Tales From A Heavyweight Fight

Posted on December 30, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 29 December 2013.

So, the final game of 2013. We had started the year with a depressing home defeat at the hands of Queens Park Rangers when we were all mired under the dark cloud of Rafa Benitez, unrest in the stands and an uncertain future. Almost twelve months on, our circumstances have improved in so many ways, yet there was no doubt that I was rather fearful of our match with Liverpool.

I was suffering with all too many recent memories of The Shed End at Chelsea rocking to the chants and anthems from the Liverpool fans as they plundered points. Fernando Torres’ first game for us in February 2011 was particularly painful. I still contend that if Nando had scored when he was one on one against Reyna in the first-half of that game, his Chelsea career would have been a lot more successful.

We last defeated Liverpool at home in the league during our double season. Since then, three games, two defeats and one draw. They also turned us over in the League Cup at Stamford Bridge in 2011-2012. We struggled to get past Swansea City on Boxing Day while our visitors were embroiled in an apparently fine game of football at Manchester City. Liverpool lost that one 2-1 of course. Another defeat might take some of the wind out of their sails. However, I was wary of Luis Suarez. Who wasn’t? It was another game to concentrate our minds.

After the storms and gales of the previous few days, I had to contend with icy roads – and a couple of slow-moving horse-boxes – on the short trip to collect Lord Parky.

The trip to London went well. There were perfect blue skies and there was dazzling winter sun. Whereas my mind was muddied with negative thoughts of our potential performance against the unloved Scousers, at least the skies were crystal clear. During the last section…Heathrow, Brentford, Chiswick, Hammersmith, Fulham…Parky slapped on a Slade CD. It is pretty ironic that although Slade were the archetypal “boot boys” band of the early to mid-‘seventies Glam Rock era, it has taken until 2013 for one of their songs – “Cum On Feel The Noize” – to make it onto the terraces of England. I always remember travelling back from that fantastic 5-0 annihilation of Leeds United in 1984 and the car rocking to some of Slade’s finest chart hits, heading back through Marlborough and Devizes before a celebratory pint of lager in a pub in Westbury Market Place.

“I’ve seen the morning in the mountains of Alaska.
I’ve seen the sunset in the East and in the West.
I’ve sang the glory that was Rome and passed the ‘Hound Dog’ singer’s home.
It still seems for the best.
And I’m far, far a-way
With my head up in the clouds.
And I’m far, far a-way
With my feet down in the crowds.
Letting loose around the world
But the call of home is loud
Still as loud.”

A simple song can send me travelling back through time.

This would be my thirty-eighth Chelsea vs. Liverpool match at Stamford Bridge. Only seven Liverpool wins though; overall, we have enjoyed a good record against them over the time of my support. My own little personal run got off to a fine start with three wins out of three games, back when the Liverpool team were Champions of Europe, on all three occasions in fact.

The first of these took place in March 1978. Liverpool had beaten Borussia Monchengladbach in Rome in 1977 to become European Cup holders for the first time. By the time they came to Stamford Bridge the following season, they were still smarting from a shock 4-2 defeat at the hands of Chelsea in the FA Cup in January. I travelled up to London with my parents and watched as Chelsea again defeated the reigning league champions, this time by a score of 3-1. I’m always annoyed when the 4-2 cup win always gets the attention from that season; for me, because I was there damn it, the 3-1 league win was just as magnificent. Those two Liverpool victories were easily the manager Ken Shellito’s finest moments at the helm. On that sunny day almost forty years ago, Steve Finnieston grabbed two goals and Tommy Langley the other. I walked tall at school on the Monday for sure.

The next occasion took place in February 1982. Liverpool had beaten Real Madrid in Paris in 1981 the previous season. Chelsea were mid-table in the Second Division. To my utter elation, we defeated the European champions 2-0 with two famous goals from Peter Rhoades-Brown and Colin Lee. The Bridge, packed to a 42,000 capacity, was buzzing that afternoon. I was again walking tall, in the sixth-form now, on the Monday.

Then, December 1984. Liverpool had beaten Roma on their own turf in the European Cup Final, but came to Chelsea the following season and were well beaten 3-1, with goals from Kerry Dixon, Joe McLaughlin and David Speedie. We were newly-promoted from the Second Division, but a vibrant crowd roared us on. At college in Stoke, I was walking tall once more.

Three Chelsea versus Liverpool games, three Chelsea victories.

Magnificent.

In many ways, the pre-match was a case of “Kelly & Mitch Go Mad In London Part Two.” We met up with the two visitors from California outside the hotel, and soon arranged for photographs with Ron Harris, Peter Bonetti and John Hollins. Back when I was growing up in the ‘seventies, these three players were the three leading appearance makers in the history of the club. I explained to Mitch that Ron Harris and John Hollins played in the very first Chelsea game that I ever saw. I mentioned to Holly that I had seen one of his previous teams – he was manager at Weymouth for a short period in 2008 – the previous day against Frome Town, my local team.

From there, we walked over to West Brompton. We passed more familiar Chelsea landmarks…”The Fulham Dray, now The Lazy Fox, The Harwood Arms, The Atlas, The Lillee Langtry, The Prince Of Wales, The Imperial.”

OK – you’ve sussed this. When I said landmarks, I really meant pubs.

We settled in at The Imperial so that Mitch and Kelly could meet a few mutual friends. Parky and I then back-tracked to The Goose to meet the usual suspects. We heard that Samuel Eto’o was to lead the line, rather than Fernando Torres. Big surprise. David Luiz holding. Another big surprise. We watched as Arsenal eked out an important away win at Newcastle. Like an unpleasant smell, they just won’t go away will they?

On the walk down to The Bridge, I did my best to try and spot any away fans. Apart from a few divs with half-and-half scarves, Liverpool colours were hidden.

Inside Stamford Bridge, unlike on so many occasions, there was an expectant atmosphere. The sky was still cloudless. The away fans were assembled in the far corner, but behind just one solitary Liverpool flag.

It dawned on me, as the two teams entered the pitch and slowly walked over to the anointed positions for the handshakes and pre-game rituals – for the TV viewers, I always feel – that Chelsea are almost alone in walking across the pitch in order to do this. At all other top flight stadia, teams line up right next to the tunnel, or at least on the same side as the tunnel. The only other ground where teams walk across the pitch before the game for the line-ups? Fulham. It must be a SW6 thing.

Anyway, I approve. It heightens the drama. It adds to the sense of occasion, especially on European nights. Top marks Chelsea.

So – the team.

Petr, Brana, JT, Gary, Dave, Luiz, Lamps, Oscar, Hazard, Willian, Eto’o.

It was John Terry’s 600^th game for Chelsea.

1. Ron Harris 795.

2. Peter Bonetti 725.

3. Frank Lampard 634.

4. John Terry 600.

Still no place for Juan Mata. That hurts.

Despite my niggling doubts about us getting a result, I scanned the Liverpool team and highlighted maybe only Suarez who would walk into our starting eleven.

Within the first ninety seconds, a foul by Eto’o on Jordan Henderson caused an immediate delay of a couple of minutes. Maybe the pause in action caused us to lapse into lethargy, but the resulting free-kick, whipped in with spin towards the near post, proved to be difficult to defend. Bodies lunged at the ball, but the ball spun free for Martin Skeletor to prod home. The Liverpool players celebrated right down below us.

I looked up to catch the away fans leaping around wildly.

Ugh.

Within a few moments, the Scousers were in full voice.

“Stevie Highway on the wing, we had dreams and songs to sing.”

Another ugh.

Not to worry. Chelsea did not retire into a shell of self-doubt. Instead, chances came in rapid succession and the Chelsea fans played their part in rallying behind the boys. We were soon to be rewarded. A move through the middle broke down, the ball hitting a Liverpool defender, but the ball fell at the feet of Eden Hazard. Without adjusting, he methodically but yet intuitively struck the ball with pace and a little curve past the outstretched claws of Mignolet.

The Bridge roared.

“Game on, boys.”

Hazard, to be fair, had begun on the right, but such is the fluidity of our team this season, had just swapped with Willian. How lucky that the ball broke to him on the left, where his right foot is so dangerous.

Soon after, we roundly applauded as a sublime last-ditch tackle from Gary Cahill kept the teams level. Then, on the half-hour, Ivanovic was replaced by Ashley Cole after twisting his ankle. A simple change; Ash to left-back and Dave to right.

In the middle, David Luiz was covering a lot of ground. Being negative again, I wondered if his enthusiasm would eventually see him get a yellow or a red. This was turning into an absorbing game. It was so good to hear the home supporters roaring.

Then, the ball out on the right, Luiz finding Dave. Oscar then was able to play in a low ball towards the onrushing Samuel Eto’o inside the six-yard box. He appeared to be falling, but still managed to poke an outstretched foot at the ball. It almost reluctantly crawled over the line, off the far post.

YEEEEEEEEES!

Eto’o’s run towards the corner of the stadium housing Kelly and Mitch was full of joy. His arms were stretched down; clearly his trademark. His team mates were in quick pursuit and there was an almighty melee down in that noisy south-west corner. I think the American visitors enjoyed that.

Alan, Brooksidesque : “Dey’ll ‘ave ta cum at us now.”

Chris, Black Stuffesque : “K’hum on my little diiii’muns.”

The Chelsea fans roared on. The Liverpool fans soon fell silent and were hardly heard for the rest of the game.

I turned to Bournemouth Steve : “Cracking game of football, mate.”

Chelsea? I was impressed with them all. A special mention for the midfield three of Willian, Oscar and Hazard, all three full of verve and complete midfield performances. Oscar kept tracking back to tackle. Hazard always a threat. Willian effervescent and working hard. At the back, JT and Gary oozed calmness.

I spoke to Alan : “Sometimes a forced change can work out for the best. Who’s to say we’ll now go on a run with Ash at left-back, Cahill and Terry in the middle, Dave at right back, but with Luiz in the midfield? It might just drop in to place.”

At the break, a typical Mourinho substitution; Mikel for Lampard. Soon into the half, bookings for John Terry and – surprise, surprise – David Luiz. Howard Webb was soon getting it.

“Who’s the Scouser in the black?”

A rare threat on our goal and Sakho headed against the intersection of bar and post with a looping header.

Luiz set up Eto’o who blazed at Mignolet. Then chances for Liverpool. This really was a great game. I was so pleased to hear the home support urging the team on, just like in seasons of old, when the team appeared threatened or tired.

“Cam on Chowlsea, cam on Chowlsea, cam on Chowlsea.”

Big John was up to his old cheerleading tricks – minus pom poms, of course – of banging noisily on the advertising hoardings a few rows below. Good work, sir.

Eto’o wriggled inside but his shot was blocked.

The two teams traded punches.

Cahill was booked.

Mikel was as steady as a rock in front of the defence. Luiz kept us all on tenterhooks with some typically rash challenges but avoided a second yellow. I lost count of the times that I was able to capture the dribbling prowess of Eden Hazard on film. What a joy to be able to see this player perform like this; his season hasn’t been great, despite the goals, but his dribbling leaves me breathless. Such ease, such acceleration, such confidence. Sometimes he runs head first into trouble, but it’s always exciting to see him extricate himself from being heavily-shackled by a turn here or a feint there. Simply fantastic.

As the battle continued, I found myself clock-watching.

“Has that bloody clock stopped Alan?”

A big shout from the three thousand away fans as Suarez was sent sprawling. I was unsighted. So too, apparently, was Webb. We breathed again. To be fair, Suarez had been quiet for most of the game.

85 minutes.

“Come on you blue boys.”

Mourinho replaced Samuel Eto’o with Fernando Torres. After only a few moments, Nando set off on a strong dribble, drifting past defenders with ease. One final shimmy, the goal opened up for him.

We held our breath, but his weak left foot let him down, the ball hit right at Mignolet’s right leg. The Liverpool ‘keeper cleared.

If only.

The place would have erupted.

In four minutes of extra-time, there was a flare-up between Brazilian team mates Oscar and Lucas. I saw fists raised and so was surprised when only a yellow was given to Oscar.

All eyes were now on Howard Webb. I saw him bring his whistle to his mouth one final time.

I roared one final time, too.

“Bloody superb, boys.”

At the Weymouth game on Saturday, in one of the Frome pubs, I had admitted to a friend – a Liverpool fan, no less – that maybe, just maybe, I was starting to lose the desire to go to as many Chelsea games as before.

“Maybe I’ve seen us win too much mate. Maybe that desire is starting to fade.”

After a good old-fashioned “come from behind win” against one of our biggest rivals, with the home crowd roaring throughout, that desire had been re-ignited.

Tales From Boxing Day

Posted on December 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Swansea City : 26 December 2013.

Boxing Day 2013.

A chance to gain three more points against a Swansea City team which has struggled to hit the heights of the previous two seasons. A chance to follow up a credible and determined performance at Arsenal with a confidence-boosting win. And a chance to sustain our position among the front-runners for the league title.

