Tales From Istanbul

Posted on March 3, 2014 by Chris Axon

Galatasaray vs. Chelsea : 26 February 2014.

I’m a lucky bugger. I’ve always loved travel. I’ve always loved football. Being able to combine these two passions is perfect. I remember scanning the remaining clubs still participating in this season’s Champions League, ahead of the draw for the “Round of 16,” and highlighting Galatasaray as one the teams that I favoured being paired against. Of all the European cities that I was yet to visit, Istanbul undoubtedly topped the list. Back in 2008, I decided not to travel out to the largest and most exciting city in Turkey when Chelsea was paired with Fenerbahce. It was a decision that I immediately regretted as soon as I heard about the city – and the city’s passion for football – from my friends who had decided to go.

Amid their reports of the city’s hustle and bustle, one comment stayed with me; the noise at the Fenerbahce stadium was the loudest that they had ever experienced. I promised myself there and then that should Chelsea get an away in Istanbul, I’d be having some of that.

The extra spice of seeing Didier Drogba confused me a little though. There was a bit of me that would have preferred my last memory of Didier on a football pitch to be of that penalty, in that stadium, at the end of that game, on that night.

That moment.

Would seeing him again spoil the purity of that memory?

Flights were booked, a hotel was chosen and a travel guide to Istanbul was purchased…I then waited and waited.

Eventually, it was time to head off to the very edge of Europe.

As I set off for the airport, there was a short text to a small band of friends on the West coast of North America – the only friends still awake – to let them know that I was on the road –

“Jack Kerouaglu.”

The Turkish Airlines flight landed at 5pm at Istanbul Ataturk Airport on Tuesday 25 February and I had soon paid for a 3 Lira “jeton” to travel in to the city on the metro. I had been assisted by a young lad – a Galatasaray fan – who had kindly befriended me as I struggled with the local currency and my route into the centre. I was on my way.

Other friends were already in the city. I longed to be with them, for the madness of Istanbul to begin. While I settled in a seat on the packed train, looking out at the grey murk of a drizzly Istanbul evening, and looking too at the faces of the locals inside, I wondered about a hundred different things. The reputation of the city as an unwelcoming hotbed of partisan football fandom was obviously at the forefront of my mind. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t worried, a little at least, about my safety. But how could I pass up a chance to see Chelsea away in one of the most intense atmospheres of world football?

“It’s what I live for.”

Outside there was rush-hour traffic, tall apartment blocks, neon-lit shops. There was lots of neon, in fact. It contrasted with the rather dowdy and unassuming buildings. Inside, there were locals, packed tightly. I was the only foreigner. At least, I felt like the only foreigner. The faces of the locals fascinated me. I caught quick glimpses of them all. I was wary of my presence amidst strangers and that I was in enemy territory. And yet I clearly did not want to let the city’s fearsome reputation – “Welcome To Hell” said the sign when we played at Galatasaray’s old stadium in 1999 – cloud my interaction with the local Turks. I wanted to forget about supposed preconceived notions of the Turkish race. I kept checking the metro stops; I wanted to make sure that I would alight at the correct one. One chap, with a fantastically huge head, kindly advised me to stop at Aksaray tube station and then take a bus to Taksim Square rather than follow the route suggested to me by the lad at the airport.

I took his advice. However, once I stepped outside into the rainy Istanbul evening, I decided to take a cab instead. The agreed fare was of 25 Lira, or around £8 – and it was worth every penny. Immediately, we zipped through congested and cramped streets of the old city, but then hit main roads which took us over a bridge in the harbour to the headland to the north. Behind me were the illuminated spindly minarets and flattened dome of a large and impressive mosque in the old city.

It was breath-taking stuff.

And I was loving it.

There was minimal conversation with the cab driver – a Besiktas fan – as he climbed slowly up into the city. The steepness of the hills surprised me. My eyes were on stalks. I actually took two large breaths to inhale the city.

“Take it all in, Chris, my son.”

The traffic slowed, and then accelerated away. At the top of a steep ascent, I was deposited on the southern edge of famous Taksim Square.

I had arrived.

Buzzing.

I quickly spotted the Taksim Metropark Hotel , located on a steep hill just to the south of the famous square. I showered and then answered a flurry of text messages from a couple of mates, eager to know of my progress. After getting directions from a helpful fellow at the reception desk – Galatasaray – I set off for the Laviola Café just off the main Istiklal Caddesi shopping street. The streets were busy. There was light drizzle. It was around 7.45pm on a Tuesday night in Istanbul. The fun was about to begin.

I quickly found the small café, hiding in a small side street, and there were many familiar faces inside. Many had arrived on the early-morning flight from Stansted; alongside my usual away day companions Alan and Gary, were around twelve other friends from home, plus a few of the younger element out of sight upstairs.

The first pint of the local Efes lager – 8 Lira or around £2.50 – didn’t touch the sides. While we chatted, we heard of around ten Chelsea being jumped by a far greater number of Galatasaray in a city centre street. A couple of the Chelsea fans were known to us. At least one had been stabbed. And then we heard contrasting stories; maybe Chinese Whispers were at play because we then heard that there had only been the slightest cuts and bruises. Orlin and Rado – part of the sixty-strong Chelsea Bulgaria group – called in.

The Efes were hitting the spot. A few lads tucked into a meal; I was aware that I would need some food at some stage. Mike and Frank from New York and Tim from Philly joined us at around 9.30pm. At around 10pm we set off for the James Joyce Irish pub, a few hundred yards to the south. We gathered together – maybe twenty of us in total – and walked purposefully together. From 10.15pm to around 2am – bloody hell, almost four hours – we enjoyed more Efes in this second pub. There were even more familiar faces in this boozer; it was, in fact, virtually full of Chelsea European Away Loyalists, complete with Lacoste polo shirts, Adidas trainers, Stone Island jackets, Barbour jackets and associated finery. This was a night when club colours were to be left in hotel rooms, or – more to the point – back in Blighty.

The beers flowed. There was, despite the laughter and the banter, an edge to the night. Two of the chaps who had been attacked were in the pub; one had a slight scratch on his face, the other had been slashed in his upper thigh with a knife. During our stay in the pub – I think, it’s a bit blurred – another Chelsea lad was attacked with a bottle outside and ended up with a bandaged hand.

The Olimpiakos vs. Manchester United game was on the TV – kicking off at 9.45pm – but hardly anyone was paying it any attention. Holding court and sharing a few stories with some other fans was the most famous Chelsea “face” of them all.

From The Philippines to Istanbul, he’ll keep the blue flag flying high.

As if out of nowhere, the Canadians Burger and Julie suddenly arrived and I lost count of the number of times that I said to them “what the hell are you doing here?” Burger then pulled a trick on me and bought me a raki, which I then proceeded to attempt to knock back in one.

“Whooooooooaaaaaaaa – slow down. Need to give that a bit more respect, Chris.”

Ah – good times.

At 2am, others wanted to continue the night elsewhere, but Alan, Gary, Burger, Julie and I decided that we would curtail the carousing. We stopped off for a kebab – what else? – and then made our way up the hill to Taksim Square. I was still starving, so dived into the Pehlivan fast food restaurant where I had a confusing concoction which resembled a vegetarian version of a haggis. It wasn’t unpleasant. I wolfed it back.

I was on a roll now. I was tempted by one last local delicacy; 10 Lira worth of hot roasted chestnuts.

I’ve never had roast chestnuts before.

“When in Istanbul.”

I eventually walked – in a zombie-like state – back to my waiting hotel room at around 2.30am.

I slept well. I probably dreamed of roast chestnuts.

It was only the knock on my hotel room door which awoke me on Wednesday; my phone‘s battery had inexplicably run out and the ever hopeful 8am alarm call never materialised. I didn’t feel too ropey in the circumstances; I made breakfast at 9.45am. A few other Chelsea – Brighton Tony and his mates – were staying in the hotel too. I quickly demolished some smoky sausages, scrambled eggs and a few other choice items. I didn’t touch the salad, though.

Never trust a nation which eats lettuce for breakfast.

As the kick-off for the game wouldn’t be until 9.45pm, there was no need to begin my day of sightseeing too early. There would be time to pace myself. With this in mind, and with me being sleep-deficient over the past two nights, I decided to grab an extra hour of sleep. When I finally awoke, the merest hint of a hangover had gone and I was ready to explore.

Out in Taksim Square, there was a political protest taking place and the area was swarming with armed police.

“I just hope you buggers don’t disappear if we need you later on tonight.”

The wind was swirling on top of the hill and a flock of birds, perching on electricity wires and also scavenging for scraps, gave a Hitchcock-esque feel of brooding menace to Taksim Square. As I consulted my map and got my bearings, I realised that Taksim Square was a messy, rambling area, lacking a focus. It had uneven paving stones and the one statue was pushed away to one corner. The square was where two visiting Leeds United fans were stabbed to death before a game against Galatasaray in 2000.

This sad incident was held strongly in the forefront of my mind throughout my stay in the city. A local approached me in the square and asked where I was from; for the first time that I can ever remember, I didn’t say England.

“Brooklyn, New York” came into my head. It was an easy way to dodge any possible nastiness.

“OK. My brother live in California. I have carpet shop over here.”

“No. You’re OK mate” I replied, in an accent that plainly wasn’t that of a Brooklyn native.

I took the funicular railway down to Kabatas. If only I had realised it at the time, but the Besiktas stadium – currently being rebuilt – was only a few hundred yards away. As I waited to catch a tram to the old city, The Bosphorus was within walking distance. Away in the distance, was the bridge to Asia.

My heart jumped.

Asia. Bloody hell.

Of course, Fenerbahce are based on the Asian side of the city of Istanbul, leaving Galatasaray and Besiktas to battle it out on the European side. I remember us losing at home to Besiktas in 2003, but our “away” game was held in Gelsenkirchen due to crowd disturbances in Istanbul. The evening game with Galatasaray would be, therefore, our seventh against Istanbul teams. However, as the tram trundled through the busy streets and then over the Galata Bridge, my mind was full of other worldly things and football was not on my mind.

I alighted at Sultanahmet. Following the rain on Tuesday, thankfully Wednesday’s weather was fine. Within a few minutes, I was heading over to the Blue Mosque – or the Sultan Ahmed Mosque – where I spent a lovely time inside and out, pointing my camera at its iconic roof and towers. Thankfully its interior is able to be visited; I was in awe of the vastness of its great internal space and the ornate blue and white roof tiles. It was a stunning building. There was a stillness inside which captivated me.

Outside, I bought myself a little cup of a local delicacy called sicak salep, which was a rich milky drink containing nutmeg, cinnamon, rose water, flour and coconut. It was gorgeous.

The Hagia Sophia – a former mosque which is now a museum – was close to the Blue Mosque, but I wanted to visit another of the old city’s famous landmarks. I walked further west, past bars, restaurants, hotels – and chaps constantly asking me if I like Istanbul, where am I from and do they know that they have a carpet shop nearby?

I kept quiet. I was on guard. You never know. However, my silence was more to do with my dislike of being harangued by street traders rather than a fear for my safety. In the streets, I did notice many Galatasaray scarves and shirts being worn, however. It acted as a reminder that there would soon be a football match taking place later in the evening; at times I was lost in my thoughts and Chelsea was the last thing on my mind.

Just before the entrance to the Grand Bazaar, I stumbled across a Jewellery Quarter. Here was Istanbul in a nutshell; on street level, glittering silver and gold on display in bright shop windows, but above flaking plaster and decrepit buildings.

A city of contrasts? You bet.

Inside the Grand Bazaar, another world.

I slowly walked through the huge covered market and was simply enthralled. At every turn, there were small shops, stores, boutiques, stalls and street traders selling everything and anything; spices, herbs, tea, pomegranates, oranges, lemons, the ubiquitous carpets, lights, lamps, sweets and deserts, Turkish delight, posters, tacky souvenirs. The colours were intense; from vibrant red to deep gold, from a delicate turquoise to subtle cream. The smells of the spices intermingled with the sweet smokiness of tray after tray of roast chestnuts. The traders begged conversation but I moved silently on. Perhaps on a different day, I might have been more willing to haggle and buy; not today.

Outside of the bazaar there was a further labyrinth of cobbled streets, shops, pedestrians and street traders. Occasionally, the tall minaret of a local mosque would appear in view. I eventually made my way back to the harbour by the Galata Bridge. Here, I stayed a while. There was a row of around ten shoeshine stalls – the most decadent I’ve ever seen – and yet more street traders hawking their goods. Over by the bridge were three fast food restaurants – the food was being cooked on small barges, bobbing up and down on the water – while the locals sat at small stools and tables and hurriedly ate various snacks consisting of freshly-caught fish, in bread, liberally doused with salt and lemon juice. The smell was overpowering. Elsewhere, more roast chestnuts, but also sweetcorn too. The smoke wafted around and it was a heady mix of fragrances. Over on the bridge, fishermen were lined up, their lines limply hanging down into the grey harbour.

With some sadness I left the old city – it had been a vibrant, intoxicating few hours. Over the water was the steep ascent to Taksim via the more modern shopping streets. For the first twenty minutes, I slowly walked up the ridiculously steep cobbled path which took me right past the Galata Tower. In a restaurant, I rested and enjoyed a lamb kebab with pistachios, plus a mixed salad. My calves were burning; I needed that rest.

By 4.30pm, the temperature had dropped considerably. Outside, more and more Galatasaray colours. The only Chelsea item I had seen all day was a Fenerbahce / Chelsea scarf from 2008; no doubt which team that lad would be supporting in a few hours.

I met Mike, Frank and Tim in the hotel lobby at around 6.45pm and by 7.20pm, we were on one of the scheduled buses which were being used to ferry Chelsea fans to the Turk Telekom Arena, some eight miles to the north. Thankfully, there had been no hint of trouble on our walk across the square. The bus ride reminded me so much of a similar ride through the sprawling city of Naples in 2012. If anything, Istanbul was even hillier, the valleys deeper, the high-rise apartments mightier, the traffic faster; the journey was certainly quicker.

By 7.45pm, we had parked up outside the stadium, which appeared to sit on a considerable hill, and the boys bought match scarves.

There was still two hours until kick-off. I realised that I hadn’t had a beer all day; I wouldn’t be having one at the stadium either. Once past the relatively easy security check, we slowly ascended the concrete stairs to our entrance. First, another kebab and a Coke.

Inside at around 8.30pm, the stadium was only 10% full. However, the 5,000 ultras behind the far goal were making enough noise for 25,000. I couldn’t wait to hear what it would be like once full to bursting. Our little section, up in the top tier, behind persplex glass and netting, slowly filled. We had 2,500 tickets of which we sold maybe half. It felt like an away crowd of just over a thousand; more than Naples in 2012, for sure.

I noted lots of Chelsea flags – and some new.

Away in the distance were three Chelsea Bulgaria flags.

Around twelve fans were here from Mongolia and they had a large flagged draped on the back fence alongside the New York Blues flag, one from Rayners Lane, a Gothenburg Loyal flag, a Swadlincote flag and that lovely flag featuring a mother who sadly passed away in 2008. Elswhere, a Lebanon flag and the Tim Rice RIP flag.

Then, a monstrosity…a large blue flag, with Mourinho’s face, but the hideous phrase “The MOUnster.”

Fcuk off.

Just as the home fans began to get some songs going, Martin did a loud and defiant “Zigger Zagger.” We were booed, so they must’ve heard us. The minutes ticked by. With around ten minutes to go before the entrance of the teams, the PA system helped orchestrate some activity from the Galatasaray supporters. The music which is used for Atlanta Braves’ fans – I only know it, please forgive me, as a Native American chant – boomed out on the loud-speakers. It seemed every single fan lofted a scarf, swayed quickly from one side to the other, and joined in.

