Tales From Tyneside

Posted on November 6, 2013 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 2 November 2013.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. There are many occasions when I just wish that the football didn’t get in the way of a football weekend. This was clearly one of those times.

This was only my eighth trip up to St. James’ Park to see Chelsea. There are simple reasons of economy and geography for this; to put it bluntly – too expensive and too far. My last trip to Tyneside was in 2008-2009. When the season’s fixtures were announced way back in June, I quickly decided that a visit was long overdue. No six hour drive up and six hour drive back for me though – for the first time ever, I had decided to fly to a game in England.

A return flight from nearby Bristol to Newcastle was duly booked for £63 and I counted the months and days until it was time to head north to the mad city on the banks of the River Tyne. I was clearly treating this as an equivalent to a European away game.

Excited?

Why, aye pet.

At just after 5.30am, I texted Alan to let him know that I was – once more – on the road.

“Wor Jackie Kerouac.”

The reply?

“Wor Georgie Stephenson.”

As I headed over the Mendip Hills once again towards my most local airport, I was reminded of the special significance of flying to Newcastle – of all places – for a game of football. In the ‘seventies, Chelsea Football Club produced a yearbook and one of its most tantalising features was the listing, towards the back covers, of many miscellaneous facts and figures pertaining to the club. I was a glutton for such items of trivia and often used to devour the contents. There are a few items which still stick in my head to this day.

Chelsea’s youngest ever player was Ian “Chico” Hamilton.
Eddie MacCreadie – at the time – was our most capped player with twenty-three appearances for Scotland.
Our record aggregate score was 21-0 versus Jeunesse Hautcharage in 1971.
Newcastle United’s record gate was 68,000 to see the return of Hughie Gallacher in a Chelsea shirt to St. James’ Park in the ‘thirties.
Chelsea were the first English team to use air travel for a football match; or to be more exact, to travel back from a football match. The venue? Yes, you’ve guessed it – Newcastle.

The flight was over in a flash; just time for a cursory glance through the inflight magazine and a coffee. Within fifty minutes, the plane had dipped its wings – I glimpsed a pristine white lighthouse guarding the Tyne estuary as the plane banked – and the descent into Geordieland had begun. Although there had been a cold shiver down everyone’s spine when the pilot had gleefully announced that the temperature in ‘Castle was “minus one”, in truth the temperature outside was a minor disturbance.

I was soon on my way into town on the city’s metro. A few fellow football fans were on board. The buzz had begun. As I headed into the city, eventually beneath the streets, I felt that Chelsea were impregnable. We had found our feet, we were scoring goals, we were playing some great stuff. I felt an echo to our dominant form of November 2004, when things really started clicking under Jose Mourinho the first time around. And what an away game to revel in our new-found invincibility.

Newcastle away.

Fantastic.

I had a superb time wandering around along the banks of the River Tyne for a few hours. From the area around the central train station, it is a steep descent down to the quayside. There is almost a gorge-like feel to the river. The iconic Tyne Bridge dominates, but the recent addition of the Gateshead Millennium Bridge augments the view rather well. There are three more bridges which cluster together linking Newcastle to the north and Gateshead to the south. It’s all too photogenic to resist. I happily snapped photographs as I walked in the fresh winter morning air. To be honest, there was a dull grey stillness to the early hours, but it seemed to encapsulate the mood of the city perfectly.

I always remember my first-ever trip to St. James’ Park in March 1984; a Chelsea special, my first proper Chelsea away game, a 1-1 draw and the likes of Kerry Dixon, Colin Pates, Mickey Thomas, David Speedie and Pat Nevin playing for a mythical Chelsea team. I remember crossing the Tyne, high on the railway bridge to the west, and spotting the magnificent and striking Tyne Bridge away to my right. What fantastic memories from almost thirty years ago.

I dipped into a hotel and soon devoured a fulfilling breakfast and then continued walking towards the converted Baltic Flour Mill which has been rejuvenated over the past fifteen years and is now renamed the Baltic Art Centre. I ascended to the viewing platform on the fifth floor and what a vista greeted me.

The Tyne River, the bridges, the spires, the layers upon layers of streets, the deep gorge, the city.

And there, right at the top of the hill to my right, the towering stands of St. James’ Park, where I would be positioned in under three hours for the game.

I retraced my steps and sheltered from the rain in The Redhouse pub right under the shadows of the Tyne Bridge. A pint of Erdinger went down well; I toasted absent friends and supped away. The pub was magnificent; it had darkened rooms, dingy alcoves and there were echoes of its historic past at every turn. My mind cascaded back to when the nearby quayside would have been manically busy with ships, traders, sailors, rogues and thieves.

The rain had thankfully subsided as I began a slow walk north towards the stadium at the top of the town. There are several fine Georgian streets in the city centre and none is more elegant than Grey Street which slowly curves up towards the monument to Earl Grey. From here, the stadium is but a few hundred yards away.

Here was Newcastle United’s saving grace; a city-centre location. It’s the real heart of the city.

The rain began falling again as I sidestepped protests against Mike Ashley under the massive steel structure of the Gallowgate Stand, with the famous Strawberry pub nestled underneath, quite out of place, like an historic throwback to a more simple time.

As I headed around towards the away entrance, I spotted the statue in honour of Newcastle United’s most loved son, Sir Bobby Robson, standing proud and looking out into the Tyneside mist. Above was the towering steel of the Milburn Stand; quite astonishing in its scale.

The fourteen flights of stairs at St. James’ Park are always a test; I passed this time, but without flying colours. A plastic bottle of Coors – hardly on the same scale as an Erdinger – was my reward as I waited for Alan and Gary to arrive. We had three thousand tickets for this game and we had sold out. With no Rangers game on the Saturday, our legions were bolstered by many from their royal – and loyal – blue ranks. I spotted a few friendly faces, but many amongst our support did not register.