After my horrendous trip home in the very small hours of Tuesday morning fresh in my mind, I set off from my dormant village at around 8.30am, determined to avoid large puddles. Joking aside, I was just grateful to be able to attend the game. However, soon into my short journey to collect Parky from this village, I received a text from His Lordship pleading for me to travel up to London alone, since his village was virtually surrounded by flood waters.

Lord Parky was stranded, alone in his own personal Land of the Lakes.

With a heavy heart, I knew he was right. I could get myself into all sorts of a pickle attempting to find a navigable lane into his village. It just wasn’t worth the risk. I pointed my car south rather than north.

By the time I spoke to him I had passed Stonehenge, blindingly magnificent in the clear winter sun, and was high on the A303, with a gorgeous vista to my right, with low-lying mist shrouding trees in a frosty cloak.

“Bloody hell, Parky, you should see the view; it’s bloody incredible.”

With that, I wished him well and vowed to meet up on Sunday for the game with the Scousers. Parky probably put the ‘phone down and took a sip from a bottle of Jack Daniels.

The road to London was a familiar one. There was a tiring thirty minutes of fog before things improved. I’d seen worse. I was just happy to be on the road. I stopped at McFleet for a McBreakfast but was soon heading into London, my head clear of wintry weather conundrums. I had made good time. At 11.15am, I drove through the familiar streets around Normand Park, very close to Queens Club and Lillee Road. The streets, usually full of parked cars, were remarkably empty. It seemed as if I was the first Chelsea fan to arrive. Of course, the truth was that many of the locals were away for the Christmas period, visiting relatives and friends in The Shires, and maybe further afield.

Laura and Leo were with the Templeton-Askews in Great Piddlington, Gloucestershire.

Gemma and Edward were with mater and pater in Snot Bottom, Dorset.

Jilly and Billy were with the Fitzsimmons in Lower Minge, Suffolk.

The Polovskis were with Uncle Jarek in Krakow.

Oleg and Dmitry were with Sergei and Alexander in Brooklyn.

Unlike most Boxing Day games at Chelsea, which usually kick-off at lunchtime, this one was a normal 3pm match. After another McCoffee on the McNorth End Road to warm me up, I slowly walked down to the hotel. Things were pretty quiet. It was only 11.45pm. In the hotel bar, I had a quick word with Peter Bonetti but I had evidently just missed Ron Harris.

This was another busy-pre game for me; people to meet, hands to shake, photos to take. I love it. I get just as much pleasure from meeting old friends as from the games themselves. This is the way it should be.

First up, Jens and his wife Suzie from Austin, deep in the heart of Texas, who were visiting for a few days. Jens runs the Austin Blues, the second biggest supporters group in the US after Mike’s New York Blues. They were with a couple of their members. It was great to hear how well their club is doing. As I have said many times, all a supporters club needs is a pub to act as a regular base and a few passionate souls at the top to lead. Jens is always fighting a regular battle to tease people away from their HD TVs at home and join in the match-day fun, though.

“It’s a social club, right?” beamed Jens.

“Yep, with a little football thrown in along the way” I replied.

I ran into Gill and Graeme, from nearer home, Kent to be precise. They had been without power in their home for the past few days.

“Only one way to get around that Gill. Go to Chelsea for the day.”

Back at The Goose, I soon ran into Mitch and Kelly, from California. I first met Mitch over in LA during the summer tour of 2007, and then met him again in Baltimore and Dallas in 2009. This was Mitch’s first-ever trip to London, though Kelly had visited for a few days a couple of years ago. They were staying at a friend’s flat on the King’s Road. Lucky people. They both told me the lovely story of how they met; Baltimore, 2009.

Kelly, from New York, and Mitch, from California, following Chelsea, then meeting, keeping in contact, travelling across the US every month, then marrying.

Proper Chelsea.

Mitch often uses this story to entice potential Chelsea fans to become proper paid-up members of the Chelsea Family.

“So, what’s in it for me?” they would ask.

“Oh, you get to join a thriving local supporters club here in LA, you get the chance to get tickets for games at Stamford Bridge, you get to meet great people from all over the globe, you get to meet local Chelsea fans in London. If you’re lucky, you might even get to meet your future wife.”

Kelly smiled.

I mentioned another couple that I know, Robin and Del, who are now wife and husband through meeting up during a Chelsea summer tour to the US; 2007, on that occasion.

Next to arrive was Evo, with his father and brother. Evo is a friend of my good mate Orlin and I had managed to get hold of three Shed End tickets for him. His father and brother were over from Bulgaria. It was their first game at Stamford Bridge. There was a horrible period of doubt in my mind, during the waking hours of Christmas Eve, with my car still awaiting recovery, that I would not be able to attend the Swansea game; with it, the horrible thought that Evo and his family would not be able to attend, either.

Thankfully, everything worked itself out.

The pub wasn’t too busy. There was talk of several spare tickets floating around and about. Boxing Day games are often problematic for fans and the added problem of the recent storms increased the difficulty in attending.

Kelly, Mitch and me set off in good time for the game. There were the usual “Axon guided tour” highlights on the fifteen minute walk to The Bridge.

“The North End Road street market, The Football Factory pub – The Harwood Arms – just out of sight, the Malt House, my first ever pre-game pint in The Cock pub in 1984, the Slug & Lettuce, the old tube station, the 1970 and 1971 cup parades, the café where I had a burger after my first game in 1974, the CFCUK stall…”

For a change, I had swapped with Andy and took my seat alongside Daryl and Ed in the back row of Gate 15 in the MHU. The seats took forever to fill. Swansea’s away support was really poor; maybe only 300. All around the stadium – I didn’t have to look too hard – there were empty seats. Despite a 3pm kick-off, and a few hours of pre-match drinking, there was a subdued air under the clear blue winter skies at Stamford Bridge.

It felt odd to be watching the game from a different viewpoint. I’m so used to my seat in the north-west corner, with the backdrop of the 1974 East Stand, that a change always catches me unawares. The same game, but a different view. The same game, but different opinions from my fellow fans. The same game, but a different experience. I suppose that, if I could travel through time, to around 1970, I would be watching from the strange old North Stand, which was sighted where I sat in 2013. In 1970, there would be a view of the old Shed, with the houses behind, maybe the Lots Road pumping station, the gasometer, and the flats on the Fulham Road. In 2013, there was just the concrete of the rear of the hotel and the steel of the modern stands.

The teams?

I knew that Swansea were without Michu, Dyer and Vorm.

What of us?

Petr.

Ashley Cole was recalled, with David Luiz partnering JT, and Ivanovic.

Ramires and Mikel as the deep-lying duo.

Hazard, Oscar, Mata – the three midfield maestros, perhaps.

Samuel Eto’o.

Let’s go to work.

We began relatively well. There were chances for Oscar, Hazard and Ivanovic before a bouncing effort from JT which Tremmel tipped over. There was a period of sustained pressure which resulted in a flurry of corners, which sadly yielded nothing.

Swansea hardly threatened.

With the crowd urging him on, Eden Hazard received a fine clearance from Ashley Cole on the left and decided to take heed of the Chelsea fans’ advice to go at the defender. He glided past his marker Amat – effortlessly – and ripped a low shot towards goal. Truthfully, a Swansea defender moved in front of Tremmel, thus hampering his assessment of the ball’s path. The ball slid beneath his grasp.

1-0 Chelsea.

Soon after, Eto’o was up to his old tricks of ghosting in and around as opposing keepers attempt to clear and caused the ‘keeper to misjudge a pass, but Oscar could not pounce.

A lone chance for Swansea just after the half-hour, but Vazquez’ attempt was finger-tipped over by Petr Cech.

As the game progressed, we enjoyed tons of possession, but too much of it in areas where the opposition were not threatened. The Swansea players simply shuffled back into position when the ball was worked from right to left and then back again. The noise which had greeted the goal was soon replaced by periods of quiet, if not complete silence.

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

I know. I heard it.

With the first period about to end, Samuel Eto’o should have done better when in on goal after a luxurious ball from Mata with just Tremmel to beat. His weak shot was easily parried.

Within only fifteen seconds of the second-half, we were all rueing another Eto’o miss. David Luiz played a gorgeous ball into the path of Juan Mata – if I am honest, pretty quiet in the first-half – and the little Spaniard sent over a perfect cross for Eto’o. He drifted away from his marker perfectly, but his snap effort was very well saved by the swans’ custodian.

There was disbelief amongst the patrons of the Matthew Harding. In that instant, I knew full well what the course of the second-half would be:

Increasing tension and worry as we would slowly but surely let the visitors get a foothold in the game.

Oh boy. Here we go.

Another Eto’o chance went wide.

Swansea began to enjoy snippets of possession. With no threat up front, they look hampered though. However, that didn’t stop the nervousness and tension in the stands increasing with each minute.

Jose chose to replace Oscar – who had enjoyed a solid game, both defensively and offensively – with Frank Lampard. We yearned for a little stability. Frank flashed wide. We begged and begged for a second goal.

That’s all we want for Christmas.

With the clock showing twenty minutes to play, I certainly expected Swansea to equalise at some stage. I turned to Daryl;

“Well, if they are to equalise, rather now than with two minutes to go.”

I was serious. I knew where this one was going.

Andre Schurrle then replaced Mata.

The edginess in the stands reached the players. What I’d give for a home crowd to “bring the team home” with a raucous show of noise from the stands.

Nah.

As chances dried up, I wondered how long our lack of a killer-punch in front of goal would continue to haunt us. It may well define our season. The more we talk about it, the more Mourinho mentions it, the more the media becomes obsessed by it, the more the mental problem becomes for us all, not least our three strikers. The negativity will snowball and it might eventually consume us. Jose Mourinho needs to work his magic.

That second goal was never looking like arriving.

There was more frustration from the home sections of Stamford Bridge as we failed to capitalise on a few late chances.

The clock ticked down…80…85…87…89…

A chap next to me wondered if we might hear the old Chelsea chant of “blow the fucking whistle.”

Our defence were pinned back with late Swansea pressure. With everyone on tenterhooks, we thankfully resisted a late flurry of threats.

The whistle blew.

Phew.

We had won.

Another miracle at Christmas.

Tales From The Hunger Game

Posted on December 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 December 2013.

Although it would be foolish to call the Arsenal vs. Chelsea encounter a “championship decider” – surely there were no fans of either club so intoxicated with pre-Christmas cheer to let their red or blue optimism rise that high – this always felt like a massive game.

Our biggest match of the 2013-2014 season thus far? Probably.

Pre-match thoughts were mixed. Our form has been patchy of late. The lack of a killer punch in front of goal, defensive frailties, an unsettled starting eleven, much chatter from the drinking classes; November and December 2013 had seen a derailment of our earlier form of September and October. August seemed distant.

I’ll be honest. I feared the worst. If things went against us, this one could turn out to be a heavy defeat. Thank heavens that Arsenal’s much talked-about ability to implode after a heavy defeat was part of the equation too. Six goals against at Manchester City was just the fillip that I needed to balance my negativity.

Against this back-drop of concern for our chances in North London later in the day, the worsening weather conditions added to my worry. A text from Parky suggested that the game might even be called-off due to the expected heavy rain and high winds.

At 3pm, on the last full day of work before the Christmas shut-down, I left the office and collected Parky from the rain-lashed pub car park opposite. The extra hour to travel up the M4 to London would hopefully mean that the journey would be as stress-free as possible.

I often describe this journey to the nation’s capital in these reports with colourful passages of prose; to do so on this occasion will not take long. Suffice to say, the two hour trip was very tiring. The rain fell, the gusts of wind rocked my car, the spray made concentration difficult, the winter gloom enveloped my car. Grey, grey, grey.

The Scots have a word for it; dreich.

I have a word for it; shite.

The Piccadilly Line would be our mode of transport from Acton in West London to Highbury in North London. We actually had tons of time to spare; we alighted at Earl’s Court and had a drink at “The Courtfield” pub opposite the tube station.

“Merry Christmas, mate.”

“And you, sir.”

The pub was quiet, save for a few tourists, sightseeing over for the day, enjoying a pint and a meal. I love London pubs; this one had an old-time feel, with a high ceiling and mirrors behind the bar. It was a perfect staging post for our trip further north.

However, in the back of my mind, there was the constant churning over of our current ailments of this season. Wait a moment :

“Ailments? Bloody hell, win tonight and we’ll be equal top at almost the half-way point of the season.”

Quite. And yet this negativity was typical. Maybe I’ve been a Chelsea fan for too damn long. Maybe it’s part of my psyche to become fearful where no threat exists or to over-analyse perceived faults when none are real.

The table can’t lie can it? We were in fifth place, right in the mix, ready to strike hard in the congested Christmas period.

And yet, and yet…even the most ardent and devoted Mourinho disciple would surely admit that our form has stumbled of late. I’m certainly no expert on tactics, formations and suchlike and so I won’t tarry too long describing all of that. I’ll leave that to others.