The atmosphere was rising.

We spotted a Millwall flag flying to our right; maybe some Galatasaray stole it and thought it might intimidate us a little.

“Yeah, right.”

Then, a chant especially for us –

“Fcuk you Chel-zeee, fcuk you Chel-zeee, ole, ole, ole.”

We replied –

“We Are Chelsea, Istanbul.”

Then, the teams entered the pitch.

As the teams lined up and the CL anthem played, hundreds of phone lights were switched on.

Then, around ten orange flares were ignited in the upper tier to our right.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ss18H9Pz6EA

The sulfurous aroma filled my nostrils.

Fantastic. This is what European Away Days should be like.

Our team –

Cech, then Dave, JT, Gary, Brana, with Frank and Ramires holding, then Willian, Hazard and Schurrle and Torres up front.

For them –

Number 11 – Didier Drogba, plus ten others.

The game began and the noise was predictably fierce. Every time that we had possession, the whistling began, and only ceased when Galatasaray retrieved the ball. Our first chance fell to Willian who chose to loft the ball over a stranded Muslera, but the ‘keeper headed the ball outside of his area and we watched as the ball bounced wide and the open goal stayed intact. However, our early dominance paid dividends when Azpilicueta exposed Eboue’s failings down our left after a pass from Schurrle. The home ‘keeper again chose to come out, only for Dave to neatly pass inside to Fernando Torres to slip the ball past some covering defenders and into an unguarded net.

The 1,200 inhabitants in the upper corner went into frenzy mode.

YESSSSSSSSSSS!

What a joyous moment.

There was a hope that we could take the home fans “out” of the game with that goal. At an away game in Europe, that’s half the battle. I immediately remembered that the other three English teams had lost their respective games 2-0…positive thinking I know, but surely we wouldn’t lose this one now?

It was our turn to sing now, albeit with a chant dripping with irony –

“Your Support Is Facking Shit.”

In truth, Galatasaray were poor in that first-half. They left vast gaping gaps in their defence and it was only a mixture of poor choices and poor finishing which stopped us from a deserved 2-0 or 3-0 lead. Torres was especially profligate, choosing to run past players when a first-time shot or pass was the better option. Our chances mounted up but the score stayed at 1-0. To be honest, with the crowd getting quieter than ever, it seemed that this would be an easy passage into the quarters.

“Matthew Harding’s Blue And White Army – WE HATE TOTTENHAM.”

Jonesy, standing between Alan and me, made the comment that virtually everyone in the 52,000 crowd was standing.

“It makes a mockery of all-seaters, Chris.”

Then, a bizarre few seconds. A Galatasaray attack broke down and the ball went off for a throw-in. What happened next is still a blur, but two balls ended up on the pitch. However, the Galatasaray number 17 Burak slammed one of the balls past Cech from an angle, while the original ball was still bouncing around the pitch.

Former world boxing champion Darren Barker – Chelsea – stood nearby for a few minutes towards the end of the first-half. Maybe I could employ him as a minder for the bus ride home. At the break, I didn’t want to tempt fate too much, but commented to many that “we’re doing well here, we should be winning this 3-0.”

As is so often the case, the impetus changed in the second-half. Admittedly, Fernando Torres had a gilt-edged chance to double our lead early on, but his firm shot was parried. However, Galatasaray, buoyed by an increasingly involved home crowd, dominated possession for much of the second period. Didier Drogba appeared to be out of sorts for most of the game and was well marshaled by both John Terry and Gary Cahill. However, just after the hour, he easily won a header from a corner and the downward flight of the ball was knocked against the post by Inan. Then, Drogba won a corner. Sneijder, surprisingly quiet, whipped in a ball which bamboozled the entire Chelsea defence. Cech came and stalled, JT lost his man and Chedjou slammed the ball in from inside the six-yard box.

Although I managed to get a rather blurred photograph of Torres’goal, regretfully the photo I have of their goal is flawless.

Pah.

Our legs were tiring and Galatasaray could smell blood. Thankfully, aided by some substitutions, we defended well. However, since their goal, the noise levels increased. The whistling was intense. Evert time, Chelsea had the ball, the stadium resonated to the shrill piercing sound of whistling.

It must’ve been so difficult for the players to concentrate; it must’ve resembled playing in a hornets’ nest.

It was so loud, it almost hurt.

The Chelsea fans learned fast; rather than compete with this, we chose to sing when they had the ball.

In particular, the old favourite – to the tune of “Amazing Grace” – bellowed out defiantly:

“Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea!”

Despite some hairy moments when Mikel threatened to continually lose possession, we held on. When the referee finally blew up, after five long minutes of added time, we yelled our pleasure.

Just like after Napoli, we waited patiently for the fleet of buses to take us back to Taksim Square after the game had long finished. We eventually reached there at 1.15am. There were many Galatasaray fans exiting the metro station, but we kept together and had time to dip into a McDonalds along with a few other Chelsea before heading back to the stillness of our hotel.

At the end of the game, I almost immediately thought of four scores –

Manchester City 0 Barcelona 2.

Arsenal 0 Bayern Munich 2.

Olimpiakos 2 Manchester United 0.

Galatasaray 1 Chelsea 1.

How I love to be able to sing “One Team In Europe” every spring.

This year might be no exception.

Photographs From Istanbul :

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10152283815067658.1073741837.561202657&type=1&l=474796a83f

Tales From Another Unbeaten Run

Posted on February 23, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 22 February 2014.

I picked two good games to miss. Due to other much more important matters, I chose to not to attend the disappointing back-to-back away games at The Hawthorns and The Etihad. What a couple of stinkers they were too. We were on top, although not on song, during the first period against West Brom, yet bizarrely took our foot off the pedal after the interval and conceded an equaliser that was on the cards for quite some time. Immediately after this capitulation, Jose Mourinho’s comment about “winning 1-0 at football is easy” seemed rather ridiculous. Then, at Manchester City, we never ever got going at all. It was as one-sided a match as I can remember; we were lucky to get naught. The difference twixt League and Cup performances against City was huge.

Leading up to the game with Everton, there was a feeling that the manager and team “owed us one.” For the six thousand loyal fans that travelled in the wind and the rain last Saturday, that feeling must have been immense.

Thankfully, the weather was devoid of the typhoon conditions that have paralysed parts of England for the past two months; as I drove to London with PD and LP, it was a clear and sunny Saturday morning and the car was soon rocking to the sound of PD’s infectious laughter and to the music of The Specials.

We reached The Goose in good time; we were inside at around 11.15am. Despite a rather truncated pre-match session, we enjoyed tons of laughs and banter.

…mmm…I’d like a £10 for every time I have written words to this effect in these Tales over the years.

Amidst the general merriment, I was glad to hear disapproval from two good friends of the manager’s latest sound bites, which this time involved a distasteful personal dig at Arsene Wenger. I know that the Arsenal manager is a cantankerous old duffer, but to hear Jose Mourinho label him a “specialist in failure” seemed rather classless and – yes, I’ll say it – embarrassing. A couple of us agreed that we enjoyed the earlier part of the season when the Chelsea manager (perhaps reacting from a gentle tap on the shoulder from those above) chose to play the silent game and let our results, as the old cliché goes, speak for themselves. Mourinho’s virtues are many; he is a master of men, he empowers his charges with supreme confidence, he is meticulous in his planning, he is a charismatic leader. When he is on form, his comments to the media can be fascinating, humorous and wise. I do not understand why he needs to belittle others – his rivals – at times.

Our view was that if Chelsea were ten points clear of the chasing pack, in the month of April, then the bombastic Jose of old might have been easier to stomach. With everything so tight at the top, at present, there was a feeling that Mourinho’s comments were not needed and might well result in eggs on our collective faces come May.

And maybe not Waitrose ones, either.

There was a quick rush down to Stamford Bridge, past Paul Canoville who was at the CFCUK stall, in order to get to the turnstiles in time. Thankfully the weather was still holding up; it was, in fact, a gorgeous winter day. I think a few of us were regretting the choice of a warm jacket or pullover.

Inside, there was a quick glimpse over to the away segment to see a full allocation of three thousand Evertonians, but only one Everton flag, the size of a tea cloth.

Our team seemed strong. Over on The Shed balcony, the orange “Drogba Legend” banner loomed large. I wondered if our collective minds might be on Wednesday’s encounter with Didier’s Galatasaray.

No. I hoped not. This was a massive game (aren’t they all these days?) and I trusted that manager, players and supporters alike would be fully-focussed.

This game felt like a game we simply had to win.

The portents were undoubtedly good.

I have been lucky enough to see every one of our league games with Everton since the 1994-1995 season; a span of almost twenty years. Ironically, we lost that game in November 1994, but have remained unbeaten ever since.

Won 9

Drew 9

Lost 0

I can easily remember the sense of disappointment after a single Paul Rideout goal gave the visitors a slender 1-0 win on that day over nineteen years ago. Why should I remember that particular game after all these years? Well, it was a big day in the history of Chelsea Football Club. It marked the opening of the new North Stand.

The last game of the sweeping North terrace took place a year earlier. The last time I saw it in person was during a horrible Ian Wright-inspired loss to Arsenal in November 1993. Its last game was a little later against Manchester City. I never watched a game from this terrace; I wish I had. For many years, I chose to stand in The Shed, before gravitating to The Benches. For the big games, the North Stand became a battle ground for the more – ahem – maladjusted elements of our support; despite segregation, a wild time was often had on that open expanse of old time terracing.

The new North Stand gradually rose over the next twelve months. At the time of the 1994-1995 opener against Norwich City, The Shed had disappeared too. In its place was a temporary stand housing around three thousand. At the other end, the North Stand appeared to be a fine looking structure, albeit slightly smaller than I had hoped. Over the first few months of the season, more and more seats were added until it was ready; the stand’s first game, with a slightly reduced capacity, would be for the visit of Everton on 26 November 1994.

Russ, Glenn, Alan and I had tickers behind the goal in the upper tier for this game; we just had to be there. For a stadium enthusiast like myself, I couldn’t miss being there for its first game. It was Stamford Bridge’s first new structure in over twenty years.

I can remember us being in the old Black Rose, which was to latterly become The So Bar, opposite the old West Stand entrance. There was a real buzz about the place. I can remember that the BBC1 lunchtime programme “Football Focus” was live at Stamford Bridge; this felt like a big honour, that the occasion was being suitably marked.

Once inside the new stand, it felt fantastic to be so high above the Stamford Bridge pitch and – of course – so near to the action. Away in the distance we could see the flats above the Fulham Road and the towers of the Lots Road Power station. Our little part of London suddenly came alive. It was, of course – as the saying so often goes – “typical Chelsea” for us to lose to Everton on this auspicious day.

It still rankles, even now.

However, since that day…Chelsea have played nineteen league games against The Toffees at HQ and have enjoyed another unbeaten run. That Everton were playing in an away kit which greatly resembled Tottenham’s home kit of last season felt like an added good luck omen. We haven’t lost at home to Spurs since…well, you know…since when Adam was a boy.

Before the game, the teams stood together in the centre of the pitch and Sir Tom Finney was fondly remembered. There are those who say Sir Tom was even better than Sir Stan, that his game was more rounded, more complete. He will be missed by the proud folk of Preston and elsewhere.

The bright sunlight above SW6 cast strong shadows on the green sward down below. It felt like the game was perhaps taking place in May; ah, memories of that sweet Fernando Torres strike last May which completed that rather tumultuous league campaign.

Samuel Eto’o was again chosen to lead the line and was assisted by a midfield of Oscar, Willian and Hazard ahead of Matic and Lampard. At the back, JT was paired alongside GC. The full-backs picked themselves. Where this leaves Ashley Cole is anyone’s guess. As always we began with bucket loads of possession. However, our players sadly seemed reticent to get Tim Howard involved in the game. There was the usual over-elaboration and a shyness to shoot. I made the point to Alan that it often seems that away teams visit Stamford Bridge with our reputation, heightened since Mourinho’s return, ahead of us. Very often there is nothing more than a “weathering of the storm” from most visitors in the first quarter of the game. I feel we need to exploit this lack of enterprise from the away team from the first whistle. We need to give them ten shades of hell in the opening attacks. If not, teams get a foothold – mental as well as physical – and often build in confidence.

Lo and behold, Everton soon grew in confidence and, with their usual attributes of hard-working midfielders, managed to stand firm against us. Before we knew it, Everton were giving us a real battle. The highlight of the early exchanges was a fine finger-tipped save from Petr Cech which denied a rasping shot from Leon Osman. Chelsea tried to break and to find space, but our play floundered in the final third. There was little movement off the ball. Things were getting to be a little frustrating.

Our best chance of the half involved several players down our right, with the ball eventually reaching Eto’o. He showed fine footwork to move the ball in to space but his low shot was saved well by Howard. There had been little else to cheer. Few Chelsea players had shone. Oscar and Hazard hadn’t caught the eye. Willian’s enthusiasm to cover every blade of grass was the one positive. However, our defence rarely looked in danger.

At the break, Alexey Smertin walked the pitch with Neil Barnet. In the programme, with the lovely review of the iconic 1983-1984 season continuing, there was a great piece on the 3-3 draw at Cardiff City. With PD alongside me, this was just right; I first met him on the train home after that match almost thirty years ago.

Mourinho chose to replace the quiet Oscar with Ramires at the break; I hoped for more urgency. We had no more than a succession of half chances, but just before the hour, Petr Cech reacted supremely well to a deflected shot from Osman, palming it away at his near post.

Soon after, Tim Howard was to foil Chelsea twice within a few seconds, first parrying a low shot from Hazard and then miraculously blocking a thunderous volley from Ivanovic.

The atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was tense. There were pockets of support roaring the team on, but few times when the entire stadium was one.

Jose rang the changes, replacing Willian with Fernando Torres. To my consternation, rather than play Torres and Eto’o upfront together – a new problem for the Everton defenders – Eto’o moved out to the right and the two never linked up. Then, another change.

Eto’o off and Andre Schurrle on.

A bit more pace maybe?

Although Torres never really received many quality passes, at least his energy seemed to energise the crowd. Nemanja Matic and Ramires began causing Everton problems with a couple of runs. A sublime cross from Ivanovic found Schurrle but his volley was rushed; Howard was untroubled.

I felt that a momentum – at last – was coming but, alas, the clock was ticking…

However, with only five minutes to go, some of the home supporters had decided that “enough was enough” and began their way home. I’ll never understand the rationale of that.

Tick, tick, tick.

With the full ninety minutes almost on the clock, Ramires advanced and set himself up for a shot. Earlier, an effort from way out was ridiculed.

“Why shoot from there? You never score from there, Rami.”

This effort, a low rasper, whizzed past Howard’s right post. It was wide by the narrowest of margins. The assistant referee signalled a full five minutes of additional time and I still had faith.

Another Ramires run, bursting away from markers in the inside-right channel, was halted by a clumsy challenge from the otherwise impressive Jagielka.

We waited for Frank to settle, for the wall to retreat. The position of the free-kick was just right for Frank, who had not enjoyed the best of games, to send an in swinger into the six yard box. Here was a chance for the ball to possibly tempt Howard to come and claim, but how often do we see ‘keepers caught in no man’s land and end up being beaten by the slightest of flicks?

We waited.

I looked down at Big John in the front row and silently urged him to do what he does best.

I knew he would.

“BANG BANG.

BANG BANG BANG.

BANG BANG BANG BANG.”

The MH responded –

“CHELSEA!”

