurgence of a sleeping Chelsea. And I’d be part of it.

It was always the cause of much glee that in my over-simplistic way of analysing things in those days that a simple eight hour shift at the dairy in 1984 earned me a take-home wage of £15.

£15 happened to be the exact same price as a trip to Stamford Bridge (£8 train ticket, £4 admission £3 for a programme and a couple of pints).

Perfect.

Back to 2013 and the trip up to Chelsea Land seemed to take no time at all. The three of us chatted virtually non-stop as I drove east. After the Rafa Benitez outburst on Wednesday, we certainly had enough to keep us occupied. Andy, who has only been to a handful of games this season, was lured to the West Brom game by the chance to join in the scorn being heaped on Benitez.

As for me, I was less enthusiastic. The thought of Stamford Bridge being swamped in ‘negative noise” just made me weary. This is not to say that there is not a time for protests, but I just felt depressed at the thought of the media scrutinising everything that would be said and sung, booed and hissed later in the afternoon.

In The Goose – Glenn’s first visit since the refurbishment – there was no general consensus about ‘The Benitez Rant.” There were many different opinions. Some were relishing the opportunity to vent further anger on the manager. Whisper it quietly, but several were of the opinion that Benitez was quite correct to call for a cessation of hostilities and for fans to galvanise behind the team. When talk was broadened to talk about the team and the way forward, opinions were equally diverse. Even on the subject of Frank Lampard, views varied. Some wanted a one year extension as a bare minimum, but others were more forthright; that the summer of 2013 would be the time to dispense with not only Frank Lampard but John Terry, too.

Glenn asked a great question; “If Mourinho returns in the summer…takes a look at things…decides that it is time to dispense with Terry and Lampard…would you be OK with it?”

Clear the old guard and start afresh.

Big questions.

There were also discussions about Thibaut Courtois, excelling in Madrid, and some friends were all for jettisoning Petr Cech in favour of the young Belgian phenomenon. I wasn’t so sure.

What a muddle.

The relative merits of other players were also discussed.

I had to smile at Simon’s comment –

“For all of Luiz’ frailties and defensive blunders, I still love him because he’s typical Chelsea. Crap and brilliant in equal measure.”

We all agreed that if the old guard left, other players would fill the vacuum, and new leaders would emerge. We all thought that Gary Cahill was a captain in the making.

“Our best pound for pound signing for ages.”

Talk veered away from the team and a few of us spoke about the Chelsea match going experience in 2013 and how it has all changed and how we have changed with it. More than one person confessed that they are not enjoying it much at the moment. After the heady days of May and our twin cup triumphs, this is of course not surprising, but a lot of us often comment that the match-day malaise set in years ago. I wondered if this was a simple result of all of the games that we have seen; that by nature, fans in our mid-forties are unlikely to be as mesmerized by the thought of Chelsea as we were in our teens. Rob said that he doesn’t feel a bond with the players these days. I admitted the same; or at least to the bond I had with Joey, Mickey, Eddie and John.

Ah, 1983-1984 again.

We then briefly touched on the view that we have become a spoilt fan base. There is – of course – a huge great big dollop of truth in this statement. I’d like to think that, in the parlance of today, that myself and my closest mates try to ‘keep it real”, but there is no shadow of a doubt that increasingly large factions of our support are a complete embarrassment.

I was reminded of the Manchester United banner which quotes the words from a James song.

“If I hadn’t seen such riches, I could live with being poor.”

I took my seat with only a few minutes to spare, just as the teams were about to enter the pitch. I checked with Alan to see if there had been any anti-Benitez protests.

“Nah, nothing.”

Big John and I shared a few words.

“I’m dreading this.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Especially after last season.”

“Typical Chelsea though. When we won the league in 1955, we finished twelfth the next season.”

“Yeah. It was always going to happen. Written in the stars.”

Despite the sense of dismay with what has happened to Chelsea this season (oh, wait – let me check…sorry, we’re in third place…damn those riches), there was another capacity crowd at Stamford Bridge. I was amazed at the lack of venom which greeted Benitez as he took his place on the bench. The verbal onslaught never really materialised. Steve Clarke received a nice round of applause from the home supporters at the start of the game.

“Welcome back Clarkey.”

If anything, there seemed to be more “pro-Chelsea” noise (what a strange concept…as if there is any other type of support) at the start of the game than in recent home games.

The game was played out in bright winter sunshine and the first-half was virtually all Chelsea. Oscar came close on a number of occasions, but it was Demba Ba who broke the deadlock, slamming the ball home from close range after a well cushioned knock back from the head of David Luiz.

Our football was fine in the first half. We enjoyed tons of possession. Even though West Brom defended like Trojans, they rarely threatened Petr Cech’s goal. It was time for one of Alan’s quips –

“This is as one-sided as Heather Mills’ shoe collection.”

The 1,500 away fans hardly sung a note. Our support, maybe in a state of confusion at the current state of affairs, was quiet too.

My favourite piece of football in the entire game was an exciting run down the left by Eden Hazard. Starting from just over the half-way line, is run was full of power and speed, but included a mesmeric shimmy – feinting to go one way, sending the defender off balance, then gliding by. It reminded me of that beautiful feint by Roberto Baggio during the 1990 World Cup. A slight shift of the weight from one side of the body to the other can wreck the best defender’s chances.

I approved of the two attempts by the Chelsea support to honour the recent anniversary of the sad passing of Peter Osgood.

“The King of Stamford Bridge” was lustily sung by the home fans.

Good work.

Our domination of the game continued but a second goal was not forthcoming. Oscar continued his fine run of form. He looks more and more the complete midfielder. His touch is magnificent.

The funniest moment of the entire game took place when the ball was hit out of play and ended up in the sweaty hands of Benitez. Up until that time, the anti-Rafa songs had virtually died out. Touching the ball was the last thing that Benitez needed. He slammed the ball back towards a Chelsea player. With that, the Matthew Harding Lower sprung to life and the stadium echoed with a few songs aimed at the much-disliked manager.

“Stand up if you hate Rafa.”

“You’re not wanted here.”

There were a few choruses in praise of a much-loved former boss too.

“Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho.”

As the game reached its completion, tension in the stands grew and grew. I was convinced that the visitors would score a late equaliser.

We all were, right?

Thankfully, the danger passed.