It is clear to me, though, that Mourinho has clearly inherited a different mix of players in 2013 compared to the all-conquering squad of 2004. In some respects, he is blessed, in others he is hampered. Straight comparisons are so difficult though.

A young Terry versus an old Terry?

A young Lampard versus an old Lampard?

Carvalho versus Luiz?

A cool and steady Paolo Ferreira versus a tough and physical Ivanovic?

Gallas versus Cahill?

Duff versus Willian?

An unfettered Robben versus a raw Schurrle?

A show-boating Joe Cole versus a show-boating Eden Hazard?

Makelele versus Mikel?

A young and erratic Drogba versus a troubled Torres?

Petr Cech.

We have to give Jose Mourinho time to sort this all out. It’s ironic that in one sentence us Chelsea supporters collectively say “we will give him time” (meaning in essence that we might have to take a step back before several forward) and yet in the next are up in arms immediately bemoaning a loss.

I guess this is the nature of the beast.

I guess that we need to re-learn patience.

I’ll be honest, I’m dining out on Munich 2012 for the next five years; if we win nothing for the next few seasons, I won’t be moaning. I’d be disappointed if we won nothing until 2020, but my vision won’t be clouded by the need for constant gratification.

In the meantime, let’s hope that we can rally behind the manager. Let’s hope he can find that magical mix of personnel to take us forward; a combination of tenacity, guile, physical prowess, belief, confidence, fight, skill, adaptability and flair.

One more word.

Hunger.

Without that hunger – definitely present during that first Jose summer of 2004 – the team will flounder. Hunger should be what drives every squad member to success.

I’ll drink to that.

At 6.30pm, we left Earls Court – what a grand old station it is, hardly changed since I stood on the District Line platform for the very first time in March 1974 – and we descended deep beneath the wet London streets. Back onto the waiting Piccadilly Line train, the carriages full of Arsenal, then the short ride to our destination.

At Arsenal tube station, I always think back to my very first visit – August 1984 and “all that” – and a few of the subsequent others.

At Highbury, I never saw us beat Arsenal. At The Emirates, I’ve seen all three of our league triumphs.

Highbury was a lovely old stadium, especially in its pre-Taylor Report version with two large terraces at each end and two art deco masterpieces to the side. I loved the way that it blended in perfectly with the neighbouring terraced streets. The Emirates, despite what many say, is also a great stadium, but for different reasons. It’s major failing is the lack of identity, the lack of character, the lack of a reminder of Arsenal’s past.

“This could be anywhere.”

Oh, the Arsenal fans don’t help. A more pompous set of self-obsessed whiners I am yet to encounter on my travels the length and breadth of these isles. Additionally, they had the chance to rid the club of its Highbury “library” connotations and turn The Emirates into a hot bed of noise. They have failed.

I was inside the away end in good time on this occasion. I soon met up with Alan and Gary, fresh from work, and we waited for the stadium to fill up. There were familiar faces everywhere. Above me, the several layers of Goonerdom looked down upon us.

Replica shirt : check.

Red and white scarf : check.

“Arsenal, Arsenal, ra ra ra.”

It was clearly apparent that the weather had put many off. Opposite in the lower tier of the west stand, there were many empty seats. Around all sections of the stadium – even a few in the away corner – there were similarly unoccupied seats. However, even when thousands of seats remain empty at The Emirates, Arsenal still publishes full houses to the world.

Soon into the game we sang “your ground’s too big for you.”

Fernando Torres was chosen to be the lone striker, but the players in the midfield caused me a few moments of thought to work out positions and formations.

“With Ramires, Lampard and Mikel, is he playing 4-3-3?”

It wasn’t clear.

Were Willian and Hazard playing in midfield too? Was this a 4-5-1? From my low-lying position in row 16, I gave up on formations and became engrossed in the game. I had been feeling very tired while sitting in the warmth of the pub, but I was wide awake and focussed now. Football does that.

In the first few minutes, Mesut Ozil enjoyed a little early possession alongside Tomas Rosicky. In my mind, we were giving them a little too much space.

“Come on midfield, close’em down.”

I wanted to see that hunger to harry and chase, nullify and contain, then break with pace and vigour.

As the first-half continued, the Arsenal midfield looked less likely to cause us much damage as, thankfully, we denied them much space to work the ball in that old Arsenal way of old. It was clear that this would be a physical battle. Thankfully, the Chelsea team were clearly “up” for it.

A few Arsenal attacks were ably resisted. A Willian cross from wide right found a leaping Ramires, but his header looped over the Arsenal cross bar.

The home areas were supremely quiet. Our section tried its best; at times we were noisy with song, at others disjointed.

With chances at an absolute premium, we then came closest to scoring. A divine ball over the last line of defence by Eden Hazard into the path of a bursting Frank Lampard made us all inhale a breath of expectation. Frank’s fine volley crashed against the bar, then bounced down, but not in. We were unable to scramble in the loose ball. The away fans roared and Chelsea enjoyed a period of domination. Torres, ably winning a string of headers, but quiet in front of goal, at last produced a save from Szcsesny.

Willian and Walcott “came together” inside the box, but Mike Dean wasn’t convinced.

In the closing period of the half, towering headers from Torres and Ivanovic helped contain the Arsenal threat. Gary Cahill was excellent alongside John Terry.

A fine break down our left resulted in Willian shooting weakly at Szczesny after good work from Hazard; there were Chelsea players unmarked in the box. It was a poor choice from Willian. But, at least we were producing chances.

At the break, the fans that I spoke to were positive. It dawned on me that Ozil, their star man, had been quiet. This performance from the boys was more like it. Big games always help us focus our minds.

“We’re in this lads.”

I roamed around for a few minutes during the break, hoping to bump into some mates from afar. A rousing “Zigger Zagger” from Cath was still ringing in my ears as I stood alongside Alan and Gary as the second-half began.

The rain still fell.

The second-half began quietly. Arsenal struggled to get a foothold. Chelsea broke occasionally. A booking for Ramires. This was turning into a physical battle and I wondered if Dean would be soon handing out more cards at Christmas. Fernando Torres leaped high and cushioned a ball for Frank, but his low shot didn’t threaten the Arsenal goal.

At the other end, the Chelsea defence were standing firm. At times, it didn’t look pretty but block after block from Terry, Cahill, Azpilicueta and Ivanovic were grimly effective. I lauded their efforts. The tackles still crashed in. The rain still fell. Mikel broke up Arsenal’s play and it was a pleasure to hear the Chelsea fans around me applauding him.

As soon as I had commented to Gary “Mourinho must be happy, there have been no subs” a change took place.

Andre Schurrle for Eden Hazard, then Oscar for Willian.

Ramsey fed Giroud, both quiet on the night, but his shot didn’t trouble Petr Cech. As the away fans sensed that a point was likely to be the outcome, celery was tossed towards the Arsenal fans in the overhanging tier. The Arsenal fans grew frustrated. There was a lack of belief in the Arsenal team throughout the game; as I suspected, the memory of conceding six in Manchester was difficult to erase.

Another chance for Giroud, but Cech foiled him.

We were sternly hanging on.

David Luiz replaced the tireless Torres, and then soon had a chance to send us into Blue Heaven. A free-kick, thirty yards out, Luiz territory. We hoped and prayed. Sadly, his shot was straight at the defensive wall.

A 0-0 draw? I happily took it. It looked to me, at least, that the hunger was back.

A last chance to wish a “Merry Christmas” to a few good friends as we ambled out into the dark North London sky.

I met up with Parky outside the away end and we began the slow walk back to Highbury and Islington tube. Hoods up, we walked. Everyone was drenched. The Arsenal fans, I could tell, were frustrated

A moral victory to the boys in blue?

You bet.

We reached my car at around 11.15pm and embarked on a slow and painful drive west back into the still raging storm.

I dropped Parky off at around 1.30am.

From there, things soon descended into farce.

I eventually reached home at 4.30am, very tired and very weary. This was long after my car had been caught in rising flood water on a quiet Wiltshire road, abandoned, unable for me to push it safe. I was given a lift back to the outskirts of Frome by a kindly policeman in a 4×4, who himself miraculously appeared – a modern day Christmas miracle – just after I had stepped out of the shelter of another car which had been stranded and then recovered. We then almost got caught in a flooded road as we edged through a ridiculously narrow country lane, with main roads blocked by floods. At 3.30am, I walked through the deserted streets of my home town, my jeans soaked to the skin, my feet freezing, but thankfully the rain now stopped. Lastly, another lift home in another 4×4, this time our journey included a few nervous seconds underneath the branches of a fallen tree, the scene of desolation quite surreal. And all the way through this, I kept thinking to myself –

“All this for football?”

See you all at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day.

Tales From My Chelsea Family Tree

Posted on December 15, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 14 December 2013.

As strange as it seems for me to write these words, this was only my sixth sighting of Crystal Palace as a Chelsea supporter. During my teens and ‘twenties when my ability to attend matches was hampered by lack of money, there were some teams that I wittingly or unwittingly avoided. Admittedly our paths didn’t cross every season, but given the choice of travelling up from Somerset to see the boys play Tottenham or Palace, there would have been only one winner. My first-ever game was an away encounter at Selhurst Park in the autumn of 1991; a dull 0-0. There has only ever been one other visit to Selhurst Park for me to see us play Palace; a pre-season friendly in 2003 when the Arthur Waite Stand was overrun with a huge Chelsea army excited at seeing one of the first games of the Roman Abramovich reign. In fact, another odd statistic; I’ve visited Selhurst Park on five occasions, but only two games have involved Palace. The other three games were against their tenants Charlton Athletic (1989) and then Wimbledon (1996 and 1999).

So, this would only be my fourth Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game at Stamford Bridge. I can remember the game in November 1992 when I watched on the Shed, uncovered, in spitting rain, with my mate Daryl. Our respective paths had crossed a year or so earlier as fans of baseball – the Yankees in particular, Daryl produced a Yankee fanzine and I contributed on occasion – but it only became apparent a year or so into our limited communication that we were both Chelsea fanatics. We arranged to meet up for a pint in The Black Bull before that game over twenty-one years ago and we have become the very best of friends since. I met Daryl’s brother Neil a month or so later for another game. It’s fascinating to me how these Chelsea friendships are forged. Daryl, Neil and I hope to celebrate our fiftieth birthdays watching baseball in New York in 2015. Meeting new fellow fans in that era was rare; at the time I usually travelled up from Frome by myself, meeting only Alan on occasion, and most commonly in the Black Bull. In those days, Gary used to call by occasionally. There were other acquaintances, but many have fallen by the wayside.

I remember introducing Daryl to Glenn at the Makita at White Hart Lane in 1993, then Alan a year or so later. For the 1994 F.A. Cup Final, Daryl and I watched the game together. The following season, we travelled to Prague and Zaragoza together. In Prague, we bumped into long-time Chelsea stalwart Andy from Nuneaton and friendships blossomed.

With each passing game, my number of match-going Chelsea mates grew one by one. One day I might sit down and type out a chronological chart of when friendships began.

A Chelsea Family Tree, if you will.

Glenn 1983.

Alan, Walnuts, Leggo, Mark and Simon 1984.

Gary 1988.

Daryl and Neil 1992

Andy and Neil 1994.

Jonesy and The Youth 1995.

Ironically, Daryl and Neil would not be in attendance for this one; instead, they were back in Guernsey to celebrate their father’s 70^th. birthday.

I collected Glenn (from 1983, though we first met in 1977) at 8.45am and soon picked-up Parky (2000) too. Glenn always berates me for not wanting to talk too much about the football on the drive to Chelsea, but on this occasion there was lots to talk about. Players were discussed, performances analysed, games examined. There was hope that we could despatch Crystal Palace and stack up three points ahead of the pre-Christmas showdown with Arsenal.

Before the usual pre-match in The Goose (a friend since 1999), all three of us made a quick pilgrimage to the “CFCUK” stall to purchase Mark Worrall’s new Chelsea book. Detailing the first ten years of “The Roman Years”, it contains many anecdotes from Chelsea regulars, a selection of photographs and a forward by Sir Frank Lampard. My small contribution details the day of Frank’s 202^nd and 203^rd goals at Villa Park.

“Only £16.99, HURRY UP.”

It was a lovely pre-match in The Goose. The Manchester City vs. Arsenal game was garnering a fair bit of attention and yelps of approval greeted the City goals. Some may say that a draw would be the best result, but I just wanted a heavy Arsenal defeat so that their season could start its inevitable implosion in December 2013 rather than March 2014. I personally think that the league is City’s to lose. Being brutally honest, if we are not to win it – a tough ask, let’s admit it now – I would rather the title ended up at City rather than Arsenal.

There was chat with Rob (2005), Sophie (2000), Barbara (2011) and Eva (2012). Tim (2009) and the Bristol Boys were nearby.

As the goals rattled in at Eastlands, the laughter increased. A great time.

Rob warned that although the Crystal Palace “ultras” come in for a lot of stick, they would make a lot of noise.