I snapped a photograph as Frank clipped the ball in.

A flurry of activity – confusion – and a roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd as the ball ended-up crossing Howard’s goal line.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

One half of me continued to yell, the other half took some photographs of John Terry (oh my goodness, it was JT who scored!) running away, hotly pursued by others.

I turned to the supporters in the row behind me – strangers – and we just yelled at each other.

Magical, magical times.

My heart was pounding, my head had gone.

The picture I took of Alan, yelling, is a classic.

An Everton attack came to nothing. There was no response. The referee blew for full time.

Get in!

As I made my way out, I felt exhausted…I’m sure I wasn’t alone.

Phew.

The unbeaten home run against Everton now advanced to 10-9-0 and we were, if only for a few hours, a lovely four points clear at the top of the table. I made my way back to The Goose after collecting a couple of extra tickets for Fulham next Saturday and met up with a few of the chaps. On my way, a white mini-bus, crammed full of Evertonians, slowly edged past me and one Scouser looked at me and mouthed an obscenity.

I ignored him.

The poor buggers; beaten in the last minute after a dogged display and now a hot and cramped trip back to Merseyside in a mini-bus.

Rather them than me.

There was a lovely little post-game laughter session involving Lord Parky, PD and Dave The Hat in our corner of The Goose. We all agreed that it had been a tough game, but one that we were so happy to win. I was pleased to hear Dave say that the atmosphere from where he watched the game (down below me in the MHL north-west corner) was the best he had experienced for a while.

Good stuff.

Next stop – Istanbul.

I will see some of you out there.

Tales From The Garden Of Eden

Posted on February 11, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 8 February 2014.

After our monumental and, possibly, season-defining triumph at Manchester City on Monday, I was chomping at the bit to see us play Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. However, for the first part of this particular Football Saturday, my focus was again elsewhere. I shot in to Bath in order to pay a visit to my rapidly-improving mother at the hospital. At 11.30am, I collected His Lordship from Parky Towers. However, our short trip over to Trowbridge to collect Young Jake was beset with flood-induced traffic congestion at Bradford-on-Avon; I have never seen the river so high. We were held up for quite some time. This was not good. Eventually, Jake was collected and we were on our way. However, more slow-moving traffic in Westbury caused me to momentarily wonder if we’d be able to make the kick-off.

It was 12.20pm and I still had a hundred mile drive ahead of me.

Thankfully, once I veered around Warminster on the A36, and then shot past Stonehenge, I was eating up the miles. London was reached in good time; at 2.20pm I was parked-up and we were on our walk to The Bridge.

A Chelsea vs. Newcastle United fixture is a common one for me. Allowing for Newcastle’s one recent relegation season, I have seen every single one of their games at Stamford Bridge since they re-joined the top-flight, under Kevin Keegan, in 1993.

This game, therefore, would be the twentieth consecutive league fixture between the two teams at Stamford Bridge that I would have seen. I always enjoy the visit of the black and whites from Tyneside. It’s always a special fixture for me. I am rapidly approaching the fortieth anniversary of my very first Chelsea game. That too, was against Newcastle United.

…let’s go back.

…way back.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. From that moment on, what are my memories? They are, not surprisingly, vague. I began looking out for Chelsea’s results, but my recollections are not particularly great about individual games, on TV or otherwise. I certainly can’t remember the 1971 Final in Athens for example. To be honest, my parents were not particularly big sport fans…I think that my football genes came from my maternal grandfather who had played football and cricket for the village in his youth (and incidentally, visited Stamford Bridge when he was a young man, the only ground he ever visited). Additionally, I am sure that he said on a few occasions that he favoured Newcastle and Aston Villa for some reason.

In those first few years of the ‘seventies, in my small Somerset school classroom, the alliances were starting to emerge. Leeds United led the way with three supporters in David, Tony and Wayne, while Andy was Arsenal and Paul was Liverpool. However, as far as I can recall, I alone was Chelsea, out on my own, on a limb. I wonder if there was any peer pressure to choose one of the other teams. Looking back – and I haven’t thought long and hard about this ever before – I’m rather proud of myself to pick a team which had garnered no other support at school. There was, however, a vague memory of some neighbours who lived opposite – a family, who soon disappeared to live in Gloucestershire. There was a son, also called Christopher, quite a few years older than me – maybe a teenager – who I think favoured Chelsea too. Maybe it’s in the name.

An important event happened around 1971 or 1972. A friend of ours in Windsor worked with Peter Osgood’s sister Mandy at a factory making Caterpillar vehicles and he said that he could obtain Ossie’s autograph for me. Once my father had explained what an “autograph” was, I was so excited and couldn’t wait for it to arrive. The only two names that I knew at Chelsea at the time were the two Peters, Osgood and Bonetti. I still have that signed photograph and it really cemented my affection for Peter Osgood and Chelsea Football Club.

I have no recollection of the 1972 League Cup Final loss to Stoke, but I do remember hearing “Blue Is The Colour” on the radio at around that time and that really affected me too. Just to hear the name “Chelsea” sent me dizzy. I obviously saw Chelsea on TV on Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoon highlight programmes but I only have vague recollections of the old East stand which came down in the summer of 1972. Incidentally, the first F.A. Cup Final that I can remember was the 1972 one; Leeds United beating Arsenal in the Centenary Final.

The first Chelsea game that I can honestly remember seeing on TV was the 1972 opener against mighty Leeds. Their goalie was injured and Peter Lorimer replaced him; Chelsea won 4-0. Peter Osgood, my hero, scored.

What other memories do I have in those nascent years? I remember – specifically – the build-up to the March 1973 F.A. Cup game with Arsenal. I remember Ossie’s goal in the first game and then watching the action on the 9.30pm news of the replay at Highbury. The sadness from that night still lives with me. I remember Bobby Charlton’s last ever game – at Chelsea – being shown on TV highlights in May 1973.

Anyway – you get the picture…I loved playing football at school break times, on Saturdays at the village recreation ground (“the rec”) and in the street. I was a football fan and Chelsea was my team. My first Chelsea kit was purchased – with a number nine sewn on shirt and shorts – and then football boots and a leather football. Football was taking over. Every Saturday morning, I would walk down to the village shop to collect a loaf of bread and then spend a few pennies on packets of football cards. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling almost forty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on March 16^th against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother wrote to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived…priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

Looking back, I don’t think that any of my school pals could actually believe I was going to see Chelsea play. This was unheard of amongst the village kids. I was only eight remember. At last the great day arrived and it is amazing that I remember so much. My father was a local shopkeeper and so he pulled a few strings with his co-owner to get the Saturday off. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in great health at the time. He had been diagnosed with throat cancer and was due radiation treatment in the May. Thankfully, this was eventually successful, but he was feeling a bit under-the-weather throughout the journey to and from London.

One small memory; on trips to London, my father always drove north and joined the M4 at Bath. After consultation with others, it was decided that an alternative would be used on that particular day. Instead, Dad would drive east on the A4 and picked the M4 at Hungerford. There was a little part of me – the worrier – that hoped that this new itinerary wouldn’t backfire and we’d end up getting lost.

“Not on my first trip to Chelsea, surely Dad!”

Leading up to the game, there had been a pitch invasion at Newcastle United’s F.A. Cup game at home to Nottingham Forest on the previous Saturday and, during the week at school the hooliganism – or at least, over-exuberance and a little vandalism – had been the talk of the classroom.

This heightened the frisson for my first-ever Chelsea game.

We had arranged to park our car at a nursing home at Park Royal, where an uncle had recently been staying. I suppose we reached there at around 12.30pm. We then walked the short distance to Park Royal tube station and caught the train to Fulham Broadway. I visited Park Royal station recently and it did bring back some memories…I recalled walking over the footbridge over the tracks and the art deco façade of the station. In March 1974, my heart must have been beating fast as we boarded the eastbound train. I had been on a tube train before, but this felt so exciting – doing what thousands of Chelsea fans do each week…this is what stuck with me the most I think; a small boy from Somerset being a Londoner for the day.

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood. We bought a match programme, which I still have. I remember that the smudge from my mother’s wet leather glove is still visible…strange, though, I remember the day as being sunny.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still mid-construction on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team included such players as Ron Harris, John Phillips, John Hollins, Steve Kember, Dave Webb, Ian Hutchinson and Charlie Cooke. Newcastle United fielded Malcolm Macdonald, Stewart Barrowclough, Terry McDermott and Terry Hibbitt amongst others.

The gate was 24,207 on that day in March 1974.

What do I remember of the actual game? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minutes…a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember actually thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there was to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. Of course, a second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed.

I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final and then in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Fulham Broadway Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) – the site of a café to this day. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

Back to 2014…

Despite fine weather on the approach to London, there was a sudden shower as we started our walk towards The Bridge. Up above the Empress State Building, a striking rainbow lit up the grey sky. I wondered if a pot of goals would be at the end of it. Very often the visit of the Geordies has resulted in a heavy loss for them in SW6. Their team would be depleted. They have had a tough time of it recently. I was supremely confident that a Chelsea win would be forthcoming. We bypassed The Goose and reached the turnstiles for the MHU in good time. This was a strange pre-match for sure, though. When was the last time I had attended a home game on a Saturday and had not set foot in a pub? Maybe 1984.

The half-and-half scarves on sale next to the CFCUK stall were matched overhead by a half-and-half sky. One part was brilliant blue, one part was grey cloud. The rainbow had disappeared. I quickly bought a programme and flicked through it as I waited in line at the turnstiles. Club historian Rick Glanvill had written a piece on the Newcastle game in 1980 which I had attended with a couple of school friends and, ironically, my father and his then retired co-owner at the shop. A 6-0 win that day is fondly remembered.

Over in the corner, Newcastle had brought 2,000 away fans; the same as West Ham United. It seems there is a change in Chelsea’s policy on away tickets. It used to be solidly set at either 3,000 or 1,500. The away fans began singing about a fat cockney bastard leaving their club alone, but other, more rousing, songs were not forthcoming. Back in 1974, I thought it implausible that Newcastle fans could travel such a distance to see their team play; I remember being suitably impressed. These days, the friction of distance seems to be of little importance.

John Terry wasn’t in the line-up. Mourinho still fancied Dave ahead of Ashley, so the defence was rejigged with David Luiz alongside Gary Cahill and Branislav Ivanovic at right-back. Frank Lampard returned alongside the impressive Nemanja Matic. The midfield “attacking three” were Oscar, Willian and the new all-conquering idol Eden Hazard. Samuel Eto’o led the line. As expected, the visitors’ line-up was depleted and contained a couple of players of whom I knew nothing.

Chelsea began on the front foot and dominated the first part of the game. However, Ben Arfa found space but fired at Petr Cech to sound out a warning to a perhaps complacent home crowd. The atmosphere seemed to be one of expectation, with the home support unwilling to provide a noisy backdrop, despite our early dominance. The half-chances continued for Chelsea.

Eden Hazard advanced with the ball and played it out wide to Ivanovic. The Belgian dynamo continued his run and when Brana returned the ball, he whipped it low past Krul into the far corner. It was as simple as that.

Eden ran away to the far corner to celebrate and The Bridge rejoiced. I hoped for a little pay-back for our defeat up at St. James’ Park in November; our second-half performance that day was quite shocking in its lack of desire.

A lone Newcastle effort at the Matthew Harding was abated by Cech, but we were soon on the attack again. Eden Hazard, the crowd buzzing whenever he touched the ball, ran deep into the Geordie penalty box. He played the ball in to a heavily marked Eto’o, who charmed us with an exquisite back heel into Eden’s path. A simple stroke of the ball into the goal gave us a 2-0 lead. A slide on his knees, right in front of Parky, then another gathering of players down in the corner. We love our corners at Chelsea. Does any other team always celebrate with a run to the corners after almost every goal? I can’t think of any.

In the after-goal glow, the spectators in the Matthew Harding took a moment to honour our manager, under a little criticism before Christmas, but now lauded by the loyalists –

“Stand Up For The Special One.”

At the break, Tommy Baldwin appeared on the pitch alongside Neil Barnett. I only ever saw The Sponge play once for Chelsea; not in game number one in 1974, but against Tottenham in game two in 1974. He was the leader of the team…

While Alan and I joked about 20,000 spectators not knowing who he was, sadly it seems Chelsea Football Club didn’t either. Alongside Tommy’s career stats on the TV screen was a picture of Charlie Cooke.

Oh boy.

Soon into the second-half, the Newcastle ‘keeper rushed out to meet a Luiz high ball, slipped, but was relieved to watch the ball speed away past the post before Oscar could reach it. Then a whipped Frank Lampard free-kick from an acute angle brought a fine save from Krul. A corner was swung in by Willian and the ball was knocked away. Although I didn’t spot the offence, the wonderfully-named Mapou Yanga-Mbiwa was adjudged to have pulled down Eto’o inside the box. The much-maligned Howard Webb pointed to the spot. It didn’t even occur to me that Frank Lampard would normally take it; all thoughts were on Eden Hazard and his opportunity to score his first-ever Chelsea hat-trick. While I remonstrated with an over-zealous steward about using my camera, the penalty was easily dispatched.

Chelsea 3 Newcastle United 0.

After a relatively quiet start to this season under Mourinho, despite a steady supply of goals, Eden Hazard is now the darling of the Chelsea support. I am mesmerized every time Eden has the ball at his mercy. I get a lovely rush of adrenalin as I watch him run at defenders, scuttling back to try to annul his threat. I love his sudden acceleration. I admire his tenacity. Above all, I love his confidence with the ball at his feet. When he is at the top of his game, Eden has the ability to turn any moment into a great moment.

Let all of us stand up and enjoy it.

Back in 1980, Colin Lee had scored a hat-trick in the 6-0 rout. With almost half-an-hour remaining, I hoped for a similar score line. In reality, we eased off a little. Newcastle instead managed to carve out a couple of half-chances but their finishing was poor. Mourinho rang the changes; Ba for Eto’o, then new buy Mohamed Salah for Willian and then Andre Schurrle for the magical Hazard. Within a few minutes of his Chelsea debut, Salah had one half-chance and one fine chance in which to score, but failed to hit the target. He impressed me in the games against Basel in 2013; I’m sure he will prove to be a fine addition to our squad.

As the game wore on, all eyes and ears were focussed on score updates from Carrow Road where, amazingly, Norwich City were managing to hold Manchester City to a 0-0 score-line. Howard Webb signalled the end of our match and the crowd applauded the players off. It immediately felt like an easy win. In fact, it felt like a typical Chelsea versus Newcastle United result; a few Chelsea goals and a clean sheet. As I packed away my camera, it was announced on the PA that Manchester City had indeed dropped two points at Norwich.

It meant that Chelsea were top.

Get in.

We’ve all seen a list of our remaining league games. We will have a tough one at a resurgent Liverpool, plus a couple of home derbies against the North London teams might stretch us, but all of the others seem…whisper it…”winnable.”

Maybe, just maybe…

…with Eden Hazard in our team, we have a chance.

Tales From Blue Monday

Posted on February 5, 2014 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2014.

As our unbeaten run over Christmas continued into 2014, the away game at Manchester City loomed heavily in the distance. Despite the unexpected, and unsettling, presence of Arsenal at the top of the table, this encounter between the two English heavyweights always had the feel of a title decider. The league positions alone – them second, us third, both teams just behind Arsenal – justified that claim.

It would be a massive test. It would be the toughest game of the season thus far.

In the closing words of my previous match report, in which I documented out failings against a resolute West Ham United, I closed with the words –

“Manchester City next.

Lovely.”

Just in case anyone was in doubt, the last of these words was laden with sarcasm.