Eventually, Alan and Gary arrived and we entered the away section. We were in row V, maybe only around six or seven rows from the very top. The view which greeted me was, despite the dull grey weather, quite phenomenal.

Away in the distance, on the horizon, was the high ground of Gateshead. A solitary spire broke the line of where land met sky in a fuzzy grey smudge. Sadly, only a few miles to the west from that high land, in 1957, Hughie Gallacher – the fiery and tormented former Newcastle United, Chelsea and Scotland centre-forward – took his own life by descending from a footbridge and walking out in front of a train. Hughie Gallacher is a Chelsea player that fascinates me. One of these days I will try to hunt down a biography written by Newcastle fan Paul Joannou about this most loved of players.

Down below, way down below, to my left, just visible through the perspex glass screens of the Leazes Stand can be seen the Georgian terraced houses of Leazes Terrace. In the days when St. James’ Park was virtually all standing, these houses overlooked the eastern terrace at the stadium. They were very distinctive. In around 1972, a new concrete stand was constructed on that eastern terrace, thus blocking their view of the stadium. It is their presence today, though, that gives St. James’ Park such a lop-sided feel. That 1972 stand – the most modern aspect of the stadium when I visited in 1984 – can’t be enlarged due to the fact that the houses on Leazes Terrace are listed buildings; some are used for university students, some are in private hands.

They can’t however, be demolished. In the meantime, the monolithic west and north stands at St. James’ tower over all. Their size is truly mesmerizing.

Ahead of me, the home end – the Gallowgate. Once a relatively slight terrace, containing very distinctive concrete crush barriers, this end was dismantled and built anew around 1993. I can always remember a sight from the days when Kevin Keegan reinvigorated the club when he joined them from Southampton in 1982. At the time, this story was unheard of – an England international signing for a struggling team in the second division. I remember a winter’s game, rain lashing down on the open Gallowgate terrace, the stadium packed with Geordies and steam coming up off their boiling bodies, piled high on the crush barriers.

Truly amazing.

In the distance, clearly visible was the curving green iron of the Tyne Bridge. The traffic was heavy, the cars’ lights were on and I wondered if they were tuned in to the match.

The unlucky ones outside. The lucky ones inside.

The teams entered the pitch. There was an impeccably well-observed minute of silence for those who have fallen.

The grey Tyneside air turned darker.

We quickly ran through the Chelsea team and there were few surprises.

Juan Mata was playing. David Luiz was playing.

The Chelsea support, massed high on the upper tier of the Leazes Stand stood the entire game. It is something that we do without even thinking about these days; a subconscious statement of defiance to those who try to sanitise and sterilise our beautiful game.

To the memory of those ten thousand Geordies huddled together in the rain in 1982.

Chelsea certainly had most of the possession in that first-half, but sadly had nothing to show for it all at half-time. Our play at times was slow. There were occasional thrusts from Hazard on the left and Torres on the right, but Krul was hardly tested apart from at a succession of corners midway through the half. A John Terry header crashed against the bar. A deflected Torres effort too.

The home support during the first-half had been dire. We had begun well with the new Moyes & Wenger song getting some airtime along with the Willian effort. Our support, like the form of the team, drifted away as the half continued.

At the break, there were the usual murmurs of discontent, but we knew we were in good hands.

“Just hope Mourinho weaves his magic at the break and we change things in the second-half.”

I wandered down to the toilets at half-time, the concourse absolutely packed with away supporters. In the middle of the crowd, quietly talking to a fellow fan, was Pat Nevin, sporting a blue and white Chelsea scarf. A quick handshake for that most wondrous of Chelsea players. I reminded him that he was my favourite player of all time.

The rain continued to fall as the game continued. Mourinho surprisingly replaced Torres with Eto’o. Although Torres had not enjoyed his best of games, his level of service in the first hour was poor. I was surprised when he was substituted. Additionally, Juan Mata was replaced by Willian. This was another surprising move by Jose. We all thought that Oscar – and maybe Hazard – was more deserving to be replaced. Elsewhere, Lamps struggled to get a foothold. In defence, David Luiz was having one of those games which left even me mouthing expletives at his reckless challenges.

A couple of half-chances for the home team suddenly galvanised the home support and there was a definite change in the sway of the game. This was now getting tougher by the minute. Our play was deteriorating fast.

A header from an unmarked Gouffran on 68 minutes gave the Geordies a deserved lead and the stadium rocked.

Mourinho immediately replaced Frank with Andrea Schurrle, whose initial industry promised an upturn in our fortunes. Half-chances for Willian and Eto’o didn’t convince the away support that our luck would change.

Only the barnstorming Ivanovic and the solid defensive play of Terry provided any comfort.

A late goal from Remy, cracked in off the near post settled the game for sure. With that, hundreds of Chelsea fans decided to head into the bars and pubs of the city centre. Five minutes of extra time was signalled but we all knew that we wouldn’t score if we had played all afternoon.

That was as clear as black and white.

It had undoubtedly been a very poor Chelsea performance. We were lost for words to be honest. Our fine form of the past month – wins, flair, goals – had shrivelled up in the Tyneside rain. We looked for answers. In the warmth of The Union Rooms opposite the train station, a few of us tried to put together an explanation of our failures, but we struggled.

“It’s not as if they’re a great time.”

Alan and Gary then left for London.

“See you Wednesday, boys.”