And fair play to them. This would be their first visit since they were gubbed 4-1 in the 2004-2005 Championship season – WHEN EVEN MATEJA KEZMAN SCORED TWICE – and I was sure they would enjoy their visit regardless of the result. I’ve lost count of the number of games I have seen this season when Selhurst Park appears to be rocking, yet the only fans seemingly involved are the little knot of 200 “ultras” in the bottom corner of the Holmesdale Road End. They appear to be “miked” too.

I mentioned this to Alan.

“Of course” he replied. “The TV love that, miking the fans that make a racket, making out the atmosphere is loud throughout the stadium.”

On ascending the steps to the upper tier, confirmation that two very late goals had been exchanged in Manchester.

City 6 Arsenal 3.

Let the implosion commence.

As we entered the seats, I was given a Christmas card from Joe (1997) who sits nearby with his son Gary. Joe is now eighty-five. We love him to bits.

There have been few Chelsea versus Crystal Palace “classics” but the one game that always seems to grab the attention of my generation came in 1976 during our F.A. Cup campaign. As a struggling Second Division team, we were drawn at home with Malcolm Allison’s Third Division Crystal Palace in the fifth round of the cup. This fixture really captured the imagination of the London public and, with Stamford Bridge’s vast terraces able to withstand the demand, over 54,000 attended. Sadly, we lost 3-2 but it is an afternoon that I can easily recount some 37 years later.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7M6pRs5PHF4

Just after the first two Palace goals, thousands of Chelsea teenagers can be heard singing “Chelsea aggro, Chelsea aggro, ‘ello, ‘ello.”

With Chelsea chasing the game, the atmosphere is clearly electric. The old Stamford Bridge, full to bursting, was a grand old stadium in its time. The sight of The Shed holding almost twenty thousand spectators is just gorgeous.

Peter Taylor went on to play for Tottenham. I never liked him.

I had a quick run through the team and two players stood out; Michael Essien, despite having a nightmare two weeks ago, was back alongside Ramires and David Luiz was partnering John Terry. Further forward, Juan Mata, Willian and Eden Hazard were asked to provide ammunition for the recalled Fernando Torres.

Very soon into the game, the three thousand Palace fans were working their way through their own very distinctive repertoire of songs. They were bellowing them out. It was pretty impressive stuff. Maybe I was wrong; maybe Selhurst is rocked by more than those two hundred self-styled “ultras” in that bottom left corner of their home end.

They taunted us : “Is this a library?” and then “Here for the Palace, you’re only here for the Palace.”

We replied : “Here for the season, you’re only here for the season.”

The away team were fighting for every ball under new boss Tony Pulis. However, after only a quarter of an hour, Willian sensed an opportunity to run at goal. His positive dribble took him close and he sent a low shot towards Speroni. The Palace ‘keeper’s dive turned the ball onto the post only for Fernando Torres to pounce on the rebound.

1-0 Chelsea

Alan and I did our usual routine.

You know the score.

Immediately after, the Palace fans ignored the deficit and rallied behind their team. Well done them. It reminded of us when we were…er…shit.

We then hit a little purple patch with some lovely play from a strong Torres run and then a Mata touch enabling Ivanovic to strike at goal. His shot scraped the far post. This was good stuff. Maybe more goals would follow. Even the home crowd were getting involved.

A London derby with noise. Just like 1976. Luvverly jubberly.

Until then, Palace had only enjoyed rare opportunities to attack. Sadly, just before the half-hour mark, a Palace move down our right resulted in a ball being whipped in for an unmarked Chamakh to volley home.

We fell silent and the Palace fans bounced in unison. It was a celebration typical of fans from Istanbul, not Croydon.

I turned to Alan : “I don’t care what anyone says. That’s impressive.”

Thankfully, we regained the lead soon after.

Eden Hazard, relatively subdued until then, glided past his marker and passed to an unmarked Ramires. Our little midfield dynamo looked up, aimed and fired a curler into Speroni’s goal.

2-1 Chelsea. Phew.

At the break, Danny Granville – Stockholm 1998 and all that – was on the pitch with Neil Barnett. Thousands upon thousands of new Chelsea fans in the West Upper scratched their heads.

In the second-half, Crystal Palace were clearly more aggressive than in the opening forty-five minutes. Our midfield were left chasing shadows and the frustration among the home support grew with each passing minute. Palace raided our goal, but thankfully neither Nicky Chatterton nor Peter Bloody Taylor was on hand to score. Petr Cech was able to smother and repel all of the efforts on his goal. Still the Palace fans sang.

Essien, though clearly not at his best, stayed on as Juan Mata was replaced by Oscar. Our chances had dried up and we were hanging on. Palace were surprising us all. There was a ridiculous scramble at The Shed End on seventy-five minutes, but continued shots at goal were thwarted by desperate defending by the Chelsea rear-guard. A header then flashed past the post. Cech’s goal was leading a charmed life.

And all around me, instead of generous support for Chelsea in our twenty minutes of need, there was little singing and little encouragement.

At one point, after a welcome period of positive Chelsea play, out of over one hundred spectators in our little section, Alan noted only Big John, Alan and myself clapped.

Welcome to Stamford Bridge 2013.

In the last ten minutes, Andre Schurrle replaced Willian and then Demba Ba replaced Torres. This really surprised me. Although there was little defensive options on the bench available to him, Mourinho chose to make offensive rather than defensive changes. Rather than bring on Lamps as extra cover, Jose chose other options. I quickly remembered an infamous game from only last season.

At Reading with us winning 2-1, Rafa Benitez replaced Torres with Ba rather than shore up the defence. We let in an equaliser.

At home to Palace in 2014, with us winning 2-1, Jose Mourinho replaced Torres with Ba rather than shore up the defence. I hoped there would be no equaliser.

Our nerves were jangling. We were still hanging on. There was still no noticeable show of support for the boys.

There were two late Chelsea chances at the Matthew Harding. The ball was played through towards Ramires but, with only Speroni to beat, the little Brazilian fluffed his kick. Whereas I sighed in silent frustration, I looked quickly to my left where there were howls of indignation and anger being aimed at Ramires by many in the MH Upper.

These fuckers had hardly sung a note of support for the team all afternoon, yet their faces were contorted with rage at Ramires’ miss and were heaping abuse towards our own players on the pitch below.

Soon after, another Chelsea chance came and went. There was an almighty scramble after substitute Schurrle played a lovely wall pass with Ba, but shot right at the Palace custodian. The rebound came to Ba, but Speroni again saved. A further rebound was sliced wide by the suddenly hapless Rami.

I grimaced as fellow supporters in the MHU spewed vitriol once more.

With four minutes of extra time signalled, I commented to Alan that we were still looking to attack. This was a very different approach to the Mourinho team of ten seasons ago when a tight, nervy game would be notable for ball retention among the back four rather than forward passes.

Despite one more Palace chance, we survived.

However, such was the dreadful atmosphere during the last ten minutes, it honestly felt like we had lost.

Tales From The Group Phase

Posted on December 14, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Steaua Bucharest : 11 December 2013.

When the European Cup became the Champions League over twenty years ago, Chelsea Football Club looked on from afar. Until that point, European football was a rare treat. However, within the football fan community, there was immediate disdain of the participation within it of league runners-up. The “Champions League” suddenly became a misnomer. Then, the cut-throat knock-out nature of the old competition was thrown away in favour of a mini-league format. Football fans, showing considerable unity throughout the continent of Europe, were again dismayed. Most saw its formation as UEFA appeasing the fat cats at the top table, virtually guaranteeing them all top level competition on an annual basis and staving off threats of a breakaway pan-European league. Since those days, Chelsea’s participation within the competition has been a regular event. This would be our eleventh season in a row. For us supporters, the real advantage of the Champions League group phase, played under lights in various degrees of midweek darkness every autumn, has been to pick and choose which of the three away games we are able to attend. Very often, the home games – especially on match day five or six – offer little distraction.

The Chelsea vs. Steaua Bucharest game, in itself our fourth match-up with the Romanians in nine months, was therefore hardly filling me with enthusiasm during the day. In fact, if truth be known, as the day progressed, I kept questioning myself as to why I was bothering to attend. Our passage into the last sixteen was already assured, there would be a tiring drive into London, probably a poor atmosphere, little drinking time before the game and a late finish in the small hours of Thursday morning.

I came to the conclusion that the main reason, on a personal level, was for me to witness – let’s hope – the immediate and entertaining upturn in our play since the Stoke City defeat on Saturday. I simply hoped for goals, attacking football and a reaffirmation of our collective love of Jose Mourinho.

A hope for better things.

A just reward for my Wednesday evening sortie into town.

It reminded of the days of following the club in the era, much doted upon by Chelsea supporters of a certain vintage, of “the drought” when we didn’t expect entertaining football at Stamford Bridge, or even a win, but we just attended games out of blind devotion and the hope, however small, that our patience would be rewarded with an entertainment-ridden goal fest.

Due to patchy fog in Wiltshire and traffic congestion in London, the drive to Chelsea took three full hours. Parky and I jostled into the boozer just after 7pm. There was a quick “hello goodbye” and then I was off with Alan to The Bridge. There was time to mull over a few talking points.

Within parts of the Chelsea fan base, there had been surprising reactions to the defeat at the Britannia Stadium. There was the call to move Petr Cech on and recall Thibaut Courtois. I found this to be rather harsh. At the Stoke game, he certainly erred for the first goal, but could hardly be held responsible for the others. There was also a desire among some fans for Mourinho to recall David Luiz; his errant behaviour, much-frowned-upon and castigated by many of those same fans, forgotten. There was even frustration with Mourinho himself.

My thoughts?

Chill.

We all know that this team, this squad even, is changing.

I’d rather have Jose in charge than anyone else.

Anyone.

That is not to say we should bow down and follow blindly. There is always room for opinion and debate. Even I have tired of Mourinho’s snipes at our strike force’s lack of goals. However, as always, there is a thin line between quiet and constructive criticism as opposed to loud and knee-jerk negativism.

Regarding the lack of goals from Fernando, Demba and Samuel, Alan wisely noted –

“We can’t win. We should be happy the goals are being spread out among the team. If only Torres or Eto’o was scoring, people would be bemoaning the lack of firepower from elsewhere.”

Football fans are never happy.

We were inside Stamford Bridge as early as 7.25pm and my immediate concern was the vast amount of blue seats clearly visible. By 7.45pm, my fears had subsided. It was yet another near full house for a Champions League night. Our support, often derided, should again be applauded. Steaua brought a full 3,000 in March; tonight it was around 2,000. As the teams entered the pitch, the away end was lit with the many lights from the travelling Romanians’ mobile phones. There were obviously Steaua fans in the East Upper too; lights there also.

Mark Schwarzer was in goal, Ashley Cole was at left-back, David Luiz was partnering JT, Frank was paired with Mikel in the anchor roles, Willian and Oscar recalled alongside Hazard, Ba upfront.

Chelsea began positively and a goal came under just ten minutes. Willian sent over a corner which was flicked on at the near post by Oscar and Demba Ba pounced.

Good start. Nerves settled. Let’s go to town.

Alas, the rest of the first-half offered little to cheer. In fact, Steaua could easily have levelled the score, only for Iancu to shoot wide. On several occasions, they worked the ball into our box but – thankfully – the ball tended to miraculously avoid an away player. Both Oscar and Hazard were quiet. Mikel had started poorly, managed to get himself booked, but then redeemed himself with a few cool pieces of play. At a Chelsea corner, I watched as an unmarked Lampard on the edge of the box signalled for the ball to be played out to him. The resultant volley was spectacular but was hit high of Tatarusanu’s bar.

Lots of huff and puff in the first-half, not much quality.

I noted that the scoreboard above the away fans was showing that Demba Ba had scored for Steaua and we were losing 1-0. I wondered if the work of Nicolae Ceausescu was still being done.

At half-time, a lovely moment.

Our much-loved former right-back / wing back / midfielder Dan Petrescu was given a lovely introduction by Neil Barnett. Dan was the first “foreigner” to play two hundred games for us. How we loved his shuffling style and his incisive passing. He was serenaded by Chelsea fans and Steaua fans alike. He played for Steaua in the 1989 European Cup Final versus the mighty Milan. I love it that he now manages Dynamo Moscow; a club forever linked with the history of Chelsea Football Club. At The Shed, he momentarily picked up a Steaua scarf and the away fans lapped it up.

Superb stuff.

That was probably the highlight of the night.

As the game restarted, a few fans in the Matthew Harding attempted to “get things going” and I, at least, joined in. But generally, it was quiet. There was not one single song from the 12,000 spectators in the West Stand. The Shed were quiet. It was one of those nights. I often wonder what a lost soul from the “drought years” would make of these European Nights at Stamford Bridge these days. What would an exiled Brit, maybe now living in Australia, returning to a revamped Bridge for the first time since 1990 make of it.

“Fackinell, I used to dream of nights like this at Chelsea. The stadium looks brilliant. Everyone close to the pitch. Flags everywhere. Loads of colour. Should be made for nights like this. But why is nobody fackin’ singing?”