This was clearly a game which wouldn’t live long in the memory, but those three points were all that mattered.

No jaunt to Bucharest for me on Thursday, so Old Trafford next.

See you up there.

Tales From The Road To Nowhere

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 24 February 2012.

There is little virtue to be gained in wrapping this up in fanciful words; this was not enjoyable.

From the moment that I stepped out of my house on a cold Sunday morning at 8am until I returned twelve hours later, there is little that I will remember with much satisfaction or pleasure from this excursion to Manchester. Let’s be honest, though; did we really expect anything different? Even though Manchester City had been playing at a standard well below their Championship form of the previous season, they still represented one of our toughest assignments of the campaign. Additionally, our recent run hadn’t inspired me. Allied to the fact that our three most recent trips to City’s home stadium had resulted in three losses, this was always going to be a tough match.

The English Champions vs. the European Champions.

On another day, in another year, maybe we would have all been a bit more excited. In truth, with Manchester United walking away with the title this year, I suspected that the City fans – with their team out of the Champions League too – were as under the weather as us.

Outside, there was greyness. The sky was overcast. The temperatures were cold.

Manchester – here I come.

I texted Alan, on his way north in one of the official Chelsea coaches, to tell him that I was on the road.

8.05am – “Jack Duckworth.”

He replied that he was having the first of the “pit stops” of the day.

8.09am – “Murray Walker.”

The music on my solo trip north consisted of Cocteau Twins, Stiff Little Fingers and Elvis Costello. I usually tend to enjoy my own company on these long trips north – with my mind wandering about upcoming games and plans for the future – but on this occasion the grim aura surrounding Chelsea Football Club made this a fitful trip up the M5 and M6. A McBreakfast at Strensham was a nice distraction, but the road was relentless. I notified Alan of my progress with a couple of ‘seventies references –

10.19am – “Len Cantello.”

10.47am – “Mike Pejic.”

And then a message from Alan which stumped me.

“Talking Heads.”

Maybe he was referencing “Road to nowhere” but, although this might well sum up our league campaign, I wasn’t sure that Manchester was exactly “nowhere.” Surely it was “somewhere.” I mulled over what he could have meant.

Eventually, I had a more lucid response.

11.12am – “And Pace.”

On the M56, I spotted the sign for Hale. I was 17 minutes behind him. I repeated his message back to him.

11.29am – “And Pace.”

I wound my way anti-clockwise around the Manchester orbital and underneath the massive red-brick arches of the railway bridge at Stockport, the town where Chelsea played its first ever league game in 1905. Then, I edged along the slow approach to the City stadium along Droylesden Road which then became Ashton New Road. I passed through Clayton, which was once home to Manchester United from 1893 to 1910 after they vacated their first home in Newton Heath, a mile or so to the north. City’s first stadium in Ardwick was located a mile to the south of their current home. A football version of musical chairs happened in Manchester in the formative years of both clubs, with both United and City heading west from their original stadia. Until 2002, Old Trafford and Maine Road were only three miles apart. Old Trafford and the Etihad Stadium, at either side of the busy Manchester city centre, are five miles apart. On the pitch, they are as close as they have been since 1978-1979.

There had been a change to the immediate surroundings of City’s new pad since my last visit. Trams were now installed and running into the City stadium along Ashton New Road. There were echoes of a distant era. With red brick houses lining the streets, I almost expected the stick-like figures of a Lowry painting to make an appearance. I parked up and braced myself as the cold wind attacked from all four directions.

Just like only a mother being able to love her errant child, only a native Mancunian could muster any love for the city on a day such as this.

On the short walk to the stadium, with my hands stuffed into my coat pockets, I saw evidence of City’s new-found ambition. The new Manchester City academy is being constructed a few hundred yards away from the Etihad. Once completed, I think that their current training facility at Carrington – only half a mile from United’s – will return home to Eastlands. Sheik Mansoor is clearly investing for the future. City will be a main player for the considerable future. The shambling joke of the Manchester City of the Peter Swales and Taksin Shinawatra eras are now quite distant memories.

I bumped into a few mates outside the stadium. The mood was typically glum. Everyone that I spoke to was of the same opinion.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

Rather than head inside, I took a walk around the stadium for the first-ever time. There are six San Siro style spiral staircases which allow supporters to reach the upper tiers and the sweeping roof is supported by towering pylons. It’s a relatively stylish stadium from the outside. As is the case these days, every square inch of its façade is now adorned with pictures of previous players and games. There are two “timelines.” One starts from the north stand and tells the story in pictures of the 2012 League Championship from the “Why Always Me?” game at Old Trafford in October to the Sergio Aguerro moment at the Etihad in May. The other starts at the south end and tells the story of the club through pictures and historic facts. However, there are club slogans on the spirals too. The overall effect, in my mind, is of a stadium decorated like a Christmas tree, with simply “too much” going on.

I walked past some food stalls and souvenir stands until I came across the “fan zone.” A couple of supporters were being grilled on a few City questions in order to win prizes.

“What does the motto ‘Superbia in Proelio’ mean?”

I suggested “pie and chips” as I walked past.

On the way in to the stadium, I had a quick word with the young turnstile assistant as I scanned my ticket.

“Congratulations on the championship last season.”

The young lad looked a bit sheepish and pulled a face.

“I’m United, mate.”

I smiled.

“Oh, what can I say mate? Happy days.”

While I slowly slurped at a pint of Heineken, Frank Sinclair brushed past. New York and Philadelphia seemed a long time ago. He recently took control of Conference North side Colwyn Bay. It was good to see him among the three thousand away fans. I chatted to a few friends, almost dreading the moment when it was time to go inside the seating bowl. I spoke to a new acquaintance Tim (literally a friend of a friend of a friend) about the Europa League and how our minds’ are attempting to cope with it all. We have, as I have said so often before, become a rather spoilt set of supporters over these past few years. Way back in 1992, we would have sold our first born in order to see the team in Europe. These days, I get the impression that anything other than the Champions League leaves us confused and underwhelmed. Just before kick-off, it was time to go inside. Again, the away season ticket holders were in the upper tier. There were, however, a few empty seats away to my left. The view from the seats is excellent at Manchester City. The upper deck floats high above the lower deck, where Tuna from Atlanta was watching from the very front row.