In my mind, this would be a very onerous task.

Since our fine 3-1 victory in 2008-2009, an away game at Manchester City…the City of Manchester Stadium, Eastlands, The Etihad, call it what you will…has been as barren as it gets.

2009-2010: Manchester City 2 Chelsea 1

2010-2011: Manchester City 1 Chelsea 0

2011-2012: Manchester City 2 Chelsea 1

2012-2013: Manchester City 2 Chelsea 0

A few of these games have morphed into one. I found it difficult to remember too much about last season’s game. At least Carlos bloody Tevez wouldn’t be playing this time.

Yes, we defeated City 2-1 at Stamford Bridge back in October in a fine contest. At the time, City were a Jekyll & Hyde team; swashbuckling at home, fragile away. Our win confirmed the dual-personality of early-season City. Since then, their away form has tightened-up and they have continued to rack up cricket scores – or maybe rugby scores – at home. Eleven league games at their fortress and eleven wins.

This, make no mistake, would be Jose Mourinho’s biggest test of the season.

Even though the pay masters at Sky had deemed this game necessitated a change from a standard Saturday to a Monday night, a full three thousand Chelsea loyalists would be in attendance for this one. To make things easier, I had booked two days holiday for this away game; I simply didn’t fancy showing up at work on the Tuesday after just four hours’ sleep. In the circumstances, this allowed me plenty of time to pay a visit to my mother at hospital in Bath during Monday lunchtime. Again, Parky met me at the hospital. Mum seemed a little weaker compared to previous visits; I left the hospital in a rather subdued frame of mind.

For the first hour or so, there was rather less frenetic chat than is the norm.

“Tell you what, Parky. Why don’t you slap on some music? What have you got for me in your ruc-sac, mate?”

“Electronic ‘eighties. How about that?”

“Perfect.”

As we headed north on the M5 through Gloucestershire – the skies grey, the winter landscape dull, the River Avon flooded, the Malverns looming like Manchester City – Parky fumbled around in his bag, picked the requisite CD and popped it in.

The first tune?

“Blue Monday.”

How apt.

“That’ll do mate, Blue Monday on Blue Monday.”

The familiar beats from over thirty summers resonated as I drove north.

“How does it feel? To treat me like you do? When you’ve laid your hands upon me and told me who you are?”

I stopped for McCoffee at Strensham and at Sandbach. Both service areas were quiet; only one City fan at the former, no Chelsea at either. How different to a Saturday when both would’ve been crawling with football fans of every hue. I was deep in conversation with His Lordship and missed the usual turning for Manchester, so was forced into the city from the west rather than the south. I didn’t mind; although I was caught up in a little rush-hour traffic, at least I was afforded the lovely view of the red brick and the green signage of the iconic Salford Lads Club as I trundled slowly past.

I drove right through the heart of the city – Deansgate, more impressive red brick – and then parked up relatively close to Victoria Station. There were gleaming modern offices everywhere. The grim Manchester of the ‘eighties were suddenly forgotten. I always get quite a kick driving through the city centre, although other areas of the city have not fared so well. We had nigh on three hours to kill before kick-off. Underneath the railway arches, we spotted a pub called The Rovers Return. This was the real Manchester though; not a TV set. A hundred yards or so further on, I spotted The Lowry Hotel. I had driven past it, by chance, once before. This time, we were going in. I have always wanted to visit it; especially on match days. Let me explain.

Almost ten years ago, I sent out some letters to John Terry, Frank Lampard, Carlo Cudicini and Eidur Gudjohnson – my four favourite players at the time – and asked if there was any way they could find time to meet up with some friends from North Carolina during our visit to Pittsburgh for the Chelsea vs. Roma match in August 2004. One of my friends had just recovered from a cancer scare and I was hoping that the players might be able to meet her and her two daughters at the Chelsea hotel for a few minutes. As it happened, there was no official correspondence back from any of the players, but we met most of the team at The Hilton in any case. It was a wonderful twenty minutes.

Later, in September, I received an envelope stamped “The Lowry Hotel, Manchester” and opened it up to find that John Terry had sent me some signed 8” by 10” colour photographs of him. Evidently, he had been on England duty and The Lowry Hotel was used by the F.A. when England played home games at Old Trafford. What a lovely surprise for me and my friends. Since then, I have often wanted to see if Chelsea used the same hotel when in Manchester. This was falling in to place nicely…

“Maybe we’ll see the team get on the coach, Parky.”

Up in the hotel bar, we kicked back and relaxed. A couple of Peronis were quaffed. I had a bite to eat. There was a little banter with a gaggle of match-going Chelsea and City fans. Below, the cut of the River Irwell provided a contrast to the modern lines of the hotel. It was very pleasant.

At 6.30pm, we left the cosy confines of the bar. I joked with Parky “if we win tonight, I’m coming back next time.” There had been no sighting of Chelsea during the hour we spent at the hotel; some other time maybe.

I battled the Manchester evening traffic and pointed my car towards Eastlands. The neon blue of the stadium made navigation easy. By 7.20pm, I was parked-up at my usual – “superstitious”? – £5 parking spot.

“Parky, I have to ask myself…if we’ve lost the last four times, why am I still parking here?”

All around us were City fans. Again, I pondered on how easy, or difficult, the move from south Manchester had been for these fans since 2003? Maine Road seemed to define City; maybe The Etihad defines them further? The new academy stadium over the road was coming on apace from last season’s visit. City are certainly making this once forgotten part of the city their own.

Outside the away turnstiles, there were familiar faces. There seemed to be a larger than usual police presence, though. There was a little more security. It felt odd.

Soon inside, I bumped into Alan and soon made our way in to the seating bowl of The Etihad. As I ascended the steps, a familiar song was playing.

“How does it feel? To treat me like you do? When you’ve laid your hands upon me and told me who you are?”

The superstitious fool that I am quickly decided that this was too good to be true.

“Blue Monday.”

Alan and I laughed.

Deep inside, I thought to myself…

“…mmm…it had better not be a Blue Moon Day.”

The Etihad is impressive as ever. There are plans afoot to add height to the end stands; a third tier to bring the capacity up to around 61,000 or so.

There was hardly any time to think. The stadium filled-up quickly. The teams entered the pitch. Chelsea in blue/blue/blue. I used to hate seeing us without white socks – superstition again – but ever since we won the league at Bolton wearing all blue, I have been less bothered. The home crowd sang “Blue Moon” and we retaliated with a ditty about the European Cup.

A quick scan of the team; no Oscar, a surprise, but I was pleased to see Matic playing. The surprise was seeing Ramires out wide. There was no time for much further contemplation. The whistle blew and we were away.

It was a familiar story during the first fifteen minutes. We seemed to be a little late out of the blocks and City were soon cutting into the heart of our defence. Without the injured Aguero, I was hoping that City would be disadvantaged. They still had Dzeko and Negredo, plus Silva and Navas of course. Chelsea scrambled to get in to position but the first few half-chances from the home team came to nothing. Chelsea began breaking away, though, and I was immediately impressed with Willian and Ramires as they charged down loose passes and broke.

The City fans down alongside us aimed a hostile chant at our manager.

“Jose Mourinho – Your Football Is Shite.”

Our reply was quick and to the point.

“Jose Mourinho – He’s Won More Than You.”

That shut them up.

I was unhappy with the amount of room that Yaya Toure – yes, him – was being given in the early part of the game. Nemanja Matic was finding his feet and I hoped that the game wouldn’t pass him by. I was reminded of an early outing for Ramires in 2010 when he was left chasing shadows at City against Toure. David Luiz was his usual enthusiastic self. I just hoped there would be no early bookings which might temper our aggression.

There was a little disquiet in our ranks…”come on Chelsea, get stuck in”…but I was happy with each passing milestone.

5 minutes.

10 minutes.

15 minutes.

20 minutes.

We were improving.

A shot from Silva went wide. We countered with a couple of efforts of our own. A Luiz free-kick is still in the air, travelling towards Oldham. Then, a rapid break down the Chelsea left but a tame shot from Ramires, with only Hart to beat, was followed up by a very ambitious bicycle kick from Willian on the rebound. The Chelsea fans were enthused and the City fans seemed worried.

30 minutes.

This was turning out to be a fine game of football. We were showing City little respect, were closing them down at will, and were breaking intelligently. This was great stuff. A move down our right allowed Hazard to play the ball in for Ramires. His initial shot was blocked by Hart, but the ball fell nicely for Branislav Ivanovic outside the box. He had no time to think. He struck the ball hard and low, returning it back past Hart and into the far corner.

The Chelsea supporters screamed heavenly.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

Despite being jostled, I tried hard to get the run and slide of Ivanovic on film.

Click, click, click, click, click.

Three seconds later I was screaming delight again.

A look towards Alan and another Oasis moment.

“They’ll have to come sat us now / come on my little diamonds.”

To be truthful, I could hardly believe it. We had weathered the storm, but were now ahead. With each passing minute, we grew in confidence. Dennis Wise was spotted in the TV studio, his smile wide as he punched the air to the delight of the Chelsea fans in front.

“Oh Dennis Wise – Scoredafackingreatgoal…”

A chance for Hazard, a chance for Dzeko. It began to dawn on me that Demechelis wasn’t a very good player. He wasn’t a very good player at all in fact. Meanwhile, Eden Hazard was on fire. He fed Samuel Eto’o, who unleashed a thunderbolt from an angle which crashed against the bar. Elsewhere, the midfielders were still stifling the City’s attacking thrust. At the break, we were getting into our groove. I hoped and prayed that the interval wouldn’t halt our rising confidence and strength. To be honest, Petr Cech had been largely untroubled.

With Chelsea attacking the away support in the south stand in the second-half, we were able to witness the wonderful skills of Eden Hazard as he bamboozled one City defender after another. It was a joy to watch. Elsewhere, Matic was growing as the game passed. To emphasise this, he collected the ball forty yards out, went on a little run and hit a cracking drive. The ball ripped through the air, but with Hart beaten, the ball crashed against the outside of the post. What a shot though.

City created a few chances, but their finishing was quite woeful. I was truly amazed at the lack of participation and noise coming from the home supporters. All of a sudden, Manchester City looked normal and, whisper it, a little unsure of themselves. Still we carved out chances. A Willian corner was headed back towards goal by the excellent Gary Cahill, but – AGAIN! – the post saved City.

At the other end, an onslaught seemed on the cards. However, the defence was magnificent throughout. All four defenders showed poise strength, determination and did not grow tired as the game grew old. In lost count of the number of Cahill blocks, Terry headers, Ivanovic tackles and Azpilicueta covering sprints.

A David Silva free-kick appeared to be goal bound but Petr Cech flung himself to his left to save. To reemphasise our domination of clear goal-scoring chances, it was his first real save of the night.

70 minutes.

The nerves were starting to build.

Mourinho replaced Eto’o with Oscar. Hazard moved further forward. A half-chance for Ramires after a delightful through ball, but Hart sprinted out to gather.

The stats were displayed on the large TV screens and I was amazed that City were shown to have had 65% possession. It just seemed that we had been in control. I guess, our threats were mainly on the break. For all of City’s ball, our defence was rarely troubled. In the second-half, Matic became a man. He was simply superb. I think we have unearthed a giant.

Then, disgust. Oscar was fed the ball and he broke into the Manchester City half. Barely over the halfway line, Nastasic pulled him down. In my mind, Nastasic was the last man and he had to be shown the red card. When Mike Dean, instead, showed him a yellow, three thousand Chelsea voices turned the air royally blue.

85 minutes.

My nerves were being torn.

Two further City chances. Another fine save – such strong wrists – from Cech foiled Jovetic, and then Nastasic shot wildly in one of the last kicks of the game.

90 minutes.

…thinking…”come on ref…blow up…three minutes extra time…surely there can’t be long to go now…come on, mate…blow that bloody whistle…let’s watch him…let’s watch for that sweep of the arm…come on, blow up…please…YEEEEEES!”

I punched the air and my smile was wide.

…thinking…”that win is for you Mum.”

There were Chelsea fans wildly celebrating all around the away section. I watched as the players came – only halfway, sadly – to our end, but they were full of happiness too. Their joy was my joy. It was a sight to behold.

…thinking…”still only bloody third, though…how the hell can the best two teams in England serve up that treat and Arsenal still be bloody top…that’s bollocks…wait…we still have to play them at home…that’ll sort them out.”

I soon met up with Parky outside. Foxy took a photo of us outside the away end. The City fans, as they had been all night, were quiet.

I pulled out of Manchester at 10.30pm. Down onto the orbital M60, past the magnificent old mill building and the bridges at Stockport, then out past the airport onto the M6 and the road south. I called in at a thoroughly deserted Frankley Services at midnight and dunked my head into a bucket of cappuccino.

The music played on.

I dropped Parky off at 2am. I was home by 2.30am.

So, my fears were unfounded. Chelsea had negated City’s threat with a very polished performance, managed perfectly by Jose Mourinho. We had closed them down, defended as a unit, and attacked as a unit. Every single one of the Chelsea players had been simply superb.

Heroes one and all.

A Blue Monday for the record books.

“How does it feel?”

If felt bloody great.

Tales From The Bread And Butter

Posted on February 1, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 29 January 2014.

As I picked up Lord Parky and his son-in-law Kris at around 4pm, there was a good ‘’buzz” about the evening game with West Ham United. After the distraction of cup football on Sunday, there was the reassuring feeling of normality being restored for a run-of-the-mill league game. This was a bread and butter game, although this one was important enough – with various sub-plots beneath the surface – to resemble a cheese-stuffed crust deep pan pizza with all the toppings known to mankind.

Chelsea versus West Ham United is always one of the home games of each season. Maybe not on a par with the London derbies against the ugly sisters from North London, but one which still resonates after all of these years.

It had been a busy day thus far. I had woken up at 5am to work an early shift in order to pay a quick visit to my steadily improving mother at the hospital in Bath. Mum’s smiles certainly cheered me. It seems that there are few subjects that I’m unable to wrap at least one football story around. So, as is my wont, here is my Royal United Hospital / football story.

Back in the early ‘seventies, it seemed that I spent a ridiculously disproportionate amount of time visiting various ailing elderly relatives at the largest hospital in my home area. My dear gran had both hips replaced on two separate occasions and, of course, I didn’t mind visiting her. It was all of the others; distant aunts and uncles, plus neighbours and even some people who I was unfamiliar with (why are we visiting THEM?) from various towns and villages who I hardly ever saw in normal circumstances, yet found myself visiting ad infinitum. The almost weekly Sunday trudge through the streets of Bath and the oh-so familiar pilgrimage to the “RUH” used to be bore me rigid. The only thing which got me through the awful tedium was the promise of being able to disappear off to the day room at the end of each ward in order to watch “The Big Match” which used to air after lunch each Sunday. Often Dad would accompany me; he, too, was no doubt bored to distraction with all of the bedside small talk. If the truth be known, I am sure – such was the acknowledgement from my parents of my love for football – that the Sunday visits were conveniently timed for me to be able to bugger off and watch an hour of football while visits took place.

So, Sunday afternoons in 1971 and 1972 at the RUH in Bath were often spent watching the domed head of Brian Moore introducing games from White Hart Lane, Upton Park, Selhurst Park, Highbury and – sometimes – Stamford Bridge. It acted as a little respite from the dullness of Aunt Nell rambling on about her recent operation or Mrs. Barton complaining about the hospital food.