There were few highlights in a very low key second period.

Ba had a great chance soon into the second period but blasted high.

Andre Schurrle, who had probably his best game in a CFC shirt in Bucharest, was introduced by Mourinho and soon enjoyed an impressive run at the heart of the Steaua defence. His direct play pleases me. On this occasion, he struck at goal and the rebound was headed over by Hazard.

Ba was played in and volleyed home, but was ruled offside.

As the match continued on, for once I was egging the clock to reach “90.”

Not to signify a Chelsea win, just for the game to end and for me to get home.

This was clearly a mediocre Chelsea performance. I sensed a great feeling of numbed disappointment in the lack of attacking verve rather than euphoria about cementing pole position in our group. There was little there for me to admire.

As I left the stadium, I walked around to touch the Peter Osgood statue; a bit of a superstition on Champions League Nights for me.

A quick touch of his right boot.

And thoughts of Athens, Istanbul, St. Petersburg, Milan and Leverkusen.

Tales From The Top Of The Hill

Posted on December 8, 2013 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 7 December 2013.

The alarm sounding at 6.30am and no need to use the “snooze button.”

The anticipation of one of my favourite away games of the season.

The simple pleasure of planning it all; the tickets, the timings, the travel plans, the pre-match, the buzz.

The fear of the day being memorable for arctic temperatures at the top of that ridge of land in Stoke-on-Trent.

The selection of the right mix of warm winter clothes.

The realisation that the away end at The Brittania Stadium will resemble “Chris Bonington Meets Milan Fashion Week.”

The Timberland boots, the CP pullover, the Victorinox coat.

The grey sky overhead and the surprisingly mild weather.

The smiles from Parky at 8.30am.

The familiar road north.

The memory of an away game at Stoke City during the promotion campaign of 1988-1989 when I managed to stave off tiredness following a night-shift and Chelsea midfielder Peter Nicholas was sent off after just five minutes but we still went on to win 3-0.

The memory of being in The Black Bull at Chelsea much later that same season and “Stoke Away” being cited as one of the best away games of that season.

The sight of Liverpool fans at Frankley Services.

The cloudy sky giving way to clear skies just as we passed through Birmingham and, with it, the likelihood of the temperature dropping.

The Brittania Stadium being spotted away on the hill to our right.

The town centre of Stoke.

The familiarity of my old college town.

The shops.

The pubs.

The accents.

The “Wrights Pies” shop.

The “King’s Arms”, now re-opened since the last time that I called by.

The pleasure of visiting my old local from that memorable first year at college in 1984-1985, which nicely coincided with Chelsea’s first season in the top flight since 1979.

The memory of catching early-morning trains down to The Smoke every few weeks and the rush of adrenaline as the train pulled out of Stoke-on-Trent station.

The excitement of away days to Liverpool, Manchester, Leicester, Glasgow, Sheffield, Birmingham, Coventry and all points north, south, east and west.

The first pint of the day in the “King’s Arms” and a toast to Parky, myself and each and every one of the travelling Chelsea army.

The gaggle of locals, obvious match-goers, and the knowing looks exchanged between Parky and myself.

The memory of match days in Stoke when their lads used to gather outside “Charlie Browns” before heading off for scuffles and fights.

The drive up the hill and a second pint in “The White Lion” amidst memories of a night out with some fellow Chelsea student friends on the eve of the Stoke City vs. Chelsea game in May 1985.

The memory of walking back down the hill, after last orders, and singing, shouting, bellowing, Chelsea songs out into the quiet Stoke night almost thirty years ago.

The sight of Ruud Gullit on TV talking passionately and respectfully about Nelson Mandela.

The first few minutes of the game from Old Trafford on TV.

The short drive to our anointed parking place on the slip road of the A500.

The fastening of coats, the wrapping of scarves, the slow trudge up the hill.

The footbridge over the Trent and Mersey Canal.

The “Oatcake” fanzine.

The sleek modern stands of the Brittania, glinting in the winter sun.

The away turnstiles.

The bag search.

The line for beer.

The wait inside for familiar faces.

The traditional “Stoke Away” habit of throwing beer up in the air amidst songs.

The sad realisation that I might be getting too old for all this.

The tedious “Ten German Bombers.”

The news, via text, that The Geordies were winning at Old Trafford.

The obvious and uncontrollable surge of schadenfreude.

The lack of faces that I know; just who are these people?.

The walk up the steps to the rear of the stand to join up with Alan and Gary.

The confirmation that Manchester United had lost at home again.

The dark clouds to my left.

The camera clicking into action.

The boisterous singing of the Chelsea choir overshadowing the home support.

The gaps in the home seats.

The full three thousand in the Chelsea section.

The recognition that a sore throat would probably hamper my singing throughout the afternoon.

The memory of last season’s game; Jonathan Walters.

The entrance of the teams to my left.

The red and white chequered flags of the local youngsters.

The colour, the noise, the spectacle.

The whistle.

The two teams lined-up in the centre of the pitch.

The minute of applause for Nelson Mandela.

The sight of Cesar Azpilicueta – standing alone – having a moment of quiet prayer.

The team.

The formation.

The defence.

The midfield three.

The recall of Andre Schurrle and Jon Obi Mikel.

The singing.

The packed away stand, everyone standing, everyone involved.

The shouts of encouragement.

The buzz of seeing Eden Hazard after his tantalising display in Sunderland on Wednesday.

The elation of seeing Andrea Schurrle twist one way and then another, teasing his marker into submission, before despatching a perfectly-placed bullet past Begovic in the Stoke goal.

The yelp of pleasure.

The noise from the away end; bollocks to my sore-throat, I’m joining in.

The ease with which Hazard receives the ball and touches it, caressing it, bringing the ball to life.

The piss-taking from the away end; “You’re Going Down With United.”

The movement from our attackers.

The industry of Schurrle.

The aerial battle between Crouch and Walters and Terry and Cahill.

The chances for Ramires, Mata and – almost – Torres.

The ease with which Chelsea dominated the first-half.

The thoughts of another easy win.

The late Stoke rally in the first-half.

The cross.

The Cech error.

The melee.

The scrambled finish from Peter Crouch.

The roar from the home fans.

The triumphant leap from Crouch.

The sense of disbelief in the away end at the break.

The porous nature of our defence at set-plays.

The sight of two middle-aged women – in other words, ten years older than me…at least, honest – in full blue Santa uniforms and those silly player face masks.

The rolling of my eyes.

The comment from Gary: “Did you get their numbers?”

The sight of Walters rampaging down our left and him getting some sort of retribution for his own personal hell last season.

The pass to Stephen Ireland.

The curling shot past Cech.

The phrase “warm knife through butter.”

The roar of the home crowd once more.

The moans in the away end.

The sad sight of Dave getting roasted at left-back.

The lack of cover in front of him.

The continued singing from the away fans.

The click of the camera as Andrea Schurrle despatched a lovely strike into the Stoke goal to level it at 2-2.

The joyous celebration of the goal by player and fans alike.

The image of a rollercoaster.

The industry of Torres and the lay-off for Schurrle and a dipping shot which crashed against Begovic’ bar with the ‘keeper well beaten and begging for mercy.

The substitute Demba Ba for Torres.

The miss of the match so far from Ireland, leaning back, the shot high.

The sight of Mark Hughes – Sparky – moaning at every Chelsea challenge.

The irony.

The home support roaring “Delilah.”

The “Willian Song.”

The black sky.

The double substitution of Eto’o and Lampard.

The passing of time.

The gnawing realisation that the longer it stayed level, the less time we would be able to react to a third Stoke goal.

The awareness that some things are best left unsaid.

The desperation, at times, in our play.

The poor ball retention of Ba.

The continual encouragement for our players.

The nerves torn.

The news that Liverpool had won 4-1.

The free-kick opportunity, with only a few minutes remaining, but the annoyance of it being “too central.”

The week shot by Frank directly at Begovic.

The sense of foreboding as Stoke broke down our left once again.

The sickening sight of Assaidi’s strike bending and zipping past Petr Cech.

The noise once more.

The silence in the away end.

The false hope of five extra minutes.

The final whistle.

The silent walk outside.

The locals happy.

The first Chelsea defeat at Stoke since 1974-1975.

The slow shuffle back across the footbridge over the Manchester to London railway line.

The crescent moon high to my left.

The smoke billowing out of the council incinerator to my right.

The familiarity of a Stoke evening.

The incoming texts.

The drive home.

The sore throat.

The inevitable moans – thankfully largely unseen and unheard – by Chelsea supporters everywhere.

The shrug of the shoulders.

The game against Steaua on Wednesday.

The story continues.

Tales From Third Gear

Posted on December 3, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 1 December 2013.

December was upon us and our first game in a very busy month involved the visit to SW6 of high-flying Southampton. The team from the south coast caused us huge problems during the two league games of the previous campaign, beating us 2-1 at St. Mary’s and earning a point in a 2-2 draw at Stamford Bridge. This would not be an easy game. After the very poor performance in Basel on Tuesday, another match could not come quickly enough.

However, although the minds of most Chelsea supporters were centred on the game, my build-up was focussed elsewhere. This game would mark the return to the fold of a good friend – one of the Frome Gang of Seven, then Six, then Five, then Four.

Paul – or PD – was back.

I first met Paul, famously – or infamously – on the train on the return trip from a famous – or infamous – away game at Cardiff in March 1984. After we drew 3-3 after being 3-0 down with just six minutes remaining, a couple of the Frome brethren had been arrested and there was talk in the crowded train compartment of the afternoon’s events. There was talk of “Daniels” and I wondered who this was. My Chelsea journey was in its infancy; these older lads had obviously been going to games for a few more years than me. I was all ears. Paul appeared at the door to our compartment wearing old school boots and jeans, maybe a green flight jacket, with cropped hair and a fearsome reputation that went before him. Soon after his appearance, the compartment was singing “Daniels Is Our Leader.” I was predictably impressed. Later that season, I travelled up with him in a car with three others for the decisive game with Leeds United.

Oh what a day that was.

Since then, there have been numerous Chelsea games in his company.

Sadly, in September 2010, Paul was involved in a horrific accident at work; he was working in one of the many tarmac gangs that have made my local town a veritable capital city for road resurfacing. There are many limestone quarries in the area – seen from the air, the local Somerset landscape is pot-marked by vast open areas of grey – and so, as a result, Frome is now home to hundreds of “Boys from the Black Stuff” who hurtle about the English countryside in teams, patching up roads and motorways with limestone. After the accident, Paul almost lost his leg and has not worked since. I have often bumped into him at the local football club, and he has often aired his yearnings to be able to return, one day, to Stamford Bridge.

Sunday 1 December 2013 was that day.

I collected PD at 9.30am and Lord Parky soon after.

The Boys from the Blue Stuff were soon on our way east.

There was a real sense of the Southampton fixture being a “must win” game for Chelsea to keep in touch with Arsenal. With a fixture at the Emirates looming large on the horizon, we needed to keep on their coat tails. And yet it got me thinking; surely this contravened my general, relaxed, thoughts about this being a transitional season where the league title might be beyond us. Was this game important to gain three points or to simply expunge the awful performance in Switzerland from our collective memory? Well, whatever it was, I guess it is human nature to want to win every game. The thought of losing to Southampton, not unfeasible in the current “will the real Chelsea please stand up?” climate, and therefore allowing Arsenal to remain seven points clear, made me anxious.

In fact – and I am sure I am not alone – the thought of Arsenal winning the league, after their much-scorned period of drought, made me feel nauseous. In comparison, a league win for either of the two Manchester teams seemed to be the far more palatable option should Chelsea falter. This wasn’t an exact science though; if questioned, I am sure that I dislike United more than Arsenal.

“Oh boy. Weird this football lark, innit?”

At 12.30pm I deposited PD and Parky in The Goose, where I knew that they were in for a warm welcome. I headed on to Stamford Bridge where, for the first time this season, I popped in to the megastore to buy a few Christmas presents. I was pleased to be able to collect the new, full game DVD of Munich.

Ah, Munich. Just the name, just the name.

By the time I had met up with the boys in the pub, Manchester United had dropped two welcome points at Tottenham. Soon after, the Hull City vs. Liverpool game was on the TV screens. We ignored the game and just chatted. My mate Foxy, who I had last met up with on a trip to Scotland a mere fortnight previously, soon appeared with his son Ricky. But the day was all about PD really; there were hugs a-plenty for him. It was great to see.

By the time we had walked down to the stadium, Liverpool had conceded a third goal at the KC Stadium and things were looking up. With points being dropped by United and Liverpool, a Chelsea win would be a magnificent winter warmer on this cold December afternoon.

PD took his seat next to Alan and me. This was another full house with hardly any empty seats. Southampton had around 1,500 and one paltry flag. I soon spotted Foxy and Ricky in the front row of The Shed. And there was Parky a few yards away.

Everyone in. Everyone ready.

A quick scan of the team; surprisingly a start for Michael Essien, the “three amigos” of Hazard, Oscar and Mata were reunited, no place for Sir Frank and Fernando Torres recalled. Still no Luiz.