Above, the low clouds meant that the winter sun hardly broke through. Everyone was wrapped up in warm jackets and coats. Woollen hats were everywhere. It was bitter.

The performance by the Chelsea team hardly warmed us up.

It was clear from the earliest exchanges that this was going to be a tough game. However, during that barren first-half our luck held. Despite Manchester City’s better movement and a variety of chances, our defence managed to repel their shots on goal. Frankly, I was amazed at how quiet the home crowd were. The City support, like us, was clearly under the weather and feeling the pain of, once again, being second-class citizens in the city of Manchester. The atmosphere was ridiculously flat. There were hardly any positives to come from our play in the first forty-five minutes. That said, despite City’s ascendency, this wasn’t a classic display by the champions.

Gary commented “it’s a sad thing if these are the second and third best teams this season.” And I had to agree with that. It hasn’t been a classic campaign and both City and ourselves have underperformed. Although Eden Hazard showed the desire amount of application and skill, elsewhere our football simply did not flow. Ramires, out wide, wasn’t enjoying his best game and David Luiz, back in the centre of the defence, was drawing groans and moans from the away support as he lost possession and gave the City attack too much space. Gary Cahill was playing well, making timely challenges and blocks, but the truth was that the majority of City’s shots were either off target or aimed directly at Petr Cech. At the break, we could easily have been 2-0 down. Demba Ba, recalled for the woeful Torres, was hardly involved in the first-half. He looked a forlorn and solitary figure as he toiled away upfront.

I had visions of him pleading to his team mates, in a personal homage to The Smiths –

“Find me. Find me and nothing more.”

We enjoyed our best period of the entire game during the first five minutes of the second period. A pass from deep from Ivanovic, who had been given a torrid time by City’s movement in the first half, found Demba Ba in a central position. He touched the ball past Joe Hart – a virtual spectator thus far – and the England ‘keeper clattered into him. With no hesitation, the referee pointed to the penalty spot. I raced down to the balcony overlooking the lower tier and settled myself in order to photograph Frank Lampard’s 200th. Chelsea goal.

Frank struck the ball. I snapped. Hart quickly moved to his right and palmed the ball away. The Chelsea section groaned as Juan Mata was unable to follow up.

With increasing frustration from the Chelsea fans – in terms of positive support for the team, the quietest for ages – City took a stranglehold on the game. Yaya Toure, he with the arse the size of Botswana, neatly forced his way past Mikel and curled a perfect shot past Cech. Mikel had been one of our better players, but had sold himself too easily. At last, the City fans made some noise.

Our one chance of note involved Ivanovic playing in Ramires, one on one with Hart, but he decided against striking early and the three chasing City defenders were able to cover. Benitez, to everyone’s annoyance replaced Hazard, when our vote would have been Ramires. Lampard, not enjoying his best games, was also substituted. Victor Moses and Oscar looked out of their depth when they entered the game. Torres replaced Mikel – another of our better players – and we momentarily played with two upfront. Benitez, already receiving the ire of Chelsea supporters everywhere by leaving John Terry on the bench, caused yet more consternation. I would like to class myself as one of Chelsea’s more level-headed supporters and even I can’t stand Benitez. I feel sick just looking at him on the touchline.

Our day was ruined when City scored a second with Carlos Tevez drilling the ball past Cech after a good pull back. I was right behind the shot and said “goal” as soon as it left his boot. How I never left the stadium then, I will never know. I waited for five more minutes. As the PA announcer told us of “four minutes of extra time”, I was off.

The four hour drive home was hard work. As I approached Keele Services, I was suddenly overcome with crazy tiredness. My eyes were heavy and I called in for some refreshments. On the radio, I heard that Swansea City had demolished Bradford City in the League Cup Final. Listening to the erudite and courteous Laudrup speak about the game, my mind flickered into life with thoughts of him being our next manager.

And then I thought; “no, why would he bother with all of this nonsense?”

On the CD, the Buzzcocks were singing.

“Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNCTD185opo

I wouldn’t be so sure about that.

Tales From 24 Photographs From The Round Of 32

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sparta Prague : 21 February 2013.

On the evening of Thursday 21st. February, I took 58 photographs at the Chelsea vs. Sparta Prague game. I uploaded 24 of these to my latest Chelsea album on Facebook. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Here are a few words about these photographs.

Photograph 1 : 8.01pm.

A close-up shot of the Europa League banner. This had been placed on the Stamford Bridge pitch in front of the West Stand, awaiting the arrival of the two teams. The Europa League represents a new competition for Chelsea Football Club although we took part in its predecessor, the UEFA Cup, in 2000-2001, 2001-2002 and 2002-2003. In the pub beforehand, my mate Daryl commented that he was tempted to miss the night’s game, but he has attended every single one of Chelsea’s European home games since our return in 1994, so felt compelled to buy a ticket. I’ve missed a few; the last one was, ironically, against Sparta Prague in November 2004, when I was tied down at work. I think I’ve missed five home games over the years; Vaalerenga, Hapoel Tel Aviv, MSK Zilina, Helsingborgs, Sparta Prague.

Photograph 2 : 8.03pm.

The two teams standing in a line. A TV cameraman is taking those up-close-and-personal shots of the players. Chelsea in their kit, Sparta wearing tracksuit tops. It was great to see John Terry back in the line-up.

Photograph 3 : 8.03pm.

A photograph of the yellow and burgundy Europa League flag. While the unfamiliar Europa League anthem was played, the flag was being fluttered in the centre-circle by a dozen UEFA clad helpers. With a new colour scheme – no more Chelsea blue and white on European midweek games for now – and with unfamiliar advertising hoardings around the circumference – Hankook, HTC – the night seemed strange from the off-set, like a game being played in a parallel universe. During the anthem, the away section lit up with a hundred or so mobile phone lights – like Napoli last season – and I noticed a few Sparta fans in other parts of the stadium too.

Photograph 4 : 8.04pm.

Another shot of the two teams, the Europa League banner in view. Although the first game at the Letna Stadium was poor, Sparta didn’t offer too much of a threat to Chelsea. I expected a comfortable passage to the next round – the awkwardly titled “Round of Sixteen” – and I had even gambled on flights to Amsterdam, expecting both Chelsea and Ajax to progress.

Photograph 5 : 8.04pm.