The night was still young. I chatted away to a couple of locals. There were warm memories again of 1983-1984 and the tantalising forward line of Keegan, Beardsley and Waddle. I mentioned the very memorable hip-shake move that Peter Beardsley used to effectively confuse and befuddle opposing defenders. The locals talked about their loathing of Joe Kinnear and Mike Ashley, the painful wait for silverware on Tyneside, the skill of former midfielder Tony Green and the talk went on and on and on.

And then, alone, out into the craziness of a Newcastle night.

Tales From Kensington And Chelsea

Posted on October 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 27 October 2013.

There was a small but steady flow of fellow match goers walking past the rows of gravestones within the confines of Brompton Cemetery. Most spoke with local accents but there were a few rogue Northerners too. There was the occasional royal blue and white bar scarf of the home team. Just the merest hint that a football match was soon to be taking place nearby. However, the light grey steel of the roof of Stamford Bridge’s East Stand was clearly visible above the western boundary wall and the intrusive sounds of the stadium public address system echoed off the surrounding buildings and disturbed the otherwise quiet calm of a Sunday afternoon in England’s capital city. This approach to the home of Chelsea Football Club was a break from the norm for me; I had only ever walked through this central pathway, flanked by military-like ranks of grey gravestones of various sizes and shapes, on one other occasion. Much to my consternation, I had been unable to locate the gravestone of Chelsea founder Gus Mears when I paid the cemetery a visit on a winter evening in 2006. In 2013, the same stone was proving to be just as elusive. Many of the tombstones had subsided and the script on many had faded. In some ways, the cemetery was frozen in time; apart from a few exceptions – new gravestones with fresh flowers – most were dated from 1875 to 1915. I wondered how many of the resting souls had witnessed football at Stamford Bridge during our inaugural years.

The weather was mild; we had been warned to expect rainstorms and thunderous gales, but the day had not brought forth the expected deluge. The sky was cloudy and grey, but the autumnal air was dry.

Let me explain why my approach to Stamford Bridge involved a slow perambulation past the final resting places of many of West London’s most notable Victorian and Edwardian residents. On Friday and Saturday, I had been laid low with a sudden and searing back pain. I came to the quick conclusion that it would not be beneficial for me to be imprisoned in The Goose before the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game; instead, I wanted to embark on a walk through the streets of London and – hopefully – enable my ailing body to keep supple and to recuperate. The last thing I wanted was for it to seize up, mid-pint, in a packed and claustrophobic pub.

So, I was on my own. I had left Lord Parky, Young Jake and Young Kris to head off to the boozer at 12.45pm, while I slowly walked to Earl’s Court. My travels then took me to Knightsbridge and I dipped into a couple of famous shops. It is a part of London that I know well. Famously, our former chairman Ken Bates often used the tagline that Stamford Bridge was “only one and a half miles from Harrods” in his prolonged fight to keep football at our only home. In short, he meant that Stamford Bridge was London’s most centrally-located football stadium and that this key fact should be cherished and protected. In one of Harrods food halls, I had spotted a young boy wearing a Chelsea shirt and I managed a little chuckle to myself about this particular lad’s pre-match routine compared to the crowded interior of The Goose that I am so familiar with.

I had then left the tourists and the shoppers in my wake as I slowly headed west, my back now healing fast; I had made a wise move, I was improving with every step. I walked past the perfectly maintained town houses of Kensington and Chelsea on my slow march towards Stamford Bridge, located in the adjacent borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. Parts of the two neighbouring boroughs are quite dissimilar.

The North End Road is not Eaton Square.

Finally, on Fulham Road, more spectators appeared and suddenly the buzz was there. This was a match day; a big match day at that. Although results went against us on the Saturday, here was a chance to put ourselves right back into the mix at the very top of the division. On “Match of the Day” the previous evening, I had bristled with excitement when I heard Alan Hansen summarise this season’s championship race.

“Some people say the race is wide open this year. I don’t think it is. I think it’s between Chelsea and Manchester City.”

I had to agree. Although both Arsenal and Liverpool have begun their respective seasons with surprisingly fine results, I simply don’t see their strength of squads being able to withstand a thirty-eight game onslaught for the title. Manchester United, struggling under a new manager, seem uncharacteristically brittle. Tottenham show promise, but there are question marks. Southampton and Everton are fine teams, but way off a title challenge.

Chelsea and Manchester City however, appear to be best set for a sustained title bid.

As I skirted past the programme sellers by the main gates, I knew that City would provide a very stern test for us. They did, after all, have our number in all of the games – all six of them – we played last season. We only had one measly draw (0-0, Benitez’ first game…) to show for our efforts against the light blues of Manchester. Chelsea were treated to nothing but defeats in Birmingham, Manchester, Wembley, St. Louis and New York. Physically strong in midfield, potent in attack, they were formidable opponents. If anything, despite the loss of Tevez, their team has improved since 2012-2013. And yet…and yet…should Chelsea inflict a defeat on Manuel Pelligrini’s team at Stamford Bridge, City would be staring at three defeats out of just nine league games.

I bristled with excitement again.

I was inside the stadium with time to spare. Manchester City had again sold their full allocation of three thousand; it isn’t always the case. As I have said on numerous occasions, I’ve never really had much of a problem with Manchester City. Their old stadium deep in the heart of South Central Manchester, nestled alongside the red brick houses of Moss Side, was a favourite away ground and their supporters, inflatable bananas and all, always seemed to be able to take the piss out of themselves, which is a trait that I admire. It was always Ken Bates’ boast – sorry, him again – for Chelsea to be the Manchester United of the South. However, for many seasons, as Chelsea lunged and lurched from one near-miss to another, I couldn’t help but think that we were more like the Manchester City of the South. Both clubs had massive potential, exuberant fan bases, but limited successes. Both clubs lived in the shadows of others.