Was Southampton’s goal by Jay Rodriguez the fastest-ever goal at Stamford Bridge in 108 years? Surely, there couldn’t have been many that were quicker. A terrible intervention by Michael Essien had spun the ball into the path of the Southampton striker, who slotted the ball past a stranded Petr Cech. The 1,500 away fans boiled over in jumping, leaping ecstasy.

With the Stamford Bridge crowd stunned into an eerie silence, Chelsea encountered a horrible first-half malaise; was it a hangover from Basel, one of the most lack-lustre performances that I can ever remember? We played in a fog of self-doubt and faltering confidence, with little movement, and a dearth of crunching tackles in the midfield and penetration up front. There was, again, a distinct unwillingness by key players to take hold of the game by the horns. Too often players played the ball to a disadvantaged team mate, eschewing responsibility, rather than create with their own skills. Oscar was very quiet and Mata peripheral. Hazard showed willing, but there was little movement off him.

A strong Torres run into the box at least showed willing and desire.

Southampton, to their credit pushed us hard, closing us down, putting pressure on us. As PD commented:

“Just like Mourinho likes us to play.”

However, Cech was largely untroubled despite Southampton’s persnickety persistence. We had no more than a few half-chances as the afternoon grew darker.

It saddens me to report that Michael Essien endured his own personal nightmare. His unfortunate error in the build-up to the Southampton goal aside, his play was strewn with passing errors, poor tackles and – worst of all – he often found himself out-muscled as he tried to retain possession. I felt for him. The biggest ignominy of all? A silly dive – simulation as it is called these days – after he had lost possession. He was rightly booked.

Two late chances in the first-half were the highlights of the entire first period. On forty minutes, Torres did ever so well to retain possession and battle off a defender and dig out a cross for Oscar but his header was right at Boruc. Soon after, there was a superb Boruc one-handed save from a Torres header.

Oscar fell injured and was replaced by Frank Lampard; so much for a day off, eh?

I’m also sad to report that there were – of course! – boos at half-time.

It dawned on me that I have an increasing, festering dislike for many of my fellow fans. To my annoyance and consternation, I have almost given up trying to support the team during those times when The Bridge is silent. Even only five years ago, I would try to rally the troops around me, but what is the point? What is the bloody point?

With every passing season, the atmosphere at home games decreases.

How far have we fallen? Let me give a quick illustration.

Way back in 1992, with Chelsea enjoying a little run of form under Ian Porterfield and in the top six of the table, we met Southampton at home on Boxing Day. In 1992-1993, I largely travelled to games alone and only met up with Alan by chance. I had just recently learned to drive the previous season and so was enjoying my new found freedom; it was, in fact, the first Boxing Day game I had ever seen at Stamford Bridge. I was well aware that there were plans to remodel Stamford Bridge and so I had decided to take my father’s rather large camcorder to the game and capture some of the day’s events on film, aware that The Bridge might soon be changing its appearance. I have rather grainy footage of the old Fulham Broadway station, early-morning risers walking past the old souvenir shops on their trudge to the forlorn entrance to the West Stand, all corrugated iron and ancient turnstiles. The main forecourt is captured, quiet, awaiting the day to unfold.

I managed to smuggle the camcorder inside and capture several moments of the actual game. I was sitting halfway back in the East Stand. Our football that season was rudimentary stuff. We often played with Tony Cascarino and Mick Harford in the team. It was direct and far from pretty. However, most tellingly of all, the video film from almost twenty-one years ago shows repeated evidence of honest and heartfelt clapping, encouragement and applause at every single worthwhile Chelsea attack.

The ball is played up for Graeme Stuart to run on to? Shouts of encouragement.

The ball goes off for a throw-in near the Southampton goal-line? Widespread clapping and applause?

A pleasing period of play involving Dennis Wise and Andy Townsend? More encouragement.

The difference between 1992 and 2013 is galling.

At half-time, I returned to my seat and spotted Neil Barnett on the pitch with an elderly gentleman in a gabardine coat. It was John Payton, apparently our oldest-ever former player at ninety years old. I can’t lie; it is not a name that I am familiar with. In a strong Scottish accent, he encouraged the crowd to get behind the players in the second-half and pleaded for us to make some noise. The response from the docile crowd annoyed him.

“Well, that’s not much of a roar.”

I knew how he felt.

No surprises – Demba Ba replaced the struggling Michael Essien.

I hate using clichés, but this was obviously a case of a “game of two halves.”

The crowd, thank heavens, seemed immediately more energised as we upped our play. A Frank Lampard free-kick was well saved by Boruc.

On fifty-five minutes, a Juan Mata corner was aimed high and Brana leaped to force a header back in towards goal. Demba Ba lunged at the ball and it bounced up and off a post back into the six yard box. Gary Cahill, falling, did ever so well to contort and twist his body to head the ball in.

The Bridge roared. Back level.

Gary raced away and milked the applause down below me.

There was noise – proper noise – at last.

“And it’s super Chelsea – super Chelsea F.C.”

Boruc injured his hand and was replaced by Gazzaniga.

Six minutes later, Juan Mata played a ball into the box. With the camera to my eye, I saw a body rise and loop a header up and over the substitute ‘keeper. I clicked just as the ball was on its rise. The ball nestled in the goal. There was a loud yelp and a jump from myself. I let out a guttural scream.

“YES.”

I soon focussed on the player racing towards me and obviously realised that the scorer was JT. Until that point, it was all a mad blur. This was a very typical John Terry goal and it reminded me instantly of two similar goals at the same end, versus Barcelona in 2005 and versus Manchester United in 2009.

The emotion on our captain’s face was a picture. I photographed the scream, the shout, the slide.

Captain. Leader. Legs First Slider.

This was more like it, Chelsea. Southampton were tiring now and were soon chasing shadows as two sublime slide-rule passes from first Ivanovic and then Mata were played in, dissecting the Southampton defence.

Demba Ba added an extra dimension to our play and his strong run on seventy-one minutes was almost rewarded in a goal, but his shot was dragged wide.

PD kept saying “I’ve missed this.”

Fernando Torres worked tirelessly all afternoon and was replaced by Mikel late on. This was typical Mourinho. I approved. Rather than settling for a 2-1 victory, however, we continued to push forward.

On eighty-nine minutes, we witnessed great perseverance from Ramires as he fended-off tackles from three opponents, retained possession and, with a wicked turn, whipped in a lovely ball for Ba to prod in.

3-1.

At the final whistle, the poor first-half was virtually forgotten as we slowly made our exit out. “Blue is the Colour” was being played, John Terry and Frank Lampard were applauding the Chelsea faithful for our support and everything was well the world.

On the walk back to the car, PD and I quickly reviewed the race at the top of the table.

“I hate to say it, but Arsenal are flying. Can they keep it up, though? City are hot and cold. United too. Liverpool haven’t got enough depth. But we are in second place and yet haven’t even got out of third gear yet.”

“That’s right me zun.”

There is no trip to Sunderland for me on Wednesday but Parky and I have yet another jaunt up to The Potteries next Saturday. Stoke City is one of my favourite away games. However, I might have to rack my brains for new subject matter after five previous “Tales” involving “Stoke away.”

Oh no, wait – I have an idea.

Watch this space.

Tales From The Boleyn Ground

Posted on November 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2013.

As I drove in to London on the elevated section of the M4 motorway, I caught sight of the cluster of skyscrapers in the City, some five or six miles further east. London is neither Chicago nor New York, but I am always excited by the sight of the Nat West Tower, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin and The Shard. Within an hour or so, I would be beyond these monoliths to industry, trade and finance and I would be nestled in an East End hostelry. The journey to the nation’s capital had been quick and easy. The late autumnal gold and orange hues of the journey from Somerset contrasted with the light greys of the London afternoon. I was soon parked-up and quickly disappeared through the large and imposing art deco façade of Acton Town tube station. The District Line took me to Westminster, and from there the Jubilee Line snaked south, east and then north towards West Ham tube station.

A visit to Upton Park has never been an enjoyable trip for me; it is, undoubtedly, my least liked away game. Thirty years ago, the threat of violent acts was reason enough for me to be wary. The aura surrounding the tightly-knit ICF meant that a foray down Green Street was akin to walking the gang plank. Thankfully, those days have passed. Today however, there is still a general tawdriness about the locale which eats away at my enthusiasm on match days. In the violent ‘eighties, the away end was the infamous South Bank, now the site of the Bobby Moore Stand and the home supporters. My first two visits were horrendous affairs; a 5-3 loss in the early months of 1986-1987 and a 4-1 loss in the closing stages of 1987-1988. The latter game effectively saw us relegated. It was gut-wrenching stuff. Since then, my visits have been relatively rare and I’ve only started visiting Upton Park regularly over the past five or six seasons. In the years when I could only afford to go to five or six away games each season, Upton Park remained way down the pecking order. This would be my ninth visit.

Of course, with West Ham United soon to de-camp to the former Olympic Stadium in 2016, there will only be a few more trips to the scruffy, down-at-heel streets around the Boleyn Ground left. I’m not convinced that many West Ham fans are too enamoured with a move away from their spiritual home. It would be trite for me to say that I am not going to waste too much time concerning myself with what West Ham fans think, but we should all be wary about teams moving out of their historic homes into new stadia. I’d imagine that, given the choice, most Hammers would prefer to see Upton Park redeveloped rather than move a few miles north-west to Stratford. However, I am sure that the board members of Chelsea Football Club be watching with interest once West Ham United move in to their new luxurious residence in August 2016. The dream scenario for me would be for The Irons to be opening up in The Championship. In such circumstances, surely gates of 35,000 rattling around inside a sterile new stadium will be a nightmare for West Ham fans who, at times, used to produce an intimidating atmosphere in the tightness of Upton Park.

I’ll watch with interest to see how this stadium move eventually works itself out.

At just after three o’clock, I alighted at Plaistow tube station. In the ticket hall, I looked back west towards those tower blocks and skyscrapers of the City of London, the mid-afternoon sky darkening by the minute but with the slight tint of the first few moments of an eventual sunset. I soon joined up with a few fellow Chelsea mates who were drinking in “The Black Lion.” This was a first-time visit for me. Just inside the long narrow bar, Rob, Gary, Andy, Daryl, Walnuts, Dave, Steve and I spent an enjoyable ninety minutes, supping lager and sharing laughs. It goes without saying that none of us were marked as Chelsea supporters. We were a small Chelsea enclave in a hot bed of West Ham supporters. The boozer was crowded and the bar staff busy. We were in enemy territory. We kept ourselves to ourselves. We blended in well. Contrary to popular belief, the locals were neither happy, smiling Cockneys, prone to singing “Bubbles” nor psychopathic hoodlums. They seemed quite – whisper it – normal.

At just before 5 o’clock, we threw our jackets on and walked the best part of a mile east towards the ground. There was time for the briefest of chats with Gary about how watching England now disinterests both of us. In fact, International breaks tend to bore us all to death these days. I made the point to Gary that, seasoned football follower that I am, I find myself picking and choosing what aspects of the wide world of football I choose to pre-occupy myself with these days. To be blunt, I’d rather watch my local non-league team than the national team. I’d rather read a good book on football than watch a game on TV. I’d rather plan the next away day than bother listening to another Premiership team on the radio.

“Been there, seen that, got the replica shirt with number and player’s name.”

There was a brief “meet and greet” outside the away turnstiles with a few friends and this resulted in me missing the kick-off. By the time I had squeezed my way in to row N behind the goal, I’d missed the entrance of the teams and all of that “Pretty Bubbles In The Air” bollocks. I find that the away end at West Ham – formerly the Centenary Stand, now the Trevor Brooking Stand – is particularly shallow.

The first thing that hit me was how good we looked in the white / blue / blue. Next, I realised that Mikel and Ramires were in the holding positions and so this must mean that Frank Lampard was one of “the three.”

I’ll be honest; Frank has looked a little tired of late and so maybe Jose was risking it a little. Alongside Frank were Oscar and Hazard. At the back, JT was paired with GC again. After a couple of fine performances, Dave retained his place at left-back.

A quick scan of the West Ham team and it soon became obvious that Sam Allardyce was playing with no obvious striker.

The first-half began and it was a scrappy affair. A few Chelsea half-chances and a block from John Terry denied former Blue Joe Cole. Then, a silly and clumsy challenge by Jaaskelainen on Oscar resulted in a penalty to Chelsea.

At moments like that, how I wish I had put £20 on Frank to score first. True enough, with camera poised, up-stepped our leading goal scorer to blast high into the West Ham net. Frank couldn’t resist; he ran towards the spectators in the Bobby Moore, right arm lifted, and no doubt muttered a few personal epithets to the watching thousands.

Alan : “They’ll ‘Ave Ta Cam At Us Nah.”

Chris : “Cam Own Moi Li’ul Dimons.”

I even did a Cockney – arms in braces – victory jig.