A close-up photograph of the Sparta Prague players shaking hands with the Chelsea team. I wondered what the Sparta “game-plan” would be. Contain or attack? Stick or twist?

Photograph 6 : 8.05pm.

A close-up shot of the away fans. In the pub before the game, there were around ten Czech fans, quietly chatting and drinking around a table. A couple were wearing Torino-esque pomegranate coloured Sparta scarves, but their match-day attire was understated and normal. There was even a couple of classically “high-cheek boned” Czech girls in the group. I approved.

Photograph 7 : 8.05pm.

Another close-up of the Czech fans. As soon as I had walked into the stadium, I noticed an orange glow emanating from the away corner. This surprised me since I knew that the Sparta kit colours were – like Roma – burgundy, white, black. After zooming in on the away section, the reason for the orange glow was apparent. Virtually every single one of the three thousand Sparta fans was wearing blue, yellow and red woollen hats. I had never seen this at a game before. Top marks to them. The Sparta crest is blue, yellow and red. Overall, the away end looked orange. What with the Europa League banners in the stadium too, this was turning out to be quite a new visual experience.

Photograph 8 : 8.05pm.

A photograph of the upper tier of the away section. More ski-hats, more colour. Of the three-hundred fans in the photo, there is only one without the hat. Typically, a few “half-and-half” scarves but, as this was a game between teams from two different leagues I saw no problem with that. It was a bitterly cold night in SW6 and everyone was wrapped up in warm jackets. A few wre wearing their Sparta shirts over their outer jackets; maybe their mothers weren’t around this morning to dress them properly. There was an absence of shiny puffer jackets, much beloved by the Italians. Maybe they haven’t reached Prague yet.

Photograph 9 : 8.15pm.

A shot of eight Chelsea pensioners, resplendent in their rich scarlet overcoats sitting at the rear of the East Middle. In front, there was an array of unoccupied seats. I had noted during the day that the Chelsea website had declared the match “sold-out.” This both pleased me and surprised me; the last thing that I wanted was the football world poking fun at Chelsea’s possibly spoiled fan base turning their collective nose up at the Europa League. However, although the rest of The Bridge was full, this corporate area – of some 2,000 seats – was predominantly unoccupied. The question to ask here is; did the corporates decide that this game was not worthy of their presence or did Chelsea get their pricing structure wrong?

Photograph 10 : 8.32pm.

A photograph just before the point of contact of Juan Mata’s boot as he aims a free-kick goal wards goal. The Sparta wall is just about to leap. By this stage in the game, despite a promising start with Torres squandering two good chances, Sparta had gone ahead via a quick free-kick and a goal from Lafata.

Photograph 11 : 8.34pm.

A photograph of the action inside the Chelsea penalty area from a Sparta corner. The ball is just about to be headed clear by Gary Cahill. Despite Chelsea dominating possession during the first-half, Sparta were clearly not just sitting back. The tie was now level and a Sparta away goal would put them at a huge advantage.

Photograph 12 : 8.44pm.

The Prague ‘keeper Vaclik, who had a poor first game, is photographed catching the ball from a Juan Mata corner. Just before the break, Fernando Torres headed over. It clearly was not going to be his night.

Photograph 13 : 9.19pm.

A photograph of the photographers. Dressed in Sparta burgundy, they are poised with their long lenses to capture that elusive Chelsea equaliser at the north end of the stadium. The second-half had begun with Oscar, now showing what a well-rounded and accomplished midfielder looks like – strong in the tackle, good balance, tremendous close skill, great vision – dancing through the Sparta defence with a tremendous run. His ball found Ramires whose shot on goal was deflected onto a post. A lovely turn from Torres was not matched by the finish. He found himself one on one with the ‘keeper but his attempted flick over – with all of ready to celebrate – was amazingly swatted away by Vaclik.

Photograph 14 : 9.21pm.

Push and shove inside the Sparta penalty area. Juan Mata’s cross is out of shot, but players of both teams are moving in every direction possible to elude each other. John Terry is seen pulling a sleeve. One defender is facing away from the ball, creating a block for Mikel. I really wonder why the much-lampooned goal-line officials bother showing up; when have they ever spotted any of these illegal activities during a match? As the second-half developed, the Chelsea fans – already out-shouted by the away fans – began getting more abusive. On the hour, there was a loud shout of “Jose Mourinho” from the Matthew Harding Lower.

Photopraph 15 : 9.23pm.

The ball is headed away by a Prague defender, with Ryan Bertrand challenging. I commented to Alan that Ryan needed a good game; if I’m honest he hasn’t developed particularly well since his surprising involvement in the game in Munich. Ah, Munich. Just the word sends me dizzy.

Photograph 16 : 9.35pm.

John Terry in attack, heading back across goal from another Mata corner. By now, we had wasted many free-kicks in and around the box and Sparta had threatened on a few forays up field. Benitez replaced Oscar – our best player in my book – with Eden Hazard. The dice were being thrown.

Photograph 17 : 9.35pm.

A photo of the Prague fans in the Shed Lower raising their scarves above their head. With their constant chants of “Sparta! Sparta! Sparta!” sounding similar to “Barca! Barca! Barca!” and their yellow and red of Catalonia plus the burgundy and blue of Barcelona, I wondered if there might be an Iniesta-like strike to send us packing. An away goal now and it would be Czech, mate.

Photograph 18 : 9.35pm.

Eden Hazard, in extreme close-up, down below me, shaping to zip a free-kick goal wards. Our domination continued but Torres’ poor night was summed up when a Ramires effort hit him in the chest.

Photograph 19 : 9.50pm.

Juan Mata caught taking yet another free-kick. One after another they came. The frustration rose with every missed opportunity. Ramires wide. A Hazard free-kick was parried by Vaclik. Ramires kicked and missed.

Photograph 20 : 9.53pm.

Bodies in the box. Victor Moses is photographed attempting to latch onto a loose ball. The Prague defenders heads clear. By this stage, we had heard that Ajax was losing 1-0. My flight to Amsterdam was looking in jeopardy. A Gary Cahill block stopped a crucial Sparta goal.

Photograph 21 : 9.55pm.

The captain John Terry is photographed booting the ball goal wards. He had already come close with an impudent flick from close in. At the other end, a Sparta Prague break had caused me to look away – I hardly ever do that – but an effort from Kadlec was zipped wide. That chance really should have sealed the tie. Apilicueta shot high from an angle. Penalties were looming large.