In 2013, the two clubs have been twinned once again; new money, an expanding fan base, success.

If I’m honest – brutally honest – I’m finding it hard to develop much of an antipathy for them. Chelsea has obvious long-standing loathing of Tottenham and Leeds, maybe even Arsenal and Manchester United. We have nurtured a relatively new dislike for Liverpool since 2005. Is there room for another club to hate?

“Only if City are successful” I hear the cry.

My usual match day companion Alan was on holiday in Spain and so I chatted to Tom, who was concerned for my safe passage back to Somerset later in the day in light of the threat of gales and rain.

The teams entered the pitch. After Tuesday in Gelsenkirchen, it was no surprise that Fernando Torres got the call. Elsewhere, Juan Mata had missed out in favour of Andre Schurrle. At the back, Gary Cahill continued to partner John Terry. Jose Mourinho again favoured Ramires and Sir Frank. It was reassuring to witness the return of Ashley Cole.

City’s team of superstars included the excellent Toure, Aguero and Silva.

Game on.

We were forced to attack the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

We began well and Gary Cahill squandered a great chance within the first few minutes, but Manchester City soon rose to the challenge. After a while, the youngsters Kris and Jake sidled in next to me.

“Good time in the pub, boys?”

“Oh yes.”

Throughout the match, I was constantly annoyed to see that Toure was afforded yards of space. His was a brooding presence, pacing around the midfield, waiting to pounce like only he can do.

Then, Torres had a couple of chances to strike. Although he looked offside on the second one, he shot wildly over with only Joe Hart to beat. Instead of yells of abuse, the crowd were seemingly sympathetic.

In the far corner, the City fans were quiet, rousing only occasionally.

“We’re Not Really Here.”

I have to be honest, despite a 4pm kick-off (code for “more beers”) and a top-of-the-table clash, the atmosphere was pretty quiet. Then, the game changed. Torres picked up the ball around thirty-five yards out and decided to run at Clichy. On some occasions, Nando appears to be running in quick sand. On others, he glides past players. With his turn of pace catching Clichy on the back foot, he easily outpaced the former Arsenal left-back. He drilled a low ball across the six yard box and the trailing Demechelis was unable to stop the ball reaching the onrushing Andre Schurrle.

1-0 Chelsea and The Bridge awoke in a crescendo of noise. Schurrle pumped his fists towards the MHL and then pointed towards Torres. It had been a superb run. Torres’ earlier miss was soon forgotten.

Next, Torres on fire, down below me, teasing a City defender before striking a rasping shot which curled enticingly on its trajectory toward goal. The ball thundered against the bar. It was a fantastic shot. How unlucky. City issued a warning signal in the dying moments of the half as Aguero shot at Cech from an angle but our ‘keeper fought away the strike with the minimum of effort.

It had been an interesting game of football in the first-half. I sensed that it had been bubbling along nicely and that, as so often is the case, the game would provide more adventure in the second period.

Sadly, Manchester City soon struck in the second-half. Samir Nasri sent through a slide-rule pass to Aguero, with our defence unable to match his movement. With hardly any back lift, the striker unleashed a bullet which beat Cech at his near post.

1-1. Game on, again.

Although I think we edged the first-half, Manchester City now seemed to step up a gear and were on the front foot. Our defence, previously well-marshalled by the excellent Terry in the first-half, appeared vulnerable. In midfield, there was little bite. However, with the indefatigable Ivanovic charging up and down the right flank with all of his old spirit, we managed a foot hold in the game. A header from Torres was aimed straight at Hart and a Terry effort was touched over. Cech saved superbly from Silva. This was brewing up to be quite a game. The mood inside the stadium was of nervous concern though; here was evidence enough that the home supporters viewed City as an accomplished team. The atmosphere again struggled to get going.

Mourinho rang the changes. A clearly tiring Lampard was replaced by the steadying calm of Mikel and Schurrle was replaced by Willian. A few chances were exchanged and then Samuel Eto’o was chosen to replace Hazard. I was still nervously expecting a City goal at any moment. A free-kick from Willian flew past the far post at The Shed End.

The minutes ticked by.

Then, with not long to go before the final whistle, a Willian header was lofted high into the City half. Nastasic was being chased by Torres and headed the ball goalwards, but his touch was heavy and cleared the on-rushing Hart.

The stadium gulped.

We watched, breathlessly, as Torres continued his run and then stabbed the ball in from an angle.

Mayhem. Absolute mayhem.

2-1 Chelsea.

The place was pumping now alright.

Torres raced over to the corner and was soon mobbed by team mates. I was so pleased for him. Please God let him enjoy these moments of salvation. Under the astute man management skills of Mourinho, there is a bright future ahead. I’ve certainly noticed a greater show of strength from Torres this season; he looks more robust, his chest seems more muscular, his body more tuned for the rigours ahead. If his head stays positive, goals will follow.

In the ensuing thirty seconds, I still expected City to score.

We all did, right?

The ball was pumped into the Chelsea box one last time.

It was cleared.

All eyes were on the much maligned Howard Webb. I punched the air as he signalled the end of the game.

Manchester City – one of the title favourites – had now lost three out of nine league games.

Chelsea – on a roll – were up to second place.

The future looks fine.

And back ache? What back ache?

Tales From Home

Posted on October 20, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Cardiff City : 19 October 2013.

The phases of the moon were providing a timetable to this season; another full moon, another home league game. Aston Villa on 21 August, Fulham on 21 September, Cardiff City on 19 October. At this bloody rate, the 2013-2014 season won’t be finished until 2015. It has been an odd first two months of the campaign. There seems to be an odd rhythm to this season and I can’t be the only one who thinks that this one hasn’t really begun yet. Thankfully, the latest – disliked – international break was over and Chelsea, recently competing at four away venues, were now heading home.

Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. 3pm. Saturday.

Just like it always should be.

I didn’t reach the pub until 12.30pm. Parky and I edged our way through the packed bar and eventually ordered two pints of Peroni. There were familiar faces at the bar. After a month’s absence, it was good to be back home. All of my mates were outside in the beer garden; they were eschewing the Newcastle vs. Liverpool game which was being watched half-heartedly by the clientele inside. Within a few minutes of meeting up with Daryl, Alan, Rob and everyone, the rain started. Clearly, there was not room inside for the seventy or so souls in the beer garden, so we stood stoically under the large awnings of the beer garden as the rain sheeted down , nestling pints, shuffling from side to side, maybe like a pack of penguins, keeping warm, on an Antarctic ice field.

“Your turn to stand on the outside, Ed.”

It was a scene which was begging for someone to take a photograph; looking down on the group of Chelsea supporters nestled together as the rain tormented us. For those around the world who mock the miserable weather of England – what? How dare they! – this was a self-deprecating photograph waiting to happen.

“Greetings from England.”

Rob had represented us at the Ian Britton fundraiser in Cheam on the Friday night. If I lived closer, I would have gone. Rob reported back that it was a brilliant night and many of Ian’s team mates attended including Ray Wilkins, Colin Pates, Ray Lewington, Paul Canoville, Tommy Langley, Steve Finnieston and Garry Stanley. After Peter Osgood left Chelsea, Ian Britton was my favourite Chelsea player for years and years. We all loved his energetic style and his cheeky smile. I followed his fortunes after he left us, which included a Scottish Championship medal at Dundee United in 1983, and a goal for Burnley which kept them from relegation out of the Football League in 1987. Meeting him at an old boys’ game at Southampton in 2010 was one of the highlights of recent years. The news that he is battling prostate cancer hit me hard.

We all wish him well.

Talk was of the upcoming away games. Many were heading out to Germany on Monday and Tuesday; the internationalists were buzzing with talk of Dusseldorf, Dortmund, Gelsenkirchen, Cologne and Bochum. I chatted to Andy, boasting a fine new brown Barbour, and Ed about the away game at Newcastle in a few weeks. I am staying overnight in that mythical city on the banks of the Tyne. I have stayed overnight up there for a game on a couple of other occasions – 1997 and 2000 – and am quite giddy with excitement about doing so again in 2013. I’m treating it as a European away.

Andy : “It’s like the wild west, mate. You won’t see anything like it anywhere else in Britain.”

Chris : “Someone punched a police horse after the Sunderland game last season.”

Ed : “A group of us stayed up there a while back. The only town I’ve visited where cab ranks are policed.”

Andy : “Yeah, better get a cab back to your hotel early. You’ll see fights over cabs at 2am.”

Ed : “And the women…”

Chris : “I remember locals wearing black and white kilts up there in 1984.”

Andy : “You know when you look around a bar, late at night, and you see one or two people grimly hanging on to the bar, wavering, clearly pissed out of their heads…in Newcastle, everyone is like that.”

I let my imagination run riot…I pictured a scene, at a Chelsea game in the near future.

“Anyone see much of Chris these days?”

A hushed silence…

“Um…you didn’t hear? Grab yourself a pint mate, have a seat.”

“What happened?”

“Newcastle away.”

“What about it?”

“Well – it’s like this. He was spotted before the game drinking with some locals. Someone said they saw him knocking back some whisky, which he hates. Nobody saw him at the game. Alan reckoned he had a text from him midway through the game saying he was in the directors box…the story goes that he was mixing with Geordies, one thing lead to another…there was a bet…there was a netball team involved…Mike Ashley’s niece, it got messy…seems he ended up in a casino down by the river late on….for ten minutes, he actually owned Newcastle United Football Club, but Ashley bought it back when Chris wanted to change the team colours to blue and white…with the profit, it seems he ended up buying a house up there…no, actually, three houses…and a cab firm. And a nightclub. And a ship. And a zoo. He tucked Ashley right up.”

Andy and I also spoke about the more subdued Mourinho of 2013, compared to the more bombastic Mourinho of 2004. Maybe – deep down – there is less bravado because, simply, Jose believes that silverware is no certainty in this current campaign.

“Why look like a fool?”

Despite the hooliganism which surrounded the Cardiff game in 2010, I saw no evidence of any anti-social behaviour this time. The police in the four vans at Vanston Place were apparently minding their own business. Thankfully, the rain had stopped on the walk to the ground. I quickly scanned the match programme; again, there is an in-depth article from our glorious, fabled, 1983-1984 campaign. On 15 October 1983 – oh God, over thirty years ago – we played Cardiff City on a wet and windswept afternoon. The game was memorable for me in that it was my first sighting of Pat Nevin in a Chelsea shirt. Pat scored the opening goal and Colin Lee, partnering Kerry Dixon upfront for one of the very last times, scored the second. I can remember the feeling of being under The Shed roof, sheltering again like penguins, on that autumnal day three decades ago like it was yesterday. Ah, memories.

Another Chelsea vs. Cardiff City memory was from October 1976…even further away, yet the reminiscences remain strong. I had travelled up to London with my parents and an uncle. For once, Ian Britton didn’t fill the number seven berth – that position was filled by Brian Bason, remember him? Stalwarts Ken Swain and Ray Lewington scored as we won 2-1 in front of a healthy 28,409. Lewi didn’t score many, but his goal was a net buster from 30 yards. In those days, I always seemed to manage to choose Chelsea home games that were marred by football hooliganism. Earlier in 1974, there had been trouble at the Spurs home game. Later in 1976-1977, we witnessed untold agro at the Chelsea vs. Millwall game. Then, more of the same at the Chelsea vs. Spurs game in 1978. I think my parents weren’t fazed by it; it never took place in the new East Stand. I can definitely remember punches being thrown at the Cardiff fans as we walked past the old North Stand entrance after the game. I remember my father telling me –

“Always rough, that Cardiff lot.”