I can picture the large black and white TV screen, high on a stand. The hushed reverence while people watched. In fact, the day room always seemed to be packed with men, presumably seeking solace away from the never-ending amount of chattering in the main ward. It seemed like a little private club. I am sure that not everyone were fans of football though. Some, no doubt, were using it as a refuge. I can distinctly remember an interchange that took place one afternoon between my father and one particularly gormless relative who had been watching the football on TV for a quite few minutes before we arrived in the day room.

My father asked him who were playing.

“Uh. I’m not sure.”

My father and I looked at each other and we both stifled a smirk. Later in the day, Dad would comment to me, his face full of mirth, “how Michael could be watching the football and not know who were playing I will never know.”

I agreed. It probably took me a couple of seconds to work out the ground, the home team, the away team, even allowing for a kit change.

Once at the RUH, I specifically remember Don Rodgers, the moustachioed winger, playing for Crystal Palace in the days when their kit, also, included the West Ham colours of claret and blue, and putting in a ‘man of the match’ performance against Manchester United. No doubt, there were sightings too of Osgood, Hollins, Bonetti, Garland, Hutchinson, Mulligan, Hinton et al on various Sunday afternoons. That era was a fine one for a young lad from Somerset to first get into football. It is widely regarded that the early ‘seventies were the height of the fashion for show-boating entertainers. Not every team could win a trophy, although the league seemed ridiculously open compared to recent times, but my goodness there was some fun along the way. These were heady times. It is no doubt a cliché, but the game was full of characters. Most teams had at least one luxuriously gifted player. We had several; Peter Osgood, Charlie Cooke and Alan Hudson were our three entertainers. Elsewhere, there was Frank Worthington, Tony Currie, Stan Bowles, Rodney Marsh, George Best and Derek Dougan, plus many more. In the modern era, there are – of course – entertaining players. In recent years, we have been blessed with Gianfranco Zola, Joe Cole, Arjen Robben, Juan Mata and Eden Hazard to name a few. However, the focus is slightly different today. Entertaining players today use their skills to an end; to get past markers, to aid the team. In those days, there seemed to be a slightly different approach. As an example, wingers had an almost rabid desire to go on ridiculously mazy dribbles with the sole intention of entertaining the crowd rather than assisting towards a goal. Or there would be a ludicrous lobbed pace into the path of an attacker. Or occasionally a little passage of head tennis between team mates. Or a deftly disguised back heel with the sole intention of making the opponent look stupid. These days, football is all about results. In those days – God, I feel old – footballers tried to entertain too.

The traffic on the M4 was far from entertaining. Although there was little rain, for once, traffic was stacked up at a couple of places. Eventually, I parked-up at just after 7pm. As the three of us raced off, I grimly warned Parky and Kris –

“Right. We have a choice. A pint or getting in for the kick-off.”

At 7.15pm, the three of us were lined-up in front of the Peroni pump in The Goose, waiting for Lorraine to serve us. We rarely drink in the front section of the pub. It seemed odd to be there. It also seemed odd to see the lads traipse out past us, one after the other; we had only just arrived and they were already off.

“Hello. Goodbye.”

Then, that ridiculously rare occurrence; Rob leaving the pub before me.

Maybe for the first time ever.

On the Tuesday, I had read that tickets for the game were still on general sale. This worried me. Despite the claims of others that we are anything but a big club, we have played to virtual sell-outs for ages.

Despite my warning about missing the kick-off, we arrived just in time. Kris and I sat next to Alan and Tom with about a minute to spare. As always, I checked to see if there were any empty seats. To my great surprise and pleasure, The Bridge was full yet again. However, there was a section of around three hundred empty seats in the West Ham section.

“That’s poor” I commented to Alan.

When was the last time Chelsea failed to take a full three thousand to any London derby? It was so long ago that I can’t remember.

Soon into the game, there was the inevitable “WWYWYWS?” being bellowed at us by the sub-3K West Ham fans.

Ha.

The Irons and irony.

“You can’t even bring three thousand to Chelsea, you mugs. Good luck in The Olympic Stadium.”

As the game began, Vince arrived in the seat in front. He used to have a season ticket for a few years. I hadn’t seen him for a bit. He was in Albert’s seat, who is in New Zealand for two months. I asked him about his twelve year old boy.

“How is he? Still West Ham?”

“Worse.”

“Worse?”

“Gooner.”

…glum faces from Alan and me.

“He doesn’t like football, then?”

Prior to the game, Kris and I had talked about our score predictions. I went for a 3-0 repeat of the game at Upton Park. After all, we were on a run of seven wins on the trot. In the away game, West Ham had been dire. I was hopeful of a good Chelsea win.

The game began. Or rather, the cavalcade of missed chances and missed opportunities began.

Rather than list every one, here are the highlights, or perhaps the lowlights.

After the ball broke to Willian, he sent a superb deep ball over to Oscar on the other side of the West Ham penalty box. The slight but deceptively strong Brazilian cut inside and struck a magnificent shot goal bound. Sadly, Adrian tipped it over the bar.

A fine pumped ball from Branislav Ivanovic was headed down by Eden Hazard into the path of Samuel Eto’o. Sadly, the shot flew high over the bar.

“That’s the sort of Route One Football I like to see, though, Al.”

There was soon a reminder of the corresponding game last season; the day that Frank Lampard reached a double century of goals. The occupants of the Shed Upper, were soon singing “their song.”

“Frankie Lampard…scored two hundred…”

And it is their song; they were the ones who first sang it, that section sings it more than any other parts of the stadium. This is a first; I’ve never known one song to be favoured by one section of the stadium over all other areas.

We had begun reasonably well, but as the game continued we struggled to maintain the same levels.

A Ramires rising drive flew over.

Just before the break, a Willian corner was headed towards goal by John Terry, but the ‘keeper did very well to kick the ball away.

Then, Eto’o found an inch of space inside the box but his firm blast was turned around the near post by Adrian.

The second-half began with several Chelsea chances, beginning with a Hazard strike from an angle. Again, it flew over the bar.

The Matthew Harding had a special song aimed at the visitors –

“Frankie Lampard – He’s Won More Than You.”

With every tackle that took place, with every West Ham foul, the noise levels increased. The referee – he wasn’t familiar, who was he? – kept showing restraint in booking any West Ham player despite numerous opportunities. There is nothing like a sense of continued injustice to help raise the noise levels a few notches. At times, it was a cracking atmosphere.

I was doing my bit. I was enjoying the fact that the home crowd were singing hard for the team.

I thought to myself:

“Who knows, I just might go home with a sore throat? It used to happen all the time. Not so much these days. Pah.”

After all our pressure, West Ham broke down our right, quite against the run of play. The ball eventually fell at the feet of the hapless Andy Carroll who thankfully miss-cued. A goal then would have been hard to take.

Still the chances came and went. I lost count of the number of weak shots right at Adrian.

Very often, West Ham ‘doubled-up’ on Eden Hazard. He continued to be our main threat. Willian, was full of running, but his end product was poor.

Mourinho made a double substitution; quite a surprising one, too. On came Lampard and Matic. They replaced Mikel and Azpilicueta, but Ramires moved to right back and Ivanovic to left-back. I, for one, would never have guessed those moves.

Lampard provided more forward thrust, and soon found himself inside the box but his shot was blocked. Mourinho made another move. Oscar made way for Demba Ba. I was convinced that someone – ANYONE – would score the all-important goal to give us the win. The chances still flew high and wide. After a bursting run from Eden Hazard – we are so lucky to see his runs deep into the box from our vantage point in the MHU – a poke from Ba, close in, and we hit the near post. This was just ridiculous.

The West Ham ‘keeper went down and we suspected time-wasting. The whole game had been riddled with this particularly unsavoury Allardyce tactic. He did it at Bolton and he is doing it at West Ham. I presumed that a free-kick had been awarded, so waited for it to be taken. Samuel Eto’o obviously misheard or misunderstood the signals – or whistle – and ran in from outside the box to slam the ball in just as Adrian was presumably about to take the kick.

Some celebrated. Some didn’t.

I didn’t.

I was just confused.

Then, there was a perfect chance for Frank Lampard to settle it. That man Hazard dribbled past some defenders and played the ball right into the path of the on-rushing Lampard.

This was it. We inhaled.

“Go on Frank.”

The ball was hit right at Adrian.

Stamford Bridge groaned.

With this, many Chelsea fans decided to leave.

A shame.

They missed even more absurd misses.

Eden Hazard, receiving the ball from Ivanovic, decided to opt for an alternative approach to get past his usual two markers. He drew them close and then offered them a pack of playing cards. Both of the two defenders took a card apiece and Hazard then returned them to the pack. There was the usual shuffle of the cards. The two defenders stood bemused. With a flash, Eden then reached down to the socks of both players and pulled out the two cards which the West Ham defenders had originally selected. They stood, hands on hips, and then looked towards each other with a look of pure amazement. Spotting his opportunity to act, Hazard raced past the defenders and crossed, only for the ball to hit Samuel Eto’o on the arse and the ball flew past the post.

Ramires, getting more and more annoyed as every dash through the West Ham midfield resulted in a succession of badly-timed tackles, opted to use another sport to defeat the opposition. He caught the ball in mid-air, stuffed it up his shirt, began whistling the Harlem Globetrotters’ theme tune, and then dribbled into the six-yard, bouncing the ball like Curly Neal, before slam dunking the ball over the bar.

John Terry, the master of the chest pass, took his own personal trademark move to ridiculous lengths. The referee signalled a free-kick in the “D” after a thigh high challenge by Noble on Ivanovic. With Lamps and Hazard eyeing up a strike, John Terry joined them. After a heated conversation, involving lots of gesturing, Frank and Eden withdrew. John Terry lined up the ball, stepped to one side and then threw himself at the ball, sliding on the floor and making contact with the ball with his chest. The ball moved forward no further than a couple of feet. The West Ham ‘keeper was, inevitably, untroubled.

Lampard, breaking through after a great ball from Gary Cahill, was met by a strong challenge from Kevin Nolan. Frank fell to the floor, with Nolan falling on top of him. After a little light grappling, Frank heaved himself up, decided that animosity was not the way forward, pulled a bouquet of blue carnations out of his shorts and offered them to the West Ham midfielder as a peace offering. Nolan smiled, lifted them to his nose and inhaled. During that lapse in concentration, Frank seized his chance. He whipped past Nolan but then miss hit his swipe at the ball and fell over.

It just wasn’t our night.

Back in The Goose, we were pragmatic about our wasted chances. On another night, we would have scored six. However, this was a similar story to the Stoke game.

“On another night…”

We miss a goal scorer and we miss him bad.

The – ridiculous – news came through that the stats for the game were as follows –

Chelsea – 38 shots.

West Ham – 1 shot.

With Manchester City winning 5-1 at Tottenham, there was a general consensus that the league this year might be beyond us. Manchester City remain the firm favourites. No doubt. In fact, the two points that we dropped against West Ham might turn out to be irrelevant in the grand scheme of things as City might run away with it. The point that West Ham secured, though, might just keep them up.

Bollocks.

After a long delay on leaving London, I eventually reached home at 1.30am. There was the usual run through of the photographs I had taken, plus a scan of the internet for post-match opinions. A quick examination of my photographs revealed that, in fact, West Ham had only sold around two thousands tickets; it was Chelsea fans in that final section in the Shed Upper.

Two bloody thousand?

That made the draw even harder to stomach.

Manchester City next.

Lovely.

Tales From The Football Association Challenge Cup

Posted on January 28, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 26 January 2014.

The build-up to our F.A. Cup Fourth Round tie with Stoke City was somewhat overshadowed by the intrigue involving the transfer of Juan Mata to Manchester United. Rather than obsessing about the intricacies of the move and its possible Machiavellian undertones, my mind was elsewhere. My mother had been taken ill the previous week, thus providing me with ample reason to dismiss the ramifications of this surprising transfer and instead concentrate on much more important issues. As the week progressed, thankfully my mother’s health improved. I visited my mum for an hour on Sunday morning and Lord Parky, bless him, made his way over to the Royal United Hospital in Bath for us to make a speedy getaway just after midday.

As I drove east, headlong into yet more English winter rain, we were able to discuss Mum’s past week. To be honest, nothing else mattered. That I was going to be able to have a couple of relaxing hours with friends was – of course – a wonderful medicine for my own worries, but I couldn’t help but think as I passed the usual landmarks on the M4 that this was all superficial stuff.

I was parked-up just in time for the two of us to nip into The Goose for a pint of Peroni apiece. On the TV, a meagre crowd at Bramall Lane were watching the Sheffield United vs. Fulham cup tie. An even more meagre crowd in the pub was paying attention to it. It seems that with every new round of the F.A. Cup, I need to go back and reiterate again and again why the competition has lost so much of its twinkle in the past twenty years. I won’t do that again on this occasion.

However, it dawned on me that – in some ways – it seems like the Champions League has taken on the role of the F.A. Cup for Chelsea Football Club since our first youthful advances in the 1999-2000 season. The glamour, the atmosphere, the fascinating sub-plots, the magnificent away games; it is all there. However, I think I’m being honest enough to say that Chelsea has certainly given the F.A. Cup more respect than most other teams. Damn it, we’ve won it four times in seven years and we play to full houses in the competition at Stamford Bridge. Quite why other clubs feel different is not for me to answer.

Inside Stamford Bridge, it was the same story as ever; four packed stands save for a paltry away following. When we played The Potters in the F.A. Cup in 2010, I am sure they brought 1,400. On this occasion, it was less than half that number. Maybe it was just a matter of weighing up priorities; maybe the money to be spent on league away trips was more important. I shrugged my shoulders and settled down for the game.

Over on The Shed balcony wall, a fine new flag, with critically placed gold star.

CHELSEA FC – BY BIRTH – NOT BY GLORY

I admired those sentiments.

Except for…um…shuffle shuffle…cough cough…

I wasn’t born in to a Chelsea family.

Far from it.

My father didn’t follow a particular team. My maternal grandfather had soft spots for Aston Villa and Newcastle United in his youth.

Why Chelsea?

I started primary school in my Somerset village just after Easter in 1970. The Cup Final was earlier than usual that year because of England’s preparations for the Mexico World Cup. I am not sure of the exact dates, but school began for me just as Chelsea beat Leeds in the F.A. Cup Final. Talk about serendipity. Sadly, I have no recollections of either the first game at Wembley or the replay. But I do know that I used to watch the older schoolboys play football in the schoolyard at break times. Up until that point, I had shown little interest in the sport. I guess I looked on in awe at the skills of the boys. One team would be Leeds United and the other team would be Liverpool or the next week, Manchester United and Arsenal or maybe Chelsea and Tottenham. I think (and this is the story I always tell) that I heard that either Chelsea were a good team or they had just won a big game. There must have been something in the mention of Chelsea that drew me in. Maybe it was just the sound of the name. I think that is how it all began. Who knows…maybe on that fateful day, I perhaps joined in with the bigger boys for the first time and maybe I was in the Chelsea team. It would be nice to think so. I wonder if I mentioned to my mother, as she collected me from the school gates on that eventful day, that I had discovered Chelsea a few hours previously. Anyway, from the littlest of acorns do mighty oaks grow – from that initial mention of the name Chelsea, they became my team.

Looking back, I suppose that I would be classed these days, even though I was only four years old at the time, as a glory hunter.

There I said it.

That we won bugger all from 1971 to 1997 serves me right, eh?

The game began and Samuel Eto’o swivelled low inside the box and dragged a low shot just wide of Begovic’ post. At the other end, former Chelsea season ticket-holder Peter Crouch slashed wide. It would be the last real Stoke chance of the half. Chelsea monopolised possession and took a stranglehold on the game. The darting runs of Hazard and the steady prompting of Oscar helped us dominate.