Photograph 22 : 9.58pm.

Eden Hazard is engulfed by ecstatic Chelsea players down below me. In extra-time, the substitute had cut inside a defender, using that lovely low centre of gravity body swerve and worked the ball onto his left foot. A thunderbolt flew past the redoubtable Vaclik and, although I at first thought that Hazard’s thunderstrike had rippled the side-netting, the roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd told me otherwise. I continued snapping the players’ celebrations below.

Photograph 23 : 9.58pm.

A close-up of Torres, Ramires, Mikel, Moses, Hazard and Bertrand. Beside me Alan was shouting for joy – and relief. Phew. It was virtually the last kick of the game. We were through. Phew again.

Photgrapho 24 : 10.01pm.

A photograph of the Sparta Prague team, lined-up, arms around each other, basking in the warm applause of the colourful three-thousand away fans. Soon after, the entire away end was bouncing in joyous abandon. This had clearly been an enjoyable night for them in London. Their players’ performance had been very brave; they almost pulled off the unexpected. The Sparta supporters’ performance was even better. I take my hat off to them.

The 24 Photographs –

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?…1&l=87464ec3a7

Tales From A Cup Replay

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 17 February 2013.

After encouraging wins against Wigan Athletic and Sparta Prague, we were looking for our third consecutive victory in our F.A. cup replay against Brentford. The first game at Griffin Park took place three Sundays ago; somehow, it seemed even further in the past than that. At times, it has been difficult to keep track of what is happening in 2012-2013. This season seems to be lurching along, victories here, defeats there. The whole campaign seems to be as downright tortuous and convoluted as I can remember. Our involvement in seven individual competitions then became eight as we were eliminated from the Champions League and entered the Europa League. We took part in the World Club Championships, playing football in Asia during a regular season for the first time, but breaking up the flow of the league campaign. There have been two managers. There have been cup runs. Extra games everywhere we looked. In the Europa League, a potential seven further games wait should we get past Sparta. We have played in cities from Seattle in the west to Tokyo in the east. There was a visit to Monaco for the Super Cup. Should we reach the Europa Final in Amsterdam, we might well have to visit that stadium twice within two months.

It’s turning into a right old mess of a season

I set off for Stamford Bridge at 8am on a crisp, cold, foggy morning. This was another solo-trip east. I wasn’t worried. With coffee to hand and music on the CD player, I set off across Salisbury Plain. At times, the visibility was terrible. The fields were frosted; the fog and mist almost enveloped me as I drove through the thatched-roof villages of Chitterne and Shrewton. As I drove past Stonehenge, suddenly bathed in early morning sunshine and looking quite sublime, I received a quick phone call from The Fishy Boy himself, the Right Honourable Lord Tuna. He was over for a couple of weeks, staying in Northamptonshire, but on his way down to London with my mate Andy, one of the Nuneaton bunch.

I quickly realised that of all the Chelsea characters from the USA who I have been lucky enough to meet over the past eight years, Tuna was the very first. Way back in 2004, I attended the Chelsea vs. Roma game at Heinz Field in Pittsburgh. On that very memorable trip, I travelled up from North Carolina with some friends and, to be quite honest, we kept ourselves to ourselves. We watched the game from behind a goal, away from the main bulk of the Chelsea support, which was based along the sideline. Looking back at a photograph of the 150 – at very most – Chelsea fans in that section, it seems like a different era already. From that little group of enthusiasts, our support in the US – and elsewhere – has grown exponentially and it is difficult to put it all into some sort of perspective. Amongst that group, there were around 10-15 folk who I have got to know very well over the ensuing years. Tuna is one of them. I bumped into him on the walk out of the stadium; we only shared a few words at the time, happy with our 3-0 win. I remember thinking, confused by his mid-Atlantic accent, “is this guy an Englishman who has been living in the US for a while or is this American putting on a London accent?” I bumped into Tuna the next year outside “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan and we have been friends ever since.

Looking back – I may have told this story before – I only really became involved with the CIA people just before the Chicago trip in 2006. Things have steamrollered since then. Friendships have been strengthened. Further trips to the US have been enjoyed. My horizons have been broadened and I’m very thankful. Amongst it all, there is a notch of friends who I know will be my friends for life.

You know who you are.

These days, writing “Tales” seems as natural to me as buying a match ticket, meeting up in The Goose, taking photographs of the match day experience or verbally abusing Lord Parky.

“It’s what I do.”

Anyway, enough of the life story bollocks, let’s talk about Chelsea.

By the time I had reached London, the fog had lifted and it was a beautiful sunny winter’s day. As I went “up and over” the antiquated Chiswick flyover I made a point of spotting the high arch of Wembley Stadium a few miles to the north. It appeared, fleetingly, just above row upon row of red chimney pots on the roofs of the terraced houses of Chiswick.

Wembley Stadium was the goal, of course.

The F.A. Cup Final will be played out beneath its crescent of white steel in May. It still remains an iconic venue, despite losing a lot of its historical mystique during its reconstruction between 2000 and 2007. However, since the eventual opening of the new Wembley, it is without a hint of exaggeration, our second home.

2007 F.A. Cup Final
2007 F.A. Community Shield
2008 League Cup Final
2009 F.A. Cup Semi-Final
2009 F.A. Cup Final
2009 F.A. Community Shield
2010 F.A. Cup Semi-Final
2010 F.A. Cup Final
2010 F.A. Community Shield
2012 F.A. Cup Semi-Final
2012 F.A. Cup Final

Of the eleven visits, only the defeat to “those whose name need not be mentioned” in 2008 brought me any real sadness. The two Community Shield defeats against United were nothing in comparison.

At 10.30am, I strode into the already busy and noisy pub. I half expected a few rogue away fans, but they were elsewhere. I soon spotted Tuna clasping a pint of Guinness at the end of the bar. I eventually talked him into attending the game at Manchester City the following Sunday; Gill had a couple of spares. Job done. Chatter amongst my friends was mainly dominated by tales of Prague. Alas, I had not ventured to the beautiful city in the heart of Bohemia on this occasion, but everyone reported back with lovely anecdotes, mainly involving the crisp and pristine beer of which the Czech nation is famous.