Another strong memory was the presence of TV cameras at the Cardiff game in 1976. Ah, the excitement of spotting a huge TV camera – the ones with the cameraman sitting on the back of it, ready to pivot around and follow the action – behind The Shed goal was magical in those days. It meant that the game – the game that I had seen in person – would be shown on TV, usually “The Big Match”, and much chat at school on the Monday would no doubt follow. On one memorable occasion, I even saw myself on TV. What a thrill.

Inside the ground, I met up with Bournemouth Steve, who was sitting alongside Alan, Tom and I. Although Steve isn’t a Chelsea fan, I was pleased to hear him refer to Chelsea as “we” on a number of occasions.

Unlike in 2010 when 6,000 Cardiff fans attended the game, barely 1,500 were present. There was one solitary Welsh flag. A poor show.

After the initial buzz of seeing the team back on home soil for the first time in a month, the atmosphere was typically muted. At least the rain had headed off to cause misery elsewhere. The sun was out. It was a fine day for football.

In 1976 and 1983 – more strong memories – Cardiff played in all yellow due to the colour clash. Due to the ludicrous decision of Malaysian owner Vincent Tan to change the Bluebirds’ colours to red and black in 2012, a change was not required.

Ryan Bertrand was in for the wounded Ashley Cole and Samuel Eto’o was preferred to Fernando Torres. Frank Lampard and Ramires again paired up in the deep-lying midfield positions. It seems to me that Jose likes this pairing. He also prefers Brana to Dave at right back. Elsewhere in the team, there are still question marks. With JT recalled after being ignored by Benitez, Jose seems unable to choose between partnering him with Luiz or Cahill. Does the midfield of Oscar, Hazard and Mata pick itself? Clearly not. Up front, I think that Mourinho favours Torres, but don’t quote me.

Chelsea’s first chance fell to Juan Mata, but Eto’o’s pass was met with an “air shot” from our little number ten; from the follow-up, Branislav Ivanovic blasted over.

My mind was distracted for the Cardiff goal, thinking about 1983 or 1976 maybe, so I only caught the Luiz / Cech “after you Claude” manoeuvre which resulted in Jordon Mutch – who? – being able to chip an effort into our goal.

In the far corner, the Welsh were buoyant :

“One nil to the sheepshaggers.”

Oh boyo.

We were rusty for most of the first-half. John Terry came close with two headers from corners. At the other end, Peter Cech leapt high to turn a Cardiff free-kick past the far post. Apart from a couple of rare excursions into our half, Cardiff offered little. It was a half to forget, though. I spent an inordinate amount of time watching the airplanes on their approach into Heathrow, just like we all did during those grim days in the ‘eighties.

On 32 minutes, I was watching one of the famous Chelsea pigeons swoop through the sky and settle on the north stand roof; I therefore momentarily missed Marshall lose control as Eto’o pounced. I only saw the ball with Eden Hazard – up to then, quite invisible – and wondered what on earth had happened. Then, the disbelief as Eto’o buggered up his chance, to be quickly displaced with relief as Hazard slammed home the loose ball.

I’d missed the build-up to the first two goals, though; not good enough.

Luiz was booked for a silly block; he had endured a poor first-half.

We all had.

There was a treat at half-time. Pat Nevin, my favourite ever Chelsea player by a ridiculously wide margin, was on the pitch with Neil Barnett.

A nice bit of 1983/2013 symmetry Chelsea. Thank you.

There was one of those lame half-time competitions, this time involving various star struck youngsters dribbling and – mainly – scoring past Stamford at the Matthew Harding end. Neil Barnett then demanded that Pat tried his luck; for a few seconds we were transported back in time as Pat dribbled towards goal. Alas, almost typically, his shot was saved.

Don’t worry Pat; at least it wasn’t as bad as that penalty against Manchester City in 1985.

The second-half began and I relied on my mantra of “we always play better attacking our end in the second period” to see us through. I had been cheered by Liverpool’s dropped points at Newcastle, but this was a “must win” for us. Marshall was booked for time-wasting, which had been noted by the referee and home supporters alike. A shot from Eto’o straight at Marshall but other Chelsea chances were rare. Mourinho replaced the subdued Mata with Oscar. Soon after, Torres entered the pitch, replacing Ryan Bertrand.

Jose was clearly going for it, with just three at the back now.

Mourinho was seemingly sent to the stands for an argument with the fourth official; at the time, the reasons were unsure.

After a Lampard corner had been cleared, a pass from Hazard right down below me found Eto’o inside the Cardiff penalty box. He moved his body to the right, caught the defender off balance, and drilled his shot home, low just inside the near post. I caught his exultant sprint, arm-raised Shearer-like, and his jump into the air over in the far corner. At last, a Chelsea striker had scored a league goal for us. Get in you beauty.

Alan, as Tom Jones : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, as Rob Brydon : “COMLD.”

Tidy.

Typical Mourinho now; with a lead, he reverted back to playing four at the back as Dave replaced Eto’o. Although Cardiff substitute Kim ran at the heart of the Chelsea defence, causing Petr Cech to save on a couple of occasions, we increased our lead in the last quarter of an hour.

Firstly there was a gorgeous goal by Oscar. Our Brazilian picked the ball up and went on a little run before chipping an exquisite dipper that just grazed Marshall’s bar before bouncing down and into the net.