What a sublime strike from Oscar from that free-kick. I was able to capture on film – click! – the exact moment that he made contact with the pink match ball. As the ball flew through the air, careering away from the Stoke ‘keeper in an arc of pure fantasy, I was dumbfounded. It was as perfect as it will ever get. As he ran away to the south-west corner, I roared with joy. And then, a little tremor went through me; how typical for Mourinho’s man Oscar to open the scoring at the first match without Mourinho’s discarded man Mata.

It had to be him.

Immediately after the goal, a couple of minutes of sun bathed the otherwise bleak London sky in light.

A scintillating run from Eden Hazard deep into the box gifted the recalled Frank Lampard with a fine chance but Frank slapped it over the bar. Then, a shot from Oscar rattled the base of the near post. Then, Lampard – again – blazed over.

It could’ve been 3-0 at the break.

Stoke weren’t in it. Their fans were unsurprisingly silent.

At the half-time break, Frank Blunstone made a lovely appearance on the pitch and milked the applause. A member of both the 1955 Championship team and the 1963 Second Division promotion team, he amassed well over 300 appearances for us. His face was a picture.

I absolutely love the way our club honours all of our ex-players.

Top marks.

The second-half was a cavalcade of intricate passing and surging runs. Andre Schurrle blasted against the bar. Oscar was so strong and his passing almost perfect. Samuel Eto’o was always involved and looks better with each game. In midfield, playing alongside the more offensive Lampard stood the impressive Nemanja Matic. As the game progressed, he really stood out. OK, Stoke hardly threatened, but he looked very natural and at ease. He won headers, he tackled, and he covered. One slide rule pass to Ramires was the best of the entire afternoon.

A curling shot from Oscar after neat possession had us all gasping; it drifted just wide.

A lone effort from Jonathan Walters ended up in the Shed Upper; Stoke, quite simply, were awful.

However, despite some 40,000 “home fans” at times there were moments of almost complete silence.

Yes, I know.

After seventy minutes, I noticed the bloke to my right struggling to stay awake.

A Lampard shot was hit low, but did not trouble Begovic. Still the second goal would not materialise. Yet another mesmerising run from Hazard (I love the way he stands, teasing, and then suddenly explodes past his marker), teed up Ramires and Eto’o but to our bewilderment the ball stayed out. The last real chance for Chelsea was a thunderbolt of a free-kick from David Luiz which the ‘keeper managed to thwart.

On any other day, we would have rattled in six.

A late Stoke rally caused us a little worry, but the danger was averted.

Into the last sixteen.

Job done.

Walking along the North End Road, past the shops and pubs, a fan called out that we had been drawn away to Manchester City.

“Oh great.”

“Two tough away games in two weeks up there.”

“Time for Nemanja Matic to stand up to Yaya Toure?”

“You bet. A battle royal beckons.”

Parky and I soon made tracks. For the second week in a row, we stopped off in Marlborough for a pint. Last week, it was “The Green Dragon” and this week “The Royal Oak.” Within a few months, we will hope to have ticked-off every pub on the A4 from Devizes to Hungerford.

The road to Wembley begins in Wiltshire, right?

In a quiet corner, we supped another pint of Peroni apiece.

A chat and a chance to unwind a little.

Phew.

On a day when my mind was occupied with concerns for my nearest and dearest, at least good old Chelsea was able to bring me a little cheer.

Tales From The Global Game

Posted on January 22, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 19 January 2014.

During the half-time break at the Hull game on the previous weekend, I stood with my hands in my pockets, far from enamoured by the performance on the pitch of the Chelsea team and certainly unimpressed by the relatively quiet showing from the away supporters. It had been a long drive up to Humberside and I would soon be heading back. Had I really driven all of that way for a pint, a pie and ninety minutes of football? Oh boy. It would be a quick “in and out” mission for sure. I began to wonder if my devotion to all things Chelsea was being tested there and then. Was it starting to wane?

“I should be enjoying this a whole lot more.”

An hour later, with a 2-0 win tucked in our back pockets, things were considerably brighter. However, “half-time at Hull” might be remembered in years to come – or maybe months? – as a defining moment for when I find myself going to less Chelsea games. I know I have touched on this delicate subject before and I am sure I will again.

“Haven’t seen you much this season, Chris? You OK?”

“Yeah, mate. I just decided to cut back a bit.”

“Oh. At least you still go.”

“Yeah. The terminal tipping point will be Game 39.”

Whether this conversation takes place in 2015, in 2016, in 2020 or in 2025 remains to be seen.

Thankfully, the next game for Chelsea Football Club was one of the games of the season, a home match with the champions Manchester United. Surely – surely! – I would be overflowing with enthusiasm for this one?

Parky and I walked into “The Lillee Langtry” at around 1pm. One of the plusses of going to Chelsea is the vast quantity of watering holes which are within walking distance from Stamford Bridge. I also like the fact that supporters can alight at a choice of four – at least – tube stations on match days and still get to the stadium with ease. There are pubs at Fulham Broadway. There are pubs at Parson’s Green. There are pubs at Earl’s Court. There are pubs at West Brompton. The Lily Langtree is one of the latter. I get the impression that more and more Chelsea fans are using West Brompton these days. And, typically, these boozers tend to be frequented by that oft-talked breed of Chelsea fan “the old school” leaving the tourists and the new breed to pay higher prices in the pubs around the ground. Within a hundred yards of the West Brompton station, a little knot of pubs are within easy reach; The Prince Of Wales, The Lillee Langtree, The Atlas and The Imperial. At a push, supporters can also use Barons Court and even South Kensington, embark on glorious pub crawls, and still be in the ground with the minimal difficulty.

Long Tall Pete was enjoying his sixtieth birthday bash with some friends. I was soon telling him that I had very positive vibes about the game. I felt horrible tempting fate, but I told Pete that I fancied some goals being scored in our favour. Pete even dared mention a 6-0 score line to match his birthday. I was caught up in the pre-match optimism too, mentioning a possible repeat of the 5-0 game in 1999.

“I just hope the team aren’t as confident as we are.”

Over-confidence is an unwelcome guest at football, but I was sure that Jose Mourinho would be emphasising the need for his players to expect a dogged fight from Manchester United, despite their patchy form throughout the current season.

Or, in football parlance, they would be “up for it.”

There was a proper mix of supporters in the pub; from a few “faces” from the past to some regular fans, and many were familiar to me. In the mix were two friends from the US; Tuna (Atlanta) and Andy (Los Angeles). It re-emphasised, not that I needed a reminder, of how our support has grown over the past twenty years. Our support has grown a hundredfold in the internet age and we now boast supporters all over the globe. Another lovely part of supporting Chelsea is the fact that there seems to be no real snobbery about fans from outside London and the south-east. When I first started to attend games in The Shed all those years ago, my accent was often met with a friendly “where you from then, mate?”

When I replied “Somerset” I was always met with a welcoming smile.

Other teams – step forward Liverpool – have supporters who are considerably less welcoming of fans from outside the local area. Talking of which, Manchester United are often mocked for their rather disparate fan base – to put it rather mildly – but most of Europe’s top clubs now have fan bases which extend further than their stadium’s post code. I think what grates, possibly, is the type of foreign fan that England’s top teams attract. Football clubs, in my opinion and those like me, should be for life. Very often, I get the feeling that football clubs are favoured by the more distant fans, without a real understanding of what football in England is all about, and then discarded as frequently as flavour-of-the-month boy bands. Football surely shouldn’t be like that. Pick a team, stick with it. This is not to say that only foreign supporters change teams. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of Manchester United fans in Cambridge, Uttoxeter, Nantwich, Tenby and Spennymoor who initially used to favour their arch rivals Liverpool in the ‘eighties.

Over in “The Goose” it was frantically busy. I sought respite out in the less-crowded beer garden, where I found a clearly jet-lagged Orlin, newly-arrived from San Francisco, and a few of the Chelsea Bulgaria contingent. What was I saying about our global fan base?

Heading down past the stalls outside the town hall with Tuna, I bumped into Big John. There was only one topic of conversation.

“Have you seen the team?”

There then ensued a short dialogue – with raised eyebrows from myself – which I would imagine was being repeated in Chelsea circles not only in SW6, but throughout London, the south-east, the rest of England, Europe and around the world. Maybe the inhabitants of the European space station circling the Earth were discussing it too.

“No Torres. Eto’o instead.”

“Really?”

“And Ivanovic at right back.”

“Blimey.”

John had dolloped some of his hard-earned on us to win 4-0. There was, clearly, an air of un-Chelsea like optimism in the air.

There were fond farewells with Andy at the entrance to the stadium and then the quick walk past the Ossie statue with Tuna before we took our seats in the MHU. The United section was full of three thousand reds, but there were only a couple of flags. Soon there would be another, which was held up in protest at the continued presence of the Glazer family at Old Trafford. Foreign ownership has proved to be an almighty gamble for clubs in England, but Lady Luck has given us a heady decade under the ownership of Roman Abramovich since 2003. There have been times of concern – well documented here and elsewhere – but compared to the experience at other clubs we have fared well. Interestingly, though, most United fans that I know – and there are not many – speak of team troubles rather than ownership issues. Maybe the days of the green and gold protest have passed; maybe the United fan base, outside of The Stretford End and the highly politicised match-going hardcore, is largely ambivalent to the presence of their US owners.

Regardless, the United fans were in good voice, as always, as the teams entered the pitch.

The blue/blue/white versus the red/white/black.

What a sight to stir the senses.

As the game began, the two sets of fans were soon singing fractious verse at each other.

United : “Fcuk off Mournho, fcuk off Mourinho.”

Chelsea “ Fcuk off David Moyes…”

To add to the heated atmosphere, referee Phil Dowd gave several decisions to United and the home support all around me were bellowing disapproval.

I quickly remembered a recent article in the excellent “When Saturday Comes” in which a father spoke of his giddiness in taking his six year old son to a historic first-ever game. Very soon into the match, though, the youngster was upset and turned to his dad and asked “why are all these men so angry?” The boy only lasted until half-time. The father, I’d imagine, spent the rest of his day having an earnest and thorough look at his love of the game and whether or not the boy should make a quick return visit. I certainly hope so. At my first game, I don’t remember angry men. Maybe times have changed.

Well, what a start by United. All of that lofty optimism looked like being blown to smithereens as the away team probed our defence, with the tricky new starlet Adnan Januzaj at the heart of their play. The game’s first few chances fell to United. The best chance, by the unliked and loudly booed Ashley Young, was thankfully saved by Peter Cech. The first quarter of an hour belonged to the visitors.

After a couple of Chelsea raids on the United rear-guard, Samuel Eto’o made a run into the final third and, despite Willian being available in an excellent position to his right, the centre forward chose to soldier on alone. He nimbly cut in, deftly dragging the ball on to his left foot, before striking for goal. I noted the slight deflection from a Carrick lunge and watched, disbelieving, as the yellow ball spun up and over the back-peddling De Gea. Yet again, I was right behind the line of the ball.

“YEEEEES.”

Despite feeling light headed from my sudden leap, I steadied my camera to catch Eto’o’s lovely run back to the Chelsea bench. The reasons were unclear at the time, but I guessed all would become clear.

Alan and I went all Oasis and did our usual goal routine in the guise of Noel and Liam, fighting back the laughter all the while.

I was frankly amazed that we were ahead. Our goal had come, most definitely, against the run of play.

The jousting continued on the pitch with a couple of chances for each side. I am sure that if Robin Van Persie had been on the pitch, the visitors might well have been drawing at least. A Wellbeck shot was saved by Cech.

Wellbeck is no Van Persie.

Off the pitch, the United fans’ noise was subsiding. How ironic that their “Come on David Moyes, play like Fergie’s Boys” chant failed to get an airing, yet the Chelsea version was now booming around Stamford Bridge.

A dynamic move, full of pace, down the United right pulled their defence apart. Willian and then Hazard moved the ball with utter disrespect for the floundering United players and the ball soon found Eto’o. His high cross was met by an acrobatic leap from Oscar, but the ball was always spinning wide. This was great stuff and the home crowd were purring.

A Luiz free-kick, with the entire stadium on the edge of their seats, came to nothing, but from a corner, Gary Cahill – of all people – played the ball into what is often called “the corridor of uncertainty” and Eto’o was on hand to poke home. I caught the Cahill cross and the Eto’o strike on film. This was turning into a perfect day.

“GET IN!”

I commented to Tuna – who was getting stuck in and supporting the boys with plenty of aggressive encouragement – that we had rode our luck a little in the first period.

We hoped – we all hoped – for more goals and, let’s admit it, a rout in the second-half.

Within a few minutes of the re-start, a Willian corner. The trusty camera was in position to capture the leap of Gary Cahill and the downward header. The ensuing scramble caught United flat-footed, but that man Samuel Eto’o intuitively smacked the loose ball home with the minimum of fuss.

3-0!

“YES.”

His beatific sprint and leap down below me was miraculously captured on film too and my camera clicked away, with the noise booming all around me, to capture the hugs from his team mates. The little jig with Willian and Luiz was just fantastic.

Down below me, John had thoughts of a 4-0 win and Pete, in the front row of the Shed Upper, was thinking of the joys of six.

Soon after, a very rare event.

The denizens of the Matthew Harding Upper – west corner – embarked on a loud “One Man Went To Mow” and – get this – many stood up on ten.

This hasn’t happened since…I can’t remember when.

We continued to dominate. Mourinho brought on Mikel for the industrious Oscar. United tested us on a few occasions. As the minutes passed, the euphoria of a possible rout faded. The noise levels declined. It wasn’t on a par with the noise levels of the 1999 game. Even though the stadium only had a capacity of 35,000 at the time, the noise that afternoon was magnificent.

With fifteen minutes to go, substitute Chicarito – yes, him – then pulled a goal back. On previous visits of Manchester United to Chelsea in the ‘nineties, an away goal at The Bridge was usually met by large numbers of United fans ‘getting up’ in the pricier home seats. Year after year, it was a hideous sight. It was a constant reminder of the enormity of United’s fan base. I remember that before the September 1993 game at Stamford Bridge – which we memorably won 1-0 thanks to Gavin Peacock – hundreds and hundreds of United fans were peacefully lead out of The Shed before the game to join the packed legions in the sweeping north terrace. It was a gut-wrenchingly impressive sight. There were thousands of United there that day. Thankfully, there is none of this at Chelsea now. When Chicarito scored, only the 3,000 United fans in the away segment celebrated.

However, for a few minutes thoughts were focussed on the crazy 3-3 game two years ago.

With Jose Mourinho the puppeteer, surely there would be no repeat now?

He pulled more strings, with Fernando Torres replacing Samuel Eto’o, who was given a superb ovation. After his three-goal haul against United, he can bugger up scoring chance after scoring chance and still be a Chelsea favourite. Then, the returning Nemanja Matic replaced the superb Willian.

The United players were beaten. In the game’s dying embers, the captain Vidic was unceremoniously red-carded for a lunge at Hazard.

The crowd roared.

It was going to be a blue day.

At the final whistle, I punched the air.

“See you Sunday, boys.”

After exiting the stadium to the sound of “One Step Beyond” I was soon walking along the Fulham Road. This was a fine Chelsea performance, but one which, at times, was controlled rather than rampant. With the game won at 3-0, there was no mad desire for a cricket score. Maybe that will come when this team has reached full maturity. However, as I continued my walk past the souvenir stalls, the Chelsea fans around me were full of bounce and cheer. I was happy too, of course, but I couldn’t help but think – a la Hull – “shouldn’t I be enjoying this win a whole lot more?”

I then smirked to myself when I realised…”maybe – but it’s only United.”