To my right, the blue smoke from a flare billowed in and around the celebrating hordes.

Our play became more focussed and our goal scoring chances increased. We moved the ball intelligently and Frank Lampard found himself in acres of space in the middle of the park. He in turn moved the ball on to Eden Hazard, who flicked the ball into the path of a raiding Oscar. The away end were on tip-toes as our little Brazilian dribbled forward, with no West Ham defender able to shackle him, and we watched as he dispatched the ball into the goal, tucking it neatly just inside the left post.

We roared again.

The Chelsea fans around me had been in good voice for all of the first-half and we goaded the home fans further :

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

How I love that song…it was sung over and over and over.

And then, a song especially for West Ham’s most successful former player :

“Frankie Lampard – he’s won more than you.”

Just before the break, a sad sight. Joe Cole was substituted. I watched as he raced off the pitch. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who remembers Joe being hooked off at Fulham in 2006 after just twenty minutes by Jose.

A few hundred West Ham fans in the East Stand to our left decided to take on the might of the Chelsea away support by initiating a few songs aimed at us. One rather rotund West Ham fan was singled out and taunted :

“Gone for the salad. You should have gone for the salad.”

The first-half had been all Chelsea. There has to be one special mention for a great piece of defensive covering by Cesar Azpilicueta, who raced over from his left-back position to quell a rare West Ham attack. Top marks. The boy is doing well at the moment.

Soon into the second-half, a thunderous Gary Cahill header was hacked off the line by Mark Noble.

Then, a fine flowing move which involved an improving Eto’o, found Oscar unmarked on the far post but he volleyed over.

With the match seemingly safe, the three thousand Chelsea fans – all standing, of course – dipped into the pages of the travelling support songbook and created a roll-call for an assortment of much-loved former players. We began, as so often is the case, with a song – almost seasonal now – for Peter Osgood.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star, scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.”

Then, in a five minute period, the songs continued, praising several other Chelsea legends.

“Oh Jimmy, Jimmy – Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink.”

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Frank Leboeuf, Frank Leboeuf.”

“Eidur Gudjohnsen, Eidur Gudjohnsen.”

“Super, Super Dan – Super Dan Petrescu.”

“Oh Dennis Wise, scored a fackin’ great goal.”

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

Then, a song which brought a smile to my face.

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Joey Cole, Joey Cole.”

Although Joe has completed a full footballing circle now, from West Ham to West Ham, and although he joined Liverpool with a few disparaging comments aimed at Chelsea Football Club, he is still in our hearts. This was, to use the oft-quoted phrase, “Proper Chelsea” – singing the name of a rival player. In light of the abuse that Frank Lampard has received at the hands of the bitter followers of his former team, this made a refreshing change. I sincerely hope that Joe, showered and changed, was sitting within the stadium and was able to hear the words aimed towards him. As if to rub it in further, there was just time for one more.

“Joey Cole – he’s won more than you.”

The game continued on with Chelsea in the ascendency. Eto’o curled one just wide of the post. There was an air of relaxed calm in the away end, but I feared a West Ham goal might change things dramatically. West Ham substitute Maiga fluffed his lines at the far post and steered the ball wide when it looked easier to score. After an Eden Hazard shot was blocked, the ball fell invitingly for Frank to effortlessly guide the ball low and into the West Ham goal.

“YES!”

Frank raced over to celebrate in front of the celebrating three thousand and I hopped up on to my seat.

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

In one photo, Frank seems to be looking at me right in the eyes.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Get in.

We quickly walked out into the cold East London night with a bounce in our step. The home fans, some with claret and blue bar scarves wrapped around their necks, were mute. Alan and Gary decided to wait in line at the back of the large queue at Upton Park tube, but I decided to retrace my steps back to Plaistow. The “clip-clop” of a couple of police horses accompanied a few stragglers as we hurriedly walked the mile west. Once at Plaistow, there was a further wait on a crowded platform, but eventually the train took us back to West Ham tube station. I can well remember the journey on this District Line that my friend Gill and I took just under a year ago, our beloved team humiliated 3-1 by West Ham amidst turmoil, unrest and acrimony in the Chelsea end with Benitez at the helm. At the time, we sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t get any worse in 2012-2013.

Actually, it didn’t.

From my perspective, Upton Park 2012 was a recent low-water mark for Chelsea Football Club.

In 2013, Upton Park provided a far rosier picture. I texted Gill and she was able to share the moment.

By 9pm, I was back at Earl’s Court, knee deep in penne arrabiata in my favourite Italian restaurant, watching Benitez’ new team lose 1-0 at home to Parma.

And we were back in the hunt for the title.

Happy days.

Tales From A Lucky Escape

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 9 November 2013.

One of my earliest footballing memories as a small child was being informed by my father that my chosen football team’s nickname was “The Pensioners.” The year was 1970, or maybe 1971, and the club’s link to those famous scarlet-clad residents of the Royal Hospital in Chelsea was explained to me. Of course, in reality, this nickname – our original nickname – was dropped in the ‘fifties by the then manager Ted Drake in favour of the more generic “The Blues.” My father, not really a football fan, was probably unaware of this change. As my support for Chelsea grew with each passing season in the early ‘seventies, I seem to remember that I soon adopted the newer nickname despite “The Pensioners” being mentioned in various schoolboy football magazines and on bubble gum cards. With each year, though, the usage declined.

There had clearly been, if you will excuse the pun, a changing of the guard since the ‘fifties.

“The Pensioners” were out and “The Blues” were in.

I’ll be honest; in all of my time of going to football at Chelsea, I cannot recall a single instance of a supporter yelling “Come on you Pensioners.”

It’s a shame really. One of football’s more charismatic and romantic nicknames is no more. I can remember writing a letter to Ken Bates c. 1982 asking if “The Pensioners” could be reinstated in place of the bland and ubiquitous “Blues.” It was met with a swift rebuff from the chairman. He cited Ted Drake’s reasoning that “The Pensioners” made the club sound like a music hall joke.

And yet, the link between Chelsea Football Club and the Royal Hospital still exists. At every home game, free tickets are given by the club so that up to eight former soldiers can attend. I always remember – back in the late ‘eighties – a Chelsea Pensioner, “Geordie”, dropping in to our favoured hostelry of the time, The Black Bull, and enjoying a pre-match tipple. I loved seeing him in there. He was a Newcastle fan through birth, but a Chelsea fan through fate. Although our colour is blue, there is something quite beautiful about that rich red tunic. Maybe this is because red is such a rare colour at Stamford Bridge. The contrast always strikes me as quite endearing.

One of my favourite memories of recent years at Stamford Bridge was the perfectly choreographed Championship celebrations after the match against Charlton Athletic, following on from the win at Bolton. The Chelsea Pensioners played an integral role that day. It was magnificent, stirring stuff.

So, although the nickname is consigned to history, the vivid scarlet uniforms and the neat black caps of the Chelsea Pensioners still play a role in the public face of Chelsea Football Club. And long may it continue.

It had been a rather long-winded journey up to Stamford Bridge from Somerset. I had collected Parky and then Bournemouth Steve en route to the capital. An England vs. Argentina rugby game at Twickenham had forced me up on to the M4, where I managed to get embroiled in heavy traffic. Eventually, I was parked-up at 12.30pm.

Parky and I fancied a change and so dipped into “The Rylston” – formerly the Normand Arms – on Lillee Road for an hour. Previously, the pub had looked rather rough and ready in its former guise, but has recently experienced a makeover so typical of many pubs in and around the Fulham area. There was new décor with a classic retro feel, black and white tiles, black and white photos, a food menu and some great brews on tap. Although it was only four hundred yards on from the football-mad “Goose”, there was little evidence of any Chelsea fans inside.

At 1.30pm, we had moved on and the difference in “The Goose” was all too evident.

A packed pub, a boisterous crowd, familiar faces – and cheaper prices.

Outside in the beer garden, it was a pleasure to see Mike from NYC once again, alongside Dave the Hat, both full of beer and bollocks.

The laughter rang out.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, it was a typical scene on a Saturday match day. Although Londoners were going about their usual routines – queuing up at the busy market stalls along the North End Road, dipping in and out of betting shops, catching the tube into central London at Fulham Broadway, dining out along Vanston Place – the area was dominated by the football match soon to commence a few hundred yards away. The hundreds marched towards Stamford Bridge as three o’clock neared. And so shall it always be.

An image from Chelsea’s history once again; a black and white photograph of Stamford Bridge just after World War One, many former soldiers, in wheelchairs, in front of the old East Stand on the old dog track, blinking in the afternoon light, their bodies weakened by the ravages of conflict, but now smiling at the camera, contented to be watching their footballing heroes once more. One wonders what stories those fellows could tell; of brothers no longer able to embrace the gentle caress of the autumn sun, of glorious battles won and the searing pain of loss.

I’m sure I am not the only Chelsea supporter who can’t escape linking the early years of our club, formed just nine years before the outbreak of what was called “The Great War”, with our country’s military history in those tumultuous years. We were, after all, participants in the “Khaki Cup Final” of 1915. I wonder how many Chelsea followers from our first few years only enjoyed the briefest of lives.

Let’s remember them.

The roar of the crowd ushered the end of the perfectly-observed minute’s silence and the four Chelsea Pensioners slowly walked from the Stamford Bridge pitch to take their seats in the East Stand, just like their predecessors throughout the years.

Time to check the team – Frank Lampard and Eden Hazard returning. Time to check the crowd – another full house, and 1,500 away fans. The return of Steve Clarke but no Nicolas Anelka.

The first-half was a hum-drum affair. West Brom were well drilled and made life difficult for us. A few chances were exchanged at either end. The Shed End could be heard singing at various times, but generally the atmosphere was quiet. The away fans were not in the same caliber as the visiting Schalke contingent on Wednesday.

With Mourinho yet again favouring Ramires and Lampard at the base of the midfield, we looked towards the three of Hazard, Oscar and Willian to unravel the Baggies’ well-marshalled defence. Chelsea again relied on the advanced runs of Ivanovic, who was often a full fifteen yards further upfield than Oscar; it didn’t always pay off. There was yet more over-elaboration and a reluctance to hit Eto’o early with intelligent through balls. It was turgid stuff. Willian, though new to the club, looks willing yet at this stage is only a link player – moving the ball on – rather than an impact player. We’ll give him time.

I missed Shane Long’s follow through on John Terry, though the crowd wailed in displeasure.

On the half-hour, Oscar lined up a free-kick from a central location. His wildly dipping shot was easily tipped over by Myhill.

Just before the break, Hazard at last decided to run at pace at the West Brom defence. He cut inside and watched as his low shot was clawed away by the Albion ‘keeper. The ball was not cleared and Samuel Eto’o slammed the ball in from behind the hesitant Ridgewell.

1-0.

This sort of predatory goal from Eto’o seems to be his trademark in his early Chelsea career. More of the same each week please. The goal brought the home support to life, but it didn’t fool anyone; it had been a poor half.

During the break, former midfield stalwart, captain and manager John Hollins was on the pitch with Neil Barnett. It was time for me to quickly scan the match programme. There were lovely words for Steve Clarke from Jose Mourinho –

“I have to publicly say thanks to a great man who gave me all of his support in my first period at Chelsea, a man of values, a family guy, a hard worker and a loyal man.”

A few friends and I were discussing Steve Clarke only recently. I had posed the question as to “who was the last Scot to play for Chelsea?” and, although I initially thought it was Craig Burley, of course the answer – unless I am mistaken – was Steve Clarke, whose last match in royal blue was in Stockholm in 1998. Our history has been littered with Scottish players throughout the years, yet it is over fifteen years since a Scot appeared in a Chelsea shirt.

No pressure, Islam Feruz…

The Scottish players reel off the tongue…Jimmy Croal, Hughie Gallacher, Tommy Walker, Eddie MacCreadie, Charlie Cooke and Ian Britton . Ironically, elsewhere in the programme, Rick Glanvill chose to pick a game from the 1984-1985 season, against West Brom, which highlighted the presence of several Scottish players of that era; the three internationals Pat Nevin, David Speedie and Doug Rougvie, plus the steady Joe McLaughlin.

Elsewhere, a whole article was devoted to one of my favourite Chelsea matches of all; Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, November 1983. Thankfully, the programme mentioned in great detail the one absolute highlight.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle United attack in The Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Ticher, in a great article about the run a few years later, claimed that Pat had nut-megged Kevin Keegan at the start of the move, but I can’t confirm this. However, Pat then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must have left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around thirty seconds…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted a ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, Kerry may have headed it over. Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – he still is my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.

Alongside Bournemouth Steve, Alan and I was Gary’s father Ron, who has been going to Chelsea for decades. He had no recollection of Pat Nevin’s master class against Newcastle in 1983, though he was surely there, but mentioned an equally impressive run by Horatio “Raich” Carter, who played for Derby County against Chelsea in the ‘forties.

So many games, so many memories.