Sadly, I had to make do with a pint of chemically-infested “Carlsberg.”

On the TV above the bar, we learned that Demba Ba was starting. The time passed way-too quickly. At 11.30am, Tuna and I set off for The Bridge.

Of course we are all used to Sunday (and Monday, and Thursday) football these days, but I can well remember that Sunday football was a novelty way back in the ‘seventies. In fact, in the programme for my first-ever Chelsea game at Stamford Bridge in 1974, several letters from fans were aired, discussing the relative merits of Sunday football. There was quite a considerable “no” lobby, with people concerned that the religious “day of rest” was being used for un-Godly acts, that families would not benefit from games tearing the fabric of their life apart, that it would start the end of civilisation as we know it.

Joking apart, I wish that there was less Sunday football. It still – even after all these years – doesn’t feel the same as “Saturday 3pm football.”

Old habits and all that.

The six thousand Brentford fans were settled in The Shed by the time I took my seat alongside Alan, still tired from the excesses of Prague, in the MHU.

In addition to the choice of Demba Ba in attack, complete with Zorro mask, there were other changes too. John Terry returned to the heart of the defence, with Gary Cahill alongside him. Ivanovic, as so often is the case, shuffled over to the right in place of Azpilicueta. David Luiz – another central defender – was alongside Frank at the base of the midfield five. Victor Moses, fresh from the Africa Cup of Nations triumph, was deployed alongside Oscar and Mata. It was a very strong Chelsea team. With David Luiz now playing more and more in his midfield role, we now have four very able players fighting for those two defensive-midfield positions; Mikel, Luiz, Lampard and Ramires. On another day, in a parallel universe, those four would make a pretty formidable midfield four, in a 4-4-2, in their own right. Our squad is OK at the moment. Adding Ba and playing Azpilicueta has given us more options. Generally speaking – taking away the grief of Benitez and all of that negativity – there are reasons to be cheerful about this transitional season. Benitez seems reluctant to change from his trusted 4-2-3-1 during a game, and lacks creativity in his substitutions, but I have to be honest and say that the same could have been said of Di Matteo, too.

We were treated to a couple of early exchanges from both teams in the first quarter of an hour. I was very impressed with Brentford in the first game – a match, let’s be honest, that they should have won – and they twice threatened Petr Cech’s goal. As is always the case when lower league teams visit Stamford Bridge, the first few forays by Brentford into our half were enthusiastically roared on by the 6,000 away fans. It was quite endearing really. I remember the days when Chelsea – as underdogs at home against Liverpool in 1982, for example – were similarly roared on every time the ball was played into the opposition’s half. These days, we hardly even clap, unless there is a dramatic one versus one break taking place and the match is tied and going into the last minute of extra-time.

Against a lower level team, I wondered if it really was necessary to play with two defensive midfielders. However it was soon apparent that although Luiz and Lampard were based in front of the defence, both were looking to play the long ball or raid individually via penetrative runs from deep.

Headers from Ivanovic and Ba went close, but a loose shot from Luiz soared high on its way towards Battersea. A falling Oscar managed to guide his shot towards the goal, but the bouncing shot struck the outside of a post. We were treated to a huge slice of good fortune when a Luiz foul on Forshaw was called back by the referee even though the Brentford attack kept going and the ball was struck past Cech. The resulting free-kick struck the wall. Lampard uncharacteristically fumbled a shot from close in. We could hardly believe our eyes. These days, I feel cheated if Frank doesn’t score during a match that I attend. It was, in truth, a mediocre first-half. The Brentford fans, though not as loud as the northerners of Scunthorpe United or Huddersfield Town in similar cup games, out sung us throughout. Victor Moses was out of sorts and Ba hardly touched the ball. There were a few – only a few – boos at half-time.

The banana skin was still there.

Thankfully, we only had to wait eight minutes into the second-half for a breakthrough. A long punt up field from Cech was aimed at Ba. The ball broke to Juan Mata a good twenty yards out. He quickly unpacked his theodolite and rapidly surveyed the terrain, consulted his compass, took measurements of the prevailing weather conditions, did a quick geological assessment, including grass moisture content, and then cleaned his boots. As the ball bounced, he caressed the ball once and then struck it firmly, with an exact aim, right into the corner of the goal.

1-0 to the F.A. Cup holders and Juan Mata raced away to the far corner, smiling in that impish way of his.

Phew.

Our play was a little more pleasing to the eye in the second period, but the crowd still struggled to get behind the team. A great move resulted in our second goal of the game. Eden Hazard had replaced the lacklustre Moses and soon stole the ball from a Brentford midfielder who was obviously caught thinking about what he was going to have for tea later that evening. He spotted the magnificent lung-busting run from Ivanovic and the ball was played perfectly for our charging Serbian to run onto. His perfect pull back was aimed at Oscar. He executed a Zola-esque flick with his trailing foot to guide the ball towards goal. The ball crept in between the legs of a mesmerized Brentford defender, who was obviously wondering “steak and chips or a Chinese take-way” to himself.

2-0.

Phew again.

Alan emphasised what a magnificent run Ivanovic had made in order to create an option for Hazard. I had to agree. It was quite magnificent. Ivanovic is a much-loved part of our team these days. Those two errors against Swansea are long forgotten. We love him to bits.

Five minutes later, a nice move down the left resulted in Juan Mata – always involved – spotting the onrushing Frank Lampard who took great delight in smashing in goal number 199. My only dismay is that I didn’t catch the strike on film, unlike number 198 against Wigan Athletic. At least I caught his joyous celebrations on film immediately after.

3-0.

The icing on the cake – or the salt on the celery – was the fourth goal. A magnificent cross from the increasingly formidable Oscar found the head of John Terry, whose perfect leap dumbfounded both keeper and defender (as they were both going out for an Indian with their respective wives, they were just discussing whose turn it was to drive). I snapped away as John rushed over to the far corner and embarrassed himself with a cringe-worthy celebratory jig. It was, if my memory serves, not unlike the jig that he chose to celebrate his first-ever goal way back in 2000 against Gillingham (and for which he was lampooned amongst his team mates at the time.) At least the ensuing leap and punch was a bit more acceptable.

4-0.

Gary Cahill almost made it a nicely-rounded 5-0 but his shot was blocked by at least nineteen Brentford players a mere eight yards out.