Secondly, Eden Hazard danced into the Cardiff box, shooting low. His shot hit Marshall. Just like at Carrow Road, the goalkeeper took the sting out of the shot, but was helpless to stop the ball roll over the line.

I’ll be honest. The 4-1 score hugely flattered us.

However, our record in the league is now a healthy 5-2-1.

We’re in second place.

And we haven’t even “clicked” yet.

Very tidy.

Tales From East Anglia

Posted on October 10, 2013 by Chris Axon

Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 6 October 2013.

Our little spell of games away from Stamford Bridge was coming to an end. After travelling to Swindon, Tottenham and Bucharest, the final game of our “road trip 2013” involved a visit to the historic city of Norwich in the heart of East Anglia. This was always going to be a long old drive for me. I remember that a similar trip to Norwich in 2012 encompassed a journey through no less than nine counties (Somerset, Wiltshire, Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Essex, Cambridgeshire, Suffolk and Norfolk) and was memorable, in a negative sense, for being a tough and tiring day. The dour 0-0 draw certainly did not help.

During the week, the Chelsea website alerted all away supporters of a further problem; the normal approach into Norwich via the A11 would be severely disrupted by road works around Newmarket. Oh great. No problems for the Chelsea team, though; for them, the luxury of a flight, the lucky buggers.

The 1.30pm kick-off, allied to a possible extended journey, essentially meant that I’d have to set off from home at the ridiculously early time of 6.30am. As I fuelled up at Beckington on the A36, the air was cold, the sky clear and the horizon was tinged with the subtle glow of a beautiful sunrise. At 7am, I collected Lord Parky.

We were on our way once more.

My plan was to detour the probable bottleneck on the A11 and, instead, travel further around the M25 and then head up to Norwich on the A12, A14 and A140, just skirting Chelmsford, Colchester, Ipswich and Diss. This diversion would be painful but wholly necessary. Between the two of us, we had packed enough provisions to satisfy both Shackleton and Scott.

There was low-lying fog during the first few miles of our advance east on the M4; and very picturesque it looked too. Before we knew it, we were heading around the northern segment of the undulating M25 and it was soon time for me turn off onto the A12 and head into deepest Essex. My route sadly took me past several derelict public houses and cafes; a sure sign that certain aspects of the UK economy has hit hard times since 2008.

As we neared Colchester, the town’s spritely new stadium was spotted for the first time. I had never visited Layer Road – I believe that we played a couple of friendlies there around twenty years ago – but Colchester United’s new stadium could not be more different. The old ground was entrenched deep inside the town, but the new stadium is located on a green field site, surrounded by acres of space, right on the A12. This out-of-town stadium follows the old – and some might say, out-of-favour – US model but with a cruel UK twist. Colchester is not a large town, with no sprawling suburban hinterland. In my mind, there is no real need for the new stadium to be so ridiculously distant from the town centre. Virtually all of Colchester United’s fans now have to schlep out to the new site, with no pubs and bars in the vicinity. The club therefore have the fans by the short and curlies; spend money within the stadium or go hungry and go thirsty. In truth, I am not familiar with the entire story of Colchester United’s quest for a new stadium and so I am not sure if this site was the only viable option. If it was, so be it. At least the club has a base.

We soon headed west and then north around Ipswich, the home of Norwich City’s major rivals. The town’s Portman Road ground is probably the largest stadium in England and Wales that I am yet to visit, just edging out the home stadia of Huddersfield and Bradford. I was now driving on virgin territory and the two of us were both enjoying the new scenery. There were many historic buildings lining the road which provided a fine distraction. One pub – The Magpie – memorably had its sign hanging from a high wooden frame right over the road. Neither of us had seen anything like it.

As we passed the rather unobtrusive Norfolk road sign – it mentioned that the county was the birthplace of Horatio Nelson – I remembered a funny tale involving Graham, who I used to work with a few years ago. His family was from the county of Suffolk, though he lived in Wiltshire, and he was a rabid Ipswich Town supporter. I once asked him if he had ever travelled to Norwich to support his side in any of the East Anglian derbies. His reply shocked me; not only had he never been to Carrow Road, he had never visited the city of Norwich nor even the county of Norfolk.

“Norwich? Hate them. Not been to Norwich. Not even set foot in Norfolk.”

Maybe this Suffolk / Norfolk thing was more intense than I had previously given it credit.

The flat lands of Norfolk, with arable fields spreading out in all directions, were quite dissimilar to my equally rural home county. Hedges were rare. This was farming on a huge scale. With all this heady agriculture taking place all around me, this match report – like my journey itself – takes a little diversion.

In the ‘seventies, live football on TV was a rare event; the FA Cup Final, the England vs. Scotland match, that’s it, just two games per season. There were, however, two weekly highlights programmes. The BBC had its famous “Match of the Day” every Saturday evening at around 10pm; a real treat. This was a nationwide programme involving lengthy clips and interviews from just two games. The commentators were invariably John Motson and Barry Davies. On ITV, however, it was all very different. Back in the ‘seventies, the various regions of the UK had their own commercial stations and the regional scheduling varied quite considerably, unlike now. The football highlights programme, always on Sunday afternoons, therefore varied greatly depending on location. Luckily, my local HTV West region, devoid of any top clubs, piggy-backed the London region and its “The Big Match” programme with the much-missed Brian Moore. Thankfully, I was often treated to a Chelsea game. Elsewhere, each region had its own commentator. In the North-East, “Tyne Tees” had Kenneth Wolstenholme and then Roger Thames. In the midlands, “ATV” was covered by Hugh Johns. In the North-West, the powerhouse teams of Liverpool and Manchester had games covered by “Granada” and Gerald Sinstadt. In the Southampton and Portsmouth area, “Southern” featured Fred Dineage. Leeds United games were covered by “Yorkshire” and Keith Macklin and then Martin Tyler. In the east, Ipswich and Norwich games were covered by “Anglia” and Gerry Harrison.