The second-half began. Oscar found Eden Hazard with an absolutely sublime through ball which arched over the West Brom defence and ended up on Hazard’s toes. Sadly, the reinstated Belgian struggled to control the exquisite ball – the best pass of the season thus far – and the ball squirmed away.

West Brom began to exert some pressure on our defence and a fine, firm cross from Amalfitano found the leaping Shane Long, whose header had Cech beaten, but bounced up and away off the post.

Our play was faltering, and I shouted out in frustration –

“Someone take some responsibility.”

Soon after, the visitors – perhaps deservedly – equalised when a header from McAuley was parried high by Cech from close range, only for Shane Long to do “an Eto’o” and squeeze home from a leap between our dithering defenders.

1-1.

The away fans sang “The Lord Is My Shephard.”

Mourinho replaced the poor Lampard with Demba Ba, while Oscar moved back alongside fellow Brazilian Ramires. Sadly, a second away goal soon followed. Ivanovic, forever pressing up field, was caught in possession (illegally to my, no doubt, biased eyes) and West Brom broke. Our defence was now back-peddling and we struggled to pick up the rampaging attackers. It was one of those moments when I sensed fear; I was sadly correct. The ball was worked quickly to the impressive Sessegnon, whose weak shot managed to evade Cech’s rather pathetic attempt to block.

1-2.

Mourinho rolled his dice once more; on came Mikel and the much loved Mata. A shot from Ivanovic was saved by Myhill, a header from Willian flew over, a cross from Cahill was aimed at Ba and he couldn’t connect. The frustration amongst the home fans was now apparent as we struggled to fight our way back. Yet, the noise levels slowly grew, as we pounded the West Brom rear guard. Corner after corner were met with resounding headers from Olsson and the rest of the visiting defenders who seemed able and willing to rebuff all of our attacking notions with vigour.

Then – heart in mouth. A West Brom break and we were staring a third goal in the face. We were outnumbered, but thankfully Brunt chose to shoot himself rather than play others in.

Four extra minutes were signalled and we willed the team on. Big John banged the balcony wall once more.

Thud, thud – thud, thud, thud – thud, thud, thud, thud – “CHELSEA!”

A ball was pushed into the path of Ramires, running alongside Reid. The Brazilian fell and I looked at the referee Andre Marriner. In truth, there wasn’t a great shout for a penalty and I fully expected the referee to book Rami for diving. After a momentary stall, the referee unbelievably pointed to the spot. Everyone around me – we had a perfect view – shook our heads and mouthed “never a penalty.” One chap in front of me clearly couldn’t take the tension and hurriedly clambered over the seats to leave before the penalty was taken.

After what seemed like ages, we watched as Eden Hazard calmly waited and slotted the ball in. There was a guttural roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd and I caught Hazard’s ecstatic leap and spin on camera as he raced away.

2-2.

Phew.

This was clearly a ropey performance from Chelsea, albeit against a pretty reasonable team. One can only hope that the manager, players and supporters react well and move on. This is clearly a season of transition and evolution, rather than whole spread change; a season where Mourinho is trying to identify strengths and weaknesses in his squad, in order to provide a stable future. There will be periods of growth and periods of fallow. So be it.

I’m not going anywhere.

Tales From 05 Versus 04

Posted on November 8, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Schalke 04 : 6 November 2013.

I was inside Stamford Bridge by 7.30pm and my usual routine was followed; as soon as I had a chance to glimpse the upper echelons of the East Stand through the gap of Gate 9 of the Matthew Harding Upper, I did so. Here would be a clue to see if there would be yet another full-house (or as near as damn it) at HQ. My fellow supporters did not disappoint; the very back rows were filling up nicely. Should we ever hit sub-standard attendances – Southampton last season, 38,000 – then those very back rows tend not to be used.

I needn’t have worried. Another 41,000 at Stamford Bridge. Excellent.

It was a surprisingly mild night in London. I soon dispensed of my chunky jacket for a few moments and stood, refreshed, in just my shirtsleeves.

Away in the south-east corner stood three thousand travelling Germans; it was soon evident that they would provide just as much entertainment during the following two hours as the millionaire sportsmen scurrying around on the perfect Stamford Bridge turf below. Champions League nights at Chelsea, especially those in the group phase of autumn, tend to be odd affairs. Our support is augmented by tourists and sightseers and the atmosphere often suffers. These are big nights for the corporate dollar too, of course. The club’s clamour for such a clientele was brought home to me recently when I – for once – bothered to read a Chelsea magazine from cover-to-cover. There were advertisements for corporate hospitality everywhere. It appeared that every spare square yard of free space at Stamford Bridge has now been designated a pre-match venue for a variety of dining options, with supporters – sorry, clients – being then escorted up towards the rarefied atmosphere of the West Upper.

“Spend your £150, buffet lunch, Chelsea gift, ex-player appearance, open bar, off you trot to the West Upper, thanks for the money.”

It is no wonder that vast swathes of Stamford Bridge remain ghostly quiet on many match days.

Alan and Tom, the two stalwarts were alongside me.

Following on from our trip to Tyneside at the weekend, Alan and I spoke in Geordie accents for a large slice of the evening. It was no surprise. We both love an accent.

Wor Ally : “How was the toon Sat’dy neet, but?”

Wor Chrissy : “Ah diven’t knaa. It’s al a bit of a blur, like.”

As the teams entered the stadium, the Chelsea in the Matthew Harding draped a large new flag over the balcony wall at the east end of the stand. It was a clear and simple, stunningly effective, blue flag containing a pristine white image of the sexiest cup of them all, the European Cup. Good work. I hope it appears every game. In the away section, an equally impressive sight; three thousand Germans rhythmically bouncing, as one, in unison, both tiers together. I will be blunt and honest here; it was probably the greatest show I had ever seen performed by an away contingent at Stamford Bridge. It was mesmeric and tantalising to see so many bodies bouncing in time. Linear ripples of movement, bounce, bounce, bounce. Fantastic.

There is no doubt that Schalke 04 are one of the largest German clubs in 2013, but for many years they existed under my radar. I have a distinct feeling that they played second tier football for a few years during my football youth and certainly never rivalled the more well-known teams such as Bayern Munich, SV Hamburg, 1FC Koln, Borrusia Moenchengladbach and the like. It came as some surprise to me, in around 1990, for me to read of the size of their support. They appeared to be an authentic sleeping giant. And yet their home town – city – of Gelsenkirchen was not famous at all; possibly unheard of by people outside Germany and outside football. They appeared to be an enigma, cossetted away in the heart of the Ruhr, unknown and yet with an historic past.

I remembered that their old stadium was used at the 1974 World Cup – its vast terrace was similar to that of the Olympic Stadium in Munich – but for years, Schalke 04 continued their existence in the footballing shadows.

Chelsea played a game against Besiktas at Schalke’s new stadium in the 2003-2004 CL campaign and then met Schalke for the first time in the 2007-2008 group phase. A few friends and I travelled over to Germany for the away leg. We flew into Koln/Bonn airport and stayed two nights in the city of Koln. A heavy night of drinking the local kolsch beer on the first evening was followed by a more subdued match day. We took the local train up to Gelsenkirchen, giving me the first real taste of the Ruhr. Despite having travelled extensively in Germany in my twenties, I had skirted this vast industrial power zone, instead preferring Hamburg, Munich and other more touristy locales. In truth, Gelsenkirchen was bleak. Its city centre was astonishingly small. At the time, I searched for an English equivalent.

Massive club, once successful, hidden away in a small town within a larger metropolitan area.

I know.

Wolverhampton Wanderers.

That was as good a fit as I could come up with.

Just as only football fans have heard of Gelsenkirchen, surely only football fans from elsewhere in the world have heard of Wolverhampton?

On the night, I was impressed with the two-tiered, roofed Arena Auf Schalke – the Veltins Arena – but the game was poor, ending scoreless.

Gelsenkirchen 2007 ranks very poorly in my list of favourite European aways.

The game began and Schalke – in dark jade shirts – began on the front foot. In their first attack, Cesar Azpilicueta – strangely preferred at left-back in place of Ashley Cole – was caught way out of position in the middle of the field. Alan and I groaned, but thankfully Julian Draxler drilled a low shot wide of Petr Cech’s far post. Within a few moments, Szalai produced an almost carbon-copy finish.

We were all over the place. Our play was loose and we lacked structure.

Schalke 04 were causing Chelsea 05 to play at sixes and sevens.

Another few minutes and another Schalke effort; the away team had enjoyed a great start and had peppered our goal with three good efforts in the opening eight minutes. In the far corner, the singing from the away fans was constant. There were capos with loudspeakers, rhythmic clapping, scarves being held aloft and then twirled. They were in fine form.

Chelsea started to get a foothold.

For a few moments it was the Schalke and Schurrle show; our German international had a free-kick well saved by Hildebrand and then followed up with a fine strike on goal.

For once, the Chelsea fans began to rise to the challenge offered by the noisy Germans. The Matthew Harding Lower led the singing and for a few fleeting moments the stadium resembled a football stadium.

Our play had been rather slow, relying on the raiding Ivanovic down the right. Very often the intricate triangles involving Oscar, Ramires and Willian only resulted in the ball being played back, relentlessly, through the back four. We lacked vitality. I longed for an early ball for Samuel Eto’o to run on to. For the most part, all of the play was in front of Schalke.

However, on the half hour, calamity for our visitors.

Hildebrand delayed and delayed his clearance up field. The otherwise quiet Eto’o seized his chance and rushed in to block. In the blink of an eye-lid, the ball had ricocheted off his leg and had rolled beautifully into the empty Shed End goal.

We could hardly believe our eyes.

After the Hart faux-pas against Manchester City and the Eto’o touch against Cardiff City, the Shed End were treated to another “what happened next?” moment. There was a mixture of glee and relief in the Chelsea ranks. We had begun poorly and had hardly warranted a 1-0 lead.

Alan and I cleared our throats.

“Zey vill ‘ave to come at us now.”

“Wir kommen mein klein diamonds.”

The rest of the first-half was devoid of incident, apart from a bizarre moment when a Chelsea attack was called back by the referee because a Schalke player’s boot had come off.

Alan and I were dumbfounded.

Modern football. Pah.

Chris : “Fackin’ell…Bert Trautman played on with a broken neck.”

Alan : “Ref! Ref! Stop the play! My sock has fallen down.”

Paolo Ferriera made a welcome return to the Stamford Bridge pitch as he slowly walked with Neil Barnett. I had last seen him, tearful, after his last ever game in New York in May. It was lovely to see him again.

In the first few minutes of the second-half, probably the best moment of football thus far; a superb spin and shot from Draxler inside our box and it looked like certain equaliser. To our pleasure, Petr Cech threw himself to his right and touched the low shot past the post for a corner.

Thibaut who?

Soon after, a fantastic Chelsea counter-attack (we seem to specialise in these attacking the MH in the second-half of games, don’t we?) and we added to our lead. Willian fed in Eto’o whose run was near perfect. The veteran goal scorer calmly struck the ball past the hapless Schalke ‘keeper with the minimum of fuss and raced over to the far corner to milk the applause of the home support.

I was unconvinced about the signing of Samuel Eto’o over the summer, but if he continues to ply his trade as effectively as that over the next six months, I will be very contented.

With the game seemingly safe, the Chelsea support quietened. Even the ball-achingly dull and tedious “Ten German Bombers” soon faded after a minute. The Schalke fans, meanwhile, kept going.

I remember when our support was like that.

The game appeared to be won. We seemed more than content to pass, pass, pass our way to three more points. Mourinho rung the changes, bringing on Demba Ba, Kevin de Bruyne and Frank Lampard.

The midfield, where Mikel had put in a fine and steady performance, was re-jigged.

Demba Ba shot meekly soon after entering the field, but then made amends on 82 minutes. Frank Lampard lobbed the ball towards Ba – he looked offside to me, and a few others – and he calmly despatched the ball into the far corner.

3-0.

As the game drifted on, the Schalke fans still sang.

At the final whistle, I couldn’t help but feel a slightest twinge of sympathy for the Germans. Over the two games, they had certainly not deserved to be at the end of a 0-6 gubbing. I think that they had missed a cutting edge. Their progress in this year’s competition is not known. At least ours seems more likely.

On the walk back to the car, I was surprisingly underwhelmed. I was obviously happy that Chelsea had triumphed on the night and were now leading the group after that calamitous defeat versus Basel. However, a win against a bland and anonymous team – which, to my eyes, Schalke still were – just left me a bit cold and unfulfilled. I know that UEFA has served up these six group phase games for our gratification and pleasure, but maybe the thrill is starting to wane a little. There certainly isn’t that edge which is present during the knockout games and the muted atmosphere – again – at a Chelsea CL game provides extra evidence of the “hey-ho” nature of these encounters.

Back at the car, Parky’s response summed it up succinctly.

“All a bit boring wasn’t it really?”

On Saturday, it’s back to the cut and thrust of the league campaign.

Steve Clarke. Nicolas Anelka. Bouncy Bouncy. Boing Boing.

See you all there.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2013-2014