As I drifted out of the stadium, the Brentford fans were applauding their players, but folding up their flags. It was not to be their day. John Terry was soaking up the adulation from the Matthew Harding. “Blue Is The Colour” was being played on the stadium PA system. The shoot-out at high noon had resulted in Chelsea advancing to the fifth round yet again.

Job done.

Tales From Another Chelsea Debut

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wigan Athletic : 9 February 2013.

Another Saturday, another Chelsea home game. Except…this was a Chelsea game with a difference. After relinquishing my grip on the 240 game unbroken home run against Arsenal some three weeks ago, the game with Wigan Athletic now represented “Game One” of a new sequence. I don’t expect to go nine years this time, but let’s see how far I can get. Unfortunately, Lord Parky has been suffering with the ‘flu and so was unable to accompany me to Stamford Bridge on this occasion. I hoped that he would be “match fit” once again for the Brentford F.A. Cup replay.

Before I say too much about the events of Saturday 9 February 2013, I feel that I need to share a solemn tale. On Monday, a former Frome Town player was killed in a road traffic accident and, although I did not know him personally, I remembered him from school days when he played in both the school and cricket teams. On Wednesday, I attended a Frome Town game with a few friends and there was a minute’s silence before the match in his memory. Ironically, on my drive out of the Frome area, I needed to top up with diesel at Beckington. It was here, coming home late from a mid-week Chelsea game before Christmas, that I last saw him. As I circumnavigated Warminster on the town by-pass, I drove past the crash site. There was blue and white police tape marking his car’s final resting place. There were bouquets of flowers propped against a fence. Why do I mention this story? I mention it to highlight the fragility of human life. On my travels around the highways and byways of England and Wales, I have had a couple of small-scale accidents. I have been lucky. But this was a deeply sobering incident which has played deeply on my mind over the past few days. The drive past the crash scene was a deeply moving moment. As I headed past Warminster and up on to Salisbury Plain, the solemnity inside my car was all too apparent.

Outside, the weather was murky. As I climbed up onto the A303, snow started to fall. I wondered what sort of weather would be awaiting me once I arrived in London. Thankfully, by the time I had stopped at Fleet in Hampshire for a McBreakfast, the snow had stopped. I spotted a group of four Chelsea fans – unknown to me – at the services and I rolled my eyes to the sky when I saw their appearance. All four were rather rotund and all four were wearing tight-fitting Chelsea shirts – but crucially they were all wearing Chelsea shirts over various sweatshirts and the like. They were all in their mid-‘fifties – not a sin in itself of course, I’ll be there sooner rather than later – but I’ve always thought that tight-fitting football shirts look plain silly on people of a certain age.

I could only imagine what conversation Parky and I might have had in the circumstances.

I made great time and was parked up at 10.50am. I had plans to meet a few friends at the hotel at 11.30am, but had just enough time to pop in to “The Goose” which had recently been closed for refurbishment. Although I didn’t have time for a drink, I greeted a few friends who were already enjoying a few liveners. The place looked excellent, with new leather seats, floor tiles, carpets, wallpaper and fittings. There is even a TV out in the beer garden. As I headed down to The Bridge, I noted that The Malt House had opened-up again, too. No doubt there will be higher beer prices at each locale, but I guess that’s inevitable.

Down at the hotel, there was a gathering of friends from near and far. My guest for the day – Constanza, born only a few miles away from The Bridge – was visiting London for a week from her home in Michigan. She was in town to attend a couple of interviews at colleges in order to get a place for a Master’s degree in the autumn. She had already done the stadium tour and museum earlier in the week, but this was her big day.

Her first ever Chelsea game.

Without wasting much time, I quickly introduced her to Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti, who were sitting in their usual area. Cons’ smile was wide as she shook hands with both of these Chelsea legends. Mike from New York was over for the game – he got out of JFK just before the snow fell on Friday – and was chatting to father and son Jim Senior from NYC and Jim Junior, who now lives in Thailand. Gill and Graeme were also present and we soon posed for a photo with Gill’s “Kent Blues” flag.

Happy days.

It is always a big thrill for me to meet first-time visitors to Stamford Bridge and to show them a few of the sights and share few stories. I’m a very lucky person. With no children of my own, I at least get the chance to play “father” to a few first-time visitors to Chelsea every season and it is something that I treasure. Thankfully, a “meet and greet” with Ron Harris is part of the usual routine now and I am very grateful for that too. Unfortunately for Cons, Ron Harris passed on the news that John Terry wouldn’t playing. His old knee injury had become enflamed again. JT is Cons’ personal favourite, so my heart went out to her.

Cons and I then walked around Stamford Bridge as I explained a few of the sights. Outside the East Stand, we met up with Steve Mantle who was with another first-time visitor from the US; a member of the infamous “OC Blues” in California.

“Oh – you know Steve-O and Wrayman? My condolences.”

So, Steve and I were doing our little bit for Anglo-American relations.

I asked Steve’s guest how many times she had used the word “awesome”: but she replied “no – just amazing…everything is amazing.”

How wonderful it is to see Stamford Bridge through fresh eyes. It’s easy to get a little disheartened at the ever-diminishing atmosphere and the increasingly disconnected support base at The Bridge, but we mustn’t lose sight of how intimate Stamford Bridge is, nestled amongst the bars and pubs of the Fulham Road. There is nothing like the re-match buzz on match days in deepest SW6.

We continued our walk around The Bridge, stopping off for a photo-call at the Peter Osgood statue, before meeting up with Mike again down at the White Horse on Parson’s Green.

There were reminiscences of Tokyo and also thoughts about the Asia tour in the summer. Once the tour dates for the games in Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur and Jakarta were announced on Thursday, I felt the adrenaline start to pulse through my body and within a few hours of checking and cross-checking flights on the internet, I had found some very agreeable prices. However, I explained to Mike that I have since thought hard about the tour and have “stepped back from the edge of the cliff.” I was ready to take the plunge, but I need time to look at all options. In truth, I am a little dismayed that Chelsea has again chosen games in Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur. These are a couple of fine cities, but it was only eighteen months ago that I visited them in 2011. I was hoping and praying for games in China – Shanghai and Beijing would have been perfect – but I am not sure about returning to BKK and KL so soon after my last visit. It seems that the Chelsea “problem” of getting drawn against teams from familiar cities – Barcelona, Prague, Porto, Rome, Milan, Valencia – in UEFA competitions is now being replicated in Asia.