Tales From A Road Less Travelled

Posted on January 14, 2014 by Chris Axon

Hull City vs. Chelsea : 11 January 2014.

My seemingly never-ending trail around the highways and byways of England and Wales, after consecutive away days in Hampshire and Derbyshire, now had me heading up to Yorkshire for Chelsea’s lunchtime encounter with Hull City. I once described Hull as England’s forgotten city, but following Hull City’s promotion to the top flight in 2008, at least football fanciers are now aware of the city on the banks of the River Humber. This would be a long day, but one that I was relishing.

At 5am the alarm sounded and I was soon cobbling together my match day essentials. I noted that a few fans were already referencing an “Only Fools And Horses” episode on “Facebook.”

“To Hull and back.”

I soon collected Parky at 6.30am and we soon dipped in to McChippenham for our standard football breakfast.

Within minutes, we had crossed the M4 and were heading north on the straight-as-a-dye Fosse Way once again. This ancient Roman road, which stretches from Exeter to Lincoln, is especially picturesque in The Cotswolds, linking small knots of hamlets with larger market towns, each with dwellings built from the local golden stone. At around 7.30am, we saw the sun rise to the east. The road was quiet. The Cotswolds were as photogenic as ever, even in the height of winter. By 8.30am, there was nothing but a clear blue sky overhead.

“I love this time of the day, Parky. Dawn breaking, with a long trip ahead. Perfect.”

Our route eventually took us right through the heart of much-maligned Coventry. The inner-city ring road hurtled us past the two recent former homes of the city’s football team. I would imagine that most Coventry City fans are rueing the club’s decision to move out of Highfield Road, a perfectly fine stadium in the heart of the city, and then decamp to the now abandoned Ricoh Arena. Coventry’s football club now play at Northampton Town’s stadium and this is just a miserable state of affairs.

“This town is coming like a ghost town.”

Our F.A. Cup visit to the Ricoh in 2009 may turn out to be our solitary one.

Just after 9am, we collected Andy from his house in Nuneaton. I’ve been good mates with Andy for almost twenty years (Prague 1994). However, for almost ten years before that, his was a face that I often used to spot at various stadia. I recognised him at first from our travels back to the midlands from Euston station after Chelsea home games. For a spell, it seemed that I couldn’t help noticing him at home games – he used to stand in front of the Bovril Gate in The Shed – and most away games too. I even remember spotting him in Glasgow for a Rangers game in 1986 on a day when there was no Chelsea match.

“Bloody hell, I can’t get away from him.”

Twenty-eight years later, we were headed off to Hull City in the same car. It’s weird how these things work themselves out.

We then stopped at a nearby village to collect Alan (aka “The Youth”) and his twelve year old son Seb (collectively known as “The Two Ronnies”). In the same way that my home town of Frome used to supply around six to eight fans for many Chelsea games, Andy’s home of Nuneaton used to supply even greater numbers. Whereas, Frome’s presence has dwindled to just a couple, many of the Nuneaton boys still go. On one memorable occasion in 1997, we arranged to play a Chelsea South (essentially Frome and London) versus a Chelsea Nuneaton six-a-side game at a sport centre off the King’s Road on the morning of a Chelsea vs. Manchester United match. The Nuneaton chaps were clear winners, winning 6-1 if memory serves. Good times. We’re long overdue a re-match.

For the second time in under a week, I was headed up the M42. Rather than turn off for Derby, I joined the M1. After all of my journeys up the west side of the midlands for games in Lancashire and Merseyside, this made a refreshing change. Due to the reluctance of both Sheffield teams and Leeds United to join Chelsea in top-flight football, this was certainly a road less travelled. A solitary game at Bramall Lane in the autumn of 2006 has been our only league match at these two cities for ages. It is likely that some new Chelsea fans are completely unaware of the existence of Sheffield Wednesday – unwilling to look beyond the Premier League – such has their status plummeted over the past fifteen years. Maybe some fans believe Sheffield Wednesday to be a type of cake, or a breed of cattle, or a type of rifle.

As I drove north, we spoke of previous visits to see Chelsea play at Hull City.

“Didn’t we play them twice in the F.A. Cup years and years ago?”

“Yeah, 1982…and then again, when the third round was played before Christmas, in 1999.”

“There was that 4-0 League Cup win.”

“Two midweek league games.”

This would only be my second visit to the K.C. stadium to see us play.

“That Frank Lampard chip.”

Surprisingly, I spotted no other Chelsea cars headed north. In addition to the smoke billowing out from the cooling towers of several power stations, there were many wind turbines on the hills to the distance. Here was evidence of the changing face of England in 2014. We swung around, passing Sheffield and then Doncaster, before heading due east on the M62. The sky was still a brilliant blue. Eventually, the Humber Bridge – once the World’s longest single span suspension bridge – came in to view. It’s quite striking, to be honest.

Then, the city of Hull.

A while ago, this grey city ranked “numero uno” in a list of “Crap Towns of Britain” but I can’t honestly comment, since my visits have been such short-lived affairs. If the football club remain in the top flight for more than one season, and if the kick-off slot is more conducive, I promise to take a walk around the recently rejuvenated dock area and try to eke out some worthwhile sights. In 1973, on a family visit to nearby Grimsby, we spent a day in Hull and I remember a visit to the William Wilberforce Museum, devoted to the man who is most credited for abolishing slavery within the British Empire.

Back in the early ‘eighties, one of my favourite bands were formed at Hull University, taking their name from a slogan used by a furniture shop.

“For all your bedroom needs, we sell everything but the girl.”

Hull, like Wigan, is a rugby league town. I’d imagine that Hull would be quite content to emulate Wigan Athletic; in the top flight for eight years with an F.A. Cup and European football thrown in for good measure. Our approach into the city was along Clive Sullivan way, named after one of Hull’s favourite rugby league players. Very soon, we spotted the white floodlight pylons of the K.C. Stadium and we were soon parked-up.

It was 11.45am.

The cold wind was a shock to the system, but we were soon inside, amongst familiar Chelsea faces within the concourse behind the northern goal. There was just time for a pint and a pie. A proud banner reminded us that the city had been awarded the title of the U.K. City of Culture for 2017.

I reached my seat a few moments before the teams walked out. I’d imagine we had around 2,500 tickets for this game, together in one tier behind the goal. It was clear that the “gobby” element of the home support were adjacent, to our left, just like at Wigan in fact.

Still clear blue skies.

As the game commenced, I quickly scanned the team and approved.

Luiz in midfield alongside Ramires? No complaints.

However, despite my liking of the Cole/Terry/Cahill/Azpilicueta defensive line, Ashley Cole was continually tested in the first period of the game by several Hull City bursts. We seemed to take a while to get out of the traps and the home team managed a few efforts on Petr Cech’s goal.

The banter on the terraces had started early. The home fans in the corner were firing some bullets our way.

“Here for the culture. You’re only here for the culture.”

“You’re soft. You’re southerners.”

“We support our local team.”

…bollocks, you were all Leeds fans ten years ago.

John Terry gave the ball away right in front of me, but thankfully Sagbo snatched at his shot and the ball flashed wide of the far post. Soon after, our first real chance was provided by an excellent piece of attacking play by Cole and Hazard. Our Belgian maestro crossed the ball to the waiting Oscar and the entire Chelsea end expected a goal. The Brazilian’s shot, though powerful, was right at Alan McGregor, who ably deflected the ball over. I turned away, mouthing “great save” and noticed a few others saying the same.

The home fans were again singing.

“Silverware, we don’t care. Hull City everywhere.”

In truth, there was little noise emanating from the Chelsea faithful as the first-half wore on. Maybe it was the early kick-off which affected our quietness. A late free-kick from David Luiz forced another fine save from the Hull ‘keeper, but there seemed to be a general malaise from team and supporters alike in the lunchtime sun. Both Alan and Gary, who had travelled up from London by train, were of the same opinion as me; we needed to up the tempo, create space, move for each other. Very often, Hull were able to smother our play.

“Bloody hell, we can go top today. That should be all the motivation the players need.”

“I’m sure Jose will sort it at the break.”

Soon after the restart, a ridiculously high and wide effort from Luiz almost reached the corner flag.

“Bloody hell.”

Thankfully, our pressure steadily increased. We were awarded another free-kick and again David Luiz took control. With Gary Cahill standing in the wall, he turned and broke away, allowing Luiz to aim for the space he had vacated. In truth, the dipping ball was easy for the ‘keeper to shield.

A gorgeous dribble from Hazard right into the Hull penalty area, but his shot was smacked wide. Just after, a fine interchange between Luiz and Cole set up Eden Hazard. What happened next was pure joy.

Hazard advanced at speed, sold the defender the most delightful dummy by feinting to shoot, then slammed the ball in at the base of the left post.

Get in!

The Chelsea end roared and Hazard ran to milk the applause, with a knowing smirk which shouted “yeah, I know, that was the bollocks, wasn’t it?”He was soon mobbed by his team mates. We were on our way.

At the birthplace of Everything But The Girl, Eden had registered a hit.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

The Chelsea choir soon greeted our goal with the most obvious chant of the season –

“We are top’o’the league. Say, we are top’o’the league.”

Is it me, or does anyone else think that this chant always seems to be carried out in a Geordie accent?

The noise from the Chelsea fans clearly upset the home fans, who responded with the dreary “City Till I Die” dirge.

Chelsea then responded –

“Hull City Tigers – You Know What You Are.”

Ouch. That must’ve hurt. However, I have a feeling that this particular ditty must have been sung at Hull on many other occasions this season because their response was quick, loud and most definitely to the point.

“I’d rather be a tiger than a cnut.”

A few Chelsea smiles greeted that one.

Chelsea again tested Hull with a few more efforts and Hull were fading fast. However, Mourinho replaced Oscar with Mikel and we expected a tightening of our play.

A 1-0 victory would do for me.

With the game heading towards its conclusion, Willian – who had enjoyed another all-action display – played the ball through to Fernando Torres. Torres had toiled hard all game, but had been fed just scraps. Here was a chance for him to excel, enjoying the exact type of ball with which he so often thrived at Anfield. He pushed the ball forward, drifted past his marker and once inside the box quickly dispatched the ball low with his left foot. McGregor was beaten and the net rippled.

No smirking from Nando. Just relief that his weaker left peg had not let him down.

2-0, game over.

I pulled out of Hull bang on 3pm and I then battled the falling sun as I headed due west. There was a small amount of reflection on the game. In truth, we were hardly troubled. The concern at half-time soon disappeared as the second-half developed and Chelsea’s superiority told. Another three points, top of the league, having a laugh.

It was a tiring drive home. I fought the yawns with copious supplies of caffeine. There were plenty of laughs as we headed south.

We bade our farewells to Alan and Seb :

“It’s goodnight from me.”

“And it’s goodnight from him.”

And then Andy :

“See you next Sunday, God bless.”

As so often happens, I inevitably contrived to get lost in the Bermuda Triangle just south of Coventry. Every damn time, this happens. If ever I go missing over the next few years, I suggest they send a search party out to search the roads around bloody Warwick, bloody Kenilworth and bloody Leamington bloody Spa.

As we headed south on the Fosse, Parky played a couple of CDs from the ‘eighties. We passed Moreton-in-Marsh to the sound of ABC, Stow on the Wold to the sound of The Beat and Cirencester to the sound of Bauhaus.

I eventually reached home at 9pm, fell asleep on the sofa, missed “Match of the Day” and awoke at 4am. I turned over and fell back to sleep.

Top of the league, I’m having a kip.

Tales From The 5,500

Posted on January 8, 2014 by Chris Axon

Derby County vs. Chelsea : 5 January 2014.

After a few days of depressing weather, Derby County away in the Third Round of the F.A. Cup was just what the doctor ordered. Despite the protestations of the Aston Villa manager Paul Lambert – did he honestly say that the F.A. Cup was a hindrance and that his players would rather be rewarded with money rather than silverware? – over five thousand Chelsea fans had happily bought tickets to follow the boys in royal blue in our first game of the 2014 competition.

And heaven knows we have owned this trophy in recent years.

2007 Manchester United.

2009 Everton

2010 Portsmouth

2012 Liverpool

Four out of four.

In 2014, let’s make it five out of five at the new Wembley.

I had driven up to Derby with Parky and his son-in-law Kris. At just after midday, I pulled in to the car park at Derby’s Midland Station after avoiding the match-going traffic headed for the car parks around the Pride Park Stadium. From what I had seen of it, Derby looked to be in reasonable health. Rolls-Royce (jet engines in addition to cars these days) and Bombardier (trains and planes, but not automobiles) are still located within the city. There were new shopping centres and signs that the recession had not bitten too painfully. This was only my fifth visit to the city; all four previous trips were, unsurprisingly, for football.

The first of these came in 1986 and – shock horror – did not involve Chelsea. Three college mates (Steve – Derby, Bob – Leeds and Pete – Newcastle) and I bumped into each other at college in Stoke on a Friday afternoon and made the quick decision to travel over to Derby by train that evening to see the Rotherham United game. If Derby won, promotion from the old third division would be gained. I have much respect for fellow Chelsea fans who only watch Chelsea, but I used to be partial to the occasional non-Chelsea game in my younger years. Looking back, during my time at Stoke, this didn’t happen too often, though. I remember the odd match at Stoke City, Port Vale, York City and an aborted trip to Crewe Alexandra, but nothing excessive. Chelsea, then as now, was the main drug of choice. However, on that rainy May evening twenty-eight years ago, the four of us squeezed our way into the side terrace at the old Baseball Ground to watch a Derby County team, which I am sure included Steve McClaren, rather nervously defeat Rotherham with a late winner to win 2-1. There were wild scenes in that ridiculously packed mosh-pit of a terrace, underneath the upper tier. I’m so lucky to have experienced the madness of packed terraces back in those days.

It was a different world.

The Baseball Ground, irregular stands, double-decked behind the goals, squeezed in amongst iron foundries and tight terraced streets was a classic football ground. The pitch was always muddy. The atmosphere was first class.

My second visit took place in 1987, when I again made the trip by train from Stoke-on-Trent to Derby. This time, I had returned to my college town for my graduation ceremony on the Friday and had stayed in town until the Sunday for the televised game with Chelsea. This was a poor match which we lost 2-0. The only two things that I can remember from the game is the appearance of some Chelsea pensioners, guests of Ken Bates, on the pitch before the game, and me getting pushed against a crush barrier so badly that I ended up with bruises around my waist.

A different world indeed.

Then, with Derby County now playing at Pride Park, two further games; a 1-1 draw in 2001 and a 2-0 win in 2007. Strangely, of the two matches, the draw was a better contest. The latter win was as dour a win as I can remember.

We dropped into the “Merry Widow” pub, one of a few “Chelsea only” pubs in the city centre, but the place was packed and the beers were served in plastic glasses. Despite the appearance of many old black and white photographs of former Derby players adorning the white brick walls, which on another day I would have like to have studied, we soon moved on.

A few hundred yards away was the “Mansion Wine Bar.” This was also packed with Chelsea, but was a far more pleasant environment. We chatted with Burger and Julie, just arrived from their home in Stafford, and it was lovely to bump into them once more. We enjoyed their company for an hour or so and then set off – in the drizzle – for the stadium.

We had heard, through texts, that Nottingham Forest had walloped West Ham 5-0 in the lunchtime match.

Happy Chelsea fans, fed-up Derby fans.

They hate Forest.

Pride Park – sorry, iPro Stadium – is located amidst car dealerships, superstores and themed restaurants. Its location is pure 21^st Century, especially compared to the more intimate surrounds of the old Baseball Ground. Welcoming the spectators outside the main stand is a bronze statue of Brian Clough and Peter Taylor, holding the 1972 League Championship trophy. The statue isn’t great; the figures are more like caricatures than anything else. Derby County play a minor role in the story of the European Cup in my life; their match with Juventus in 1973 is the first European Cup match that I can ever remember seeing on TV. Those were the glory years for Derby County; how strange that a statue of Brian Clough also exists in the town centre of their most bitter rivals, Nottingham Forest.

Inside the packed concourse, there was a little confusion. My ticket was printed with “Turnstile 51-54, Stair 5” but it seemed these numbers were incorrect. After painstakingly studying a book of logarithms, a slide rule, a calculator, a heart monitor, an air-pressure gauge and a thermometer, the steward advised me to use “Stair 58.”

I think that the presence of 5,550 away fans had caused the ticketing department at Derby County to throw a wobbly.

Anyway, with minutes remaining, I was in.

“Stoke at home in the next round.”

“How boring!”

I fancied a new ground, like all 5,499 others no doubt.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, I couldn’t help but notice the Derby mascot sprinting around the pitch, pumping his fists, geeing up the crowd. It didn’t seem right to me. This chap – in a ram’s mask – was just wearing a Derby kit, but with no extra “padding” around his waist. Surely mascots should, by nature, be slightly rotund, just like Stamford, for example…thus increasing their comedic value. This wasn’t very good. This wasn’t very good at all.

May I suggest a mascot for the modern age? An overweight mascot, beer in hand, wheeled out on to the pitch on a sofa, where he just sits in the centre circle for ten minutes before getting up out of his seat and falling, head first, on to the floor?

That would appease me more than this super fit, super lean Derby County numpty.

On several occasions before the match, the announcer had implored the home supporters to get involved and make some noise for the players.

“Show us the black and white.”

This resulted in a rather lukewarm response, with only a small percentage twirling their bar scarves, in the style much beloved on Tyneside a few seasons ago.

Unlike the 14,000 down the road for the Forest versus West Ham game, I was very pleased to see a near 32,000 full house. The teams appeared. There were a few surprises, no more so than the return of Michael Essien, the captain for the day. No room, still, for Juan Mata.

With Oscar, Ramires, Willian and Luiz all playing, it was almost like watching Brazil.

Up front, Samuel Eto’o made his F.A. Cup debut.

The skies were grey and the rain still fell.

The Chelsea section, amassed in one bank in the south stand, was soon making their presence felt with tons of noise. I was right behind the goal. Just behind Parky and Kris, just in front of Cookie, Scott and Andy from Trowbridge. Familiar faces everywhere I looked.

The Derby support tried its best to rally against us; in particular their lads to my right were soon getting behind their team. Soon into the game, they made me laugh. I guess this is their “signature chant” but they soon picked out one unfortunate Chelsea fan and, as one, began their routine by clapping and pointing –

“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause…“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause… “You!”(point)…”TWAT!”… pause…“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause… “You!”(point)…”TWAT!”

We were laughing along at that.

I was wondering if this was the modern day version of a song that Derby fan Steve used to mention back in the ‘eighties. In those days he said that the DLF – usually located in the C stand at the Baseball Ground – used to sing this at away fans –

“Sing something simple, you simple TWATS.”

The first-half was often an even affair. Derby certainly caused us a few problems early on with their blond haired starlet Will Hughes getting a lot of the ball. Our defence held strong. We seemed to find it difficult to get behind the Derby defence and our main form of attack tended to be shots from distance. A low raking shot from Ramires which bounced off the post was the nearest that we came to scoring.

The Chelsea songs kept coming, with the “Willian” song and the “Mour-in-ho” (eliciting a wave from Jose) the most popular.

“You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea, you make me happy when skies are grey.”

On the pitch, there were green boots, pink boots, orange boots and a pink ball.

I had visions of Brian Clough turning in his grave.

No goals at the break. A replay was the last thing we wanted.

As I departed down the stairs at the half-time break, the same weary voice that had endeavoured to get the crowd going before the match was once again asking the home crowd to get involved. This time, it seemed that a camera was roving the stands and picking out supporters, with their image appearing on the “jumbo” TV screen. The whole sorry affair seemed to be a tad embarrassing.

“Come on, look at the camera. See your face on the screen. That’s it, the person in the purple jacket, well done. Give us a smile.”

I silently groaned.

Of course, this sort of crowd participation gets a much different response on these shores compared to my experience of watching baseball games in the US. Even when home teams are getting slaughtered, the roving cameras tend to garner a much more positive response from home fans, with people smiling, waving, acting the fool and even dancing. In the UK, we’re a lot more apathetic about this type of activity.

“Get that camera off me, you bugger.”

We are as awkward with cameras being pointed at us as Americans are with cutlery.

The Chelsea team were attacking us in the away section for the second-half. The noise levels soon resumed. Mourinho soon changed things, with Eden Hazard replacing Essien, with Rami moving back alongside Mikel. We had more of the ball and the pressure began to tell.

Just after an hour, Eden Hazard was clumsily fouled on the left. Willian sent in a lovely cross towards the nearpost where Mikel jumped unhindered to head in.

Yes, Mikel had scored again.

Mikel is rarely a threat at corners and so it was with joy and amazement that I saw him reel away and become smothered by his happy team mates. The away end roared.

The two chaps next to me who had been calling out Mikel were strangely silent.

Then, a massive disappointment.

A blatant, stupid, brain dead, humiliating dive in the penalty box by Ramires.

I think that the Derby fans had a ready-made chant for him.

Torres replaced Eto’o and Chelsea pushed for a second, calming goal. The Chelsea fans, way too prematurely for my liking, began singing about the final.

…”we’re going to Wemberlee, que sera sera.”

Thankfully, after a Torres pass, Oscar was able to dispatch a swerving shot past Grant in the Derby goal.

2-0, that’ll do, happy days.

In a matter of seconds, Fernando Torres – superbly backed by the 5,500 – worked two good chances for himself to no avail. Willian was my man of the match, full of endeavour and enthusiasm. He gets better with each game.

In the closing minutes, Jose Mourinho gave a first team debut to midfielder Lewis Baker.

The bloke next to me muttered “never heard of him.”

There was just time for Steve McClaren and Jose Mourinho to share a laugh and a warm embrace by the side of the pitch before the referee signalled Chelsea’s safe progression into the next round.

It had been a good day.

Tales From A Day Of Pints And Points

Posted on January 3, 2014 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 1 January 2014.

Outside, the rain lashed against the van windows in irregular gusts. The damp winter air was shrouded in a deadening blanket of dense cloud. There were many puddles of dirty grey rain water alongside roadside kerbs and pavements. The streets around Southampton Central train station were virtually deserted. The station car park was practically empty too. The New Year was only eleven hours old and the game was still four hours away, but here we were; ready for the first Chelsea match of 2014.

While it may be true that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun, one wonders if anybody or anything accompanies Chelsea fans in a late morning downpour in the middle of winter.

Ducks, maybe.

“Nice weather for ducks.”

“Right then boys. Shall we go for it? Head up to the first boozer and shelter there a bit?”

“Let’s go.”

Glenn had collected me at 9am and Parky had been picked-up from an equally deserted Warminster station at 9.30am. The A36, a main trunk road which links Bath with Southampton, was almost devoid of vehicles. For once, there was no traffic jam in the city of Salisbury. However, it was 10am on New Year’s Day; what other idiots would be out and about at that time?

Chelsea fans, ducks, mad dogs and mad ducks.

The first pub – “The Encore” – was closed until midday.

“Oh great.”

“Let’s just aim for the main drag, then. Button up.”

The brisk walk from the station took us close to the city’s large civic centre, where I once saw Everything But The Girl in 1999, and which has a rather stunning white stone Italianate clock tower. It reminded me of a few of Mussolini’s brutal civic buildings in Italy.

Ten minutes later, having been buffeted by the wind and rain as we pitifully scampered across roads and pavements, we arrived at “Yates’s.”

“This will do, chaps. Base camp. Becks Vier for you Parky?”

We soon found a cosy corner upstairs and settled ourselves for three hours of drinking and community singing. Outside, looking through steamed-up windows, pedestrians were rare. The rain continued to fall. It seemed that every person baring the elements was headed for “Yates’s” too. The central area of Southampton was badly bombed by the Luftwaffe during World War Two; the result is a strange mix of open green space where buildings originally stood and a charmless shopping centre.

The pub soon filled with match-goers. Chelsea fans were in the majority. There were a few familiar faces from near and far. Very soon, the music began pumping out some songs much loved by the football-loving clientele.

The Jam, The Clash, Madness, you can guess the rest.

“Another pint, Chris?”

“Be rude not too, Porky.”

With Glenn driving, this was a chance – at last! – for me to unwind and enjoy a few game day liveners.

Soon, the Chelsea fans downstairs were singing along to “It Must Be Love” by Madness.

“I never thought I’d miss you
Half as much as I do.
And I never thought I’d feel this way.
The way I feel
About you.
As soon as I wake up
Every night, every day.
I know that it’s you I need
To take the blues away.”

Ah, the “Blues Away.”

Love it.

In the adjacent booth, five foreign student types – presumably unused to an English match day vibe – were giggling to themselves at the sound of two hundred Chelsea fans singing about love, love, love.

Next up, “The Liquidator” and the whole pub was up.

“We hate Tottenham. Chelsea!”

Then, later, K.C. and the Sunshine Band got an airing.

“Michael Essien, Essien – Michael Essien.”

Rob, Graham, Dan and Kirsty – all from my home area – joined us. I last saw Graham on the lookout for tickets to the final in Amsterdam. It was great to see him again. Then, from down below, a loud voice took the lead for “Chelsea Alouette.”

Then “Three Little Birds.” I remember the Chelsea faithful singing that particular song – and meaning it – just down the road at an equally rain-soaked Fratton Park in 2010 when our league campaign took a sudden jolt with a fantastic 5-0 win. Good times then, good times now.

2014 was off to a good start. I was loving every minute of it.

At 2.15pm, we set off for the stadium, past the park, through the subway, past some down-at-heel shops. Thankfully, the rain wasn’t quite so strong on the fifteen minute walk to St. Mary’s. We were soon inside.

“One last pint, Parks?”

The youngsters serving pies and pints were wearing special blue Chelsea t-shirts; a nice touch, I thought.

The area beneath the away stand at St. Mary’s is a particularly dark and dismal place, but the Chelsea fans weren’t worried. The songs were coming thick and fast.

Inside the bowl of the stadium, the floodlights were on, the spectators were assembled and I giddily made my way to join up with Alan and Gary right behind the goal. It looked like virtually every seat was sold for this one. Chelsea were in good voice as the teams entered the pitch. Hopefully the game would follow our 5-1 F.A. Cup win last season – almost a complete year ago – rather than the lame 2-1 defeat in the league a few months after.

The rain was still falling. Despite being under the cover of the roof, we experienced the occasional splash of windswept rain. I pitied the poor fellows in the first few rows. At the same stadium in 2002, in similar circumstances, I was one of the unfortunates getting drenched down the front.

I quickly glanced at our starting eleven; with a few forced changes, we knew there would be a different selection from against Liverpool. Notably, in came Juan Mata, Andre Schurrle and Fernando Torres.

We began very brightly, with Fernando Torres the immediate star, dribbling his way into the Southampton penalty area on a number of occasions. Shots from Schurrle and Ramires, after a fine dribble from deep, suggested that the songs emanating from the Northam Stand would soon be replaced by cheers. However, I couldn’t help but notice that our play seemed to be mainly down our left flank. Very often Juan Mata, in acres of space out on the right, was not picked out. I felt his frustration. Slowly, our dominance seemed to fade as Southampton, strangely minus Ricky Lambert, grew more dominant. A succession of timely interceptions and brave blocks kept Southampton at bay.

On the terraces, there were plenty of songs.

Chelsea : “We’re the only team in London with a European Cup.”

Saints : “Johnstone Paints Trophy – you’ll never win that.”

Chelsea : “You’re only here for the Chelsea.”

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

At the break, I squeezed in another pint.

“I’m only here for the Carling.”

With us now attacking the three thousand predominantly neutrally-dressed away followers – I’ve never seen so few wearing Chelsea colours, Gourlay must hate us – we hoped for greater things in the second-period. Soon into the half, the manager made changes, replacing Schurrle and Mata with Willian and Oscar.

The away end was soon up in arms.

With Oscar clean through inside the penalty area, charging in on Davis in the Southampton goal, he attempted to push the ball to the ‘keeper’s right. He appeared to be swept off his feet and, in that split moment of thought, I was shouting with glee at an obvious penalty rather than being upset that he had not scored. I watched as Martin Atkinson reached for a card, so my immediate thought was “sending off or at least a booking for the ‘keeper.”

Well, we were incandescent with rage when – instead – Oscar was shown a yellow for a dive.

Soon, however, the texts came in to say that the little midfielder had indeed dived.

Oh you silly boy.

I was just filled with disbelief.

Surely…just try to bloody score?

On the hour, the same player jinked and weaved in from the left and his chipped effort was pushed onto the far post by a scrambling Davis. The ball bounced back into play and Torres was able to readjust quickly to head home.

1-0 Chelsea.

Get in!

The Chelsea fans screamed delight.

The supreme irony of no Chelsea striker scoring away in the league throughout 2013 and yet Nando taking just an hour into 2014 was not lost on me, nor the three thousand other away fans at Southampton nor the countless millions around the globe.

Chelsea : “You’ve had your day out. Now fuck off home.”

Southampton brought on Lambert to replace former blue Jack Cork. The bustling centre-forward was soon involved, but Chelsea added to our lead on seventy minutes.

Oscar enjoyed another lovely run, with gorgeous close control, to the edge of the “D” and then picked out Willian. A quick body swerve to throw the defender off balance and a fine low shot found its way inside the corner of Davis’ goal.

2-0 Chelsea.

More screams of pleasure.

Chelsea : “Gone to the sales. You shoulda gone to the sales.”

More Chelsea pressure followed and Oscar capped a fine performance with another run into the Southampton box following a lofted ball into space from Eden Hazard. He struck quickly this time and the ball took a slight deflection before ending up in the Southampton net.

3-0 Chelsea.

With that, there was a mass exodus.

Chelsea : “Oh when The Saints go walking out.”

With three points secure, there was just time for a cameo from Michael Essien and the chance for us to serenade him with his own personal song.

“Give it up” for The Bison.

Lovely stuff.

The Mourinho magic – the substitutions, early in the second-half – were perfect. It’s unlikely that two substitutions will pay off so perfectly again for a while. Oscar and Willian added fresh drive to our team. They were simply superb.

Christmas 2013 and New Year 2014 had been excellent. We had tasted victory on three occasions and had shared the spoils at a title contender’s home stadium.

Ten points out of twelve.

Not perfect, but bloody good enough.

Just to complete the perfect away game, the DJ at St. Mary’s chose – bizarrely – to air a favourite song from the pen of Stephen Patrick Morrissey as we slowly descended the crowded steps. Alan’s face was a picture. And so was mine…

“You have never been in love until you’ve seen the stars reflect in the reservoirs.”

Sometimes, some moments are just there to be savoured.

I think 2014 is going to be fine, just fine.

See you at Derby.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2013-2014

Tales From Istanbul

Tales From Another Unbeaten Run

Tales From The Garden Of Eden

Tales From Blue Monday

Tales From The Bread And Butter

Tales From The Football Association Challenge Cup

Tales From The Global Game

Tales From A Road Less Travelled

Tales From The 5,500

Tales From A Day Of Pints And Points