Another pal – Dave – arrived at around 2pm. He is from London but has been living in New York for seven years. I first met him out in California on the 2007 tour. He is now living back in England – and badly missing New York. He is especially missing the view from his apartment in Brooklyn, overlooking the East River, bridges and all. The view of a pub from his flat in Tufnell Park just doesn’t match up.

Cons was enjoying the pre-match and there was talk of her getting a season ticket for 2013-2014 should her interviews be successful. It warmed me to hear her mention the phrase ‘my Chelsea family” on more than one occasion.

Although I originally wanted to be inside the stadium at 2.30pm to allow Cons the sight of the players’ pre-match routine, I’m afraid that old habits meant that we reached our seats with only five minutes to spare.

Wigan’s away following was unsurprisingly small. For the first time that I can remember, all 200 away fans were encamped in the lower tier, allowing an extra 1,000 Chelsea fans above them in the upper tier. I’ve long been advocating this; good to see. David Luiz partnered Frank Lampard at the base of our midfield five, which meant that Cahill partnered Ivanovic in the defence. I am – of course – not Benitez’ biggest fan, but at least he has spotted the potential of Luiz in the midfield, as a playmaker rather than a destructor.

I thought that Wigan caused us a few problems in the first-half, with old boy Franco di Santo involved. When he came to retrieve a ball from behind the goal line, the MHL gave him a nice reception and he clapped us back; nice to see. A fine Petr Cech save from Shaun Maloney brought us all to our feet.

A through ball from David Luiz, fresh from his captaincy of the Brazilian national team on Wednesday, found Fernando Torres who ably pushed the ball into the path of an advancing Ramires. He thumped the ball past Al Habsi and we could relax a little. A couple of efforts from Fernando Torres – another Cons favourite – promised good things. As the first-half drew on, our dominance increased. A few efforts from fizzed close to the Wigan goal but there was no further addition to the score line. I had already warned Cons of the lack of atmosphere at games these days, but she didn’t seem fazed.

Frank Leboeuf was on the pitch at the break. He hasn’t put on an ounce of fat since he hung up his boots.

Soon into the second half, a rampaging Azpilicueta sent over a great ball which easily found Eden Hazard, unmarked. The finish was cool and clinical. 2-0 and coasting.

But this was Chelsea.

Within two minutes, we conceded. A hopeful punt into space seemed to befuddle Cahill and Ivanovic. Maloney ran on to the ball, rounded Cech and adroitly slotted home from an angle.

I turned to Cons and said “and that’s why I’ve gone grey.”

The crowd were slowly getting into the game. A Lampard shot whizzed past the post. Ramires chased down a defender right down in front of us – it was a great piece if aggressive play – and this single action galvanised the support. Of course, in my mind, this is completely the opposite of what should happen at Chelsea.

Our loud and partisan support should galvanise the team.

The two highlights of the second-half were two perfectly played passes from Lampard, with perfect weight, direction and “fade.” However, Wigan threatened again, causing Benitez to change the personnel. Juan Mata replaced the impressive Oscar. He was soon involved. A Hazard pass found Mata. He played the ball back towards Lampard, who took aim and slotted the ball low past Al Habsi. With great pleasure, I photographed the goal – number 198 – and the resultant celebratory leap, before Frank returned back to thank Mata for the perfect pass.

3-1. Phew.

The crowd found its voice towards the end of the game and Cons was joining in.

Job done.

Some more changes. Benayoun for Cahill, Luiz back into defence. Marin for Hazard.

Another rampaging run from Azpilicueta took him in to a central position. He fired in a dipping shot, which the Wigan ‘keeper could only parry. The ball flew out to Marko Marin who flung himself at the ball. He appeared to head it – like a youngster, unsure of the best way – with eyes shut and head down, the ball thumping against the top of his head. In truth, he did well to contort his neck to meet the ball in the first place. I snapped away as he celebrated amongst a few exultant fans in the MHL. In truth, the score line flattered us. There were no anti-Benitez chants throughout the game, which I regard as a positive. All things considered, a good – albeit quiet – day at the office.

After the game, Cons joined me for the first Supporters Trust meeting in the Fulham CIU club, just a few yards down from the old So Bar. I was happy that she was able to witness a key moment in the history of our club. Although the meeting was rather chaotic, a few key statements were announced and there was a good vibe in the crowded bar. I would heartily recommend that any Chelsea supporter – in the UK, in the USA, in Thailand, in Indonesia – join up. It only costs £5.

Outside, Cons and I said our goodbyes, but with a promise that we’d do it all again soon.

I walked back to the car, past a busy Goose, and set off for the return home. A strange thing happened, however, at Fleet Services. As I sat inside the services, eating a brie, lettuce and grape sandwich, refuelling myself for the next hour’s drive, I suddenly had a moment of concern. A moment of clarity.

It was 8pm on a Saturday night. I was all by myself. I was at a service station in Hampshire. It was a cold night outside. What on Earth was I doing? Without Parky – or Glenn – or any of the friends who used to travel up from Frome for home games – the return drive back to Somerset appeared to be a rather sad journey.

I sighed. I haven’t felt like that for years and years. I then smiled.

“Don’t knock it Chris…millions of Chelsea fans around the world would love to be in your shoes.”

The rest of the drive home was uneventful, save for some foggy weather as I tentatively made my way past Stonehenge. This slowed my progress, but on this particular occasion, after the events of the past week, I was more than happy to take it easy. I peered in to “The Cornerhouse” pub as I made my way through Frome and imagined conversations taking place.

“Do anything today?”

“Stayed in. Watched the rugby.”

“Went shopping.”

“Nothing much.”

“I see Lampard scored again.”

That moment of concern which I had encountered at Fleet services an hour or so before, was put into perspective.

“Yep, Lampard scored again. I was there.”

The home run had begun again.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2012-2013

Tales From Happy Monday

Tales From Bad Saturday

Tales From The District Line Derby

Tales From Thursday Night Football

Tales From The Match

Tales From The Same Old Scene

Tales From The Road To Nowhere

Tales From 24 Photographs From The Round Of 32

Tales From A Cup Replay

Tales From Another Chelsea Debut