A peculiar by-product of all this was the fact that the very regionalised schedules always resulted in the weekly football programme on HTV West being preceded by either “Farming Diary” or “West Country Farming.” In my impatience to wait for the footy to start at around 2pm every Sunday, I’d invariably sit through these terminally dull farming programmes and I can vividly remember my mate Tim and me laughing about all this during a form 3D lesson at school circa 1976. We were only eleven, but the shared experience made both of us chuckle.

“Football fans in the HTV area like me and you must have a great knowledge of farming. We must know it all.”

“Yeah. I know all the adverts off by heart.”

“Fisons 20-10-10 fertiliser!”

“Massey Ferguson tractors!”

“Yeah. Don’t forget that insecticide for sarcoptic mange mites!”

There we go; there’s my first ever football / farming story. And probably my last.

Is everyone still awake?

This was only my third visit to Norwich. This journey had taken me slightly over five hours. At around midday, we were parked up in a multi-story car park only a few hundred yards from Carrow Road. In 2012, we had visited “The Queen Of Iceni” pub by the banks of the River Wensum. In 2013, we chose “The Bridge Tavern.” Unlike Colchester, here was a great example of the football club staying in its central location and its local vicinity being revitalised, with many pubs and bars lining the short walk from the train station to the football ground.

“The Bridge Tavern” was selling lager and ales in robust two pint plastic glasses. As we chatted to some locals, I soon fell in to the trap of mocking them;

“Blimey, these glasses are difficult to hold. Mind you, it helps having six fingers on each hand.”

Ah, Norwich. Easy prey for the London sophisticates. Inbreeding and tractors. I knew there would be more jibes to come as the afternoon progressed.

The stadium was less than a ten minute walk away. It was a warm and sunny afternoon in deepest Norfolk. I soon met up with Alan and Gary; our tickets were very close to the home supporters in the side stand. We were separated by some green plastic mesh and a line of disinterested stewards.

Alan pointed out the Norwich family stand; it was the entire stadium.

The game began and the Chelsea section was in fine voice. The only change from Bucharest was Demba Ba in for Fernando Torres. We began brightly and I noted a greater pace to our play than in most games; one or two touches, rather than three or four. We were soon rewarded. A Frank Lampard lofted pass to Ba was supremely controlled by our often maligned striker. He deftly cushioned the ball and quickly squared to Oscar. Our little Brazilian prince dispatched it into the goal with a dismissive flick of the outside of his boot. It was a perfect finish. The net bulged and the 3,000 Chelsea roared.

It was all Chelsea for the first twenty-five minutes. Demba Ba was proving to be quite a handful for the Norwich central defenders and goalkeeper alike. For once we were hitting our striker early and Ba was causing all sorts of grief with his chasing and harrying. Juan Mata, often picking up the ball in a deep position, played in Ba but his shot was tipped around the far post by a nervous John Ruddy, who was starting to look like he had wished he had stayed in bed. From the corner, Luiz volleyed over.

Our goal came under threat for the first time when Petr Cech did well to save from close range, though I got the impression that he knew little about his block; I guess this was all down to being in the right place at the right time. Ba and Schurrle tested Ruddy further. We were in complete control. I was eyeing Oscar during the first-half, watching his sublime tight control, admiring his touch, the way everything seemed easy for him. He rarely lost possession. He looked so natural. Just before the break, hugging the near touchline, I watched mesmerized as he skipped past two markers and reached the goal line before sending in a cross towards Ba. It was the best piece of skill of the entire half. It was quite beautiful.

At the break, Alan and I rued the fact that we hadn’t added to our lead. With other teams at the top having won on Saturday, a win was imperative.

Demba Ba came close after only a minute of play in the second period; a ball from Ramires picked out Ba, but his flick strayed past the far post. The crowd quietened as the play stagnated for a period. Chelsea lost our toe-hold and eventually Norwich’s endeavours allowed them to get back into the game. The Norwich fans felt aggrieved that key decisions by the referee were going against them and the noise levels soon increased as the home side’s play continued to improve. In truth, we were riding our luck.

With twenty minutes to go, both John Terry and then David Luiz lost out to headers and Pilkington headed in from close range. I’m sure I heard Gerry Harrison’s voice exclaim the Norwich equaliser. If I am honest, Norwich deserved the equaliser. Our play had been shoddy all half.

Now it was time to react. Samuel Eto’o replaced Demba Ba. Eden Hazard replaced Ashley Cole, rubbing his side as he walked off. We were back in it, with shots from Oscar, Ivanovic and Hazard giving us hope. William replaced Juan Mata. We were now playing with four Brazilians.

The gate of 26,840 was announced on the PA system.

“All related” said Gary.

From a Norwich corner, the ball was cleared and we quickly broke away. A lightening break found Oscar whose ball forward was blocked by Bassong, only for the ball to fall pleasingly into the path of Eden Hazard. The Belgian’s shot struck the underside of Ruddy’s upper body but spun in to goal, with the entire Chelsea crowd willing it on.

2-1. Get in.

With the Chelsea supporters still singing loud from the goal, we were further rewarded when the ball broke to substitute Willian on the right of the box. With a quick look up to get his bearings, he effortlessly curled the ball around the leaping Ruddy and the net again billowed.

3-1. That’s cruel.

Game over.

On the far touchline, Ramires soon caught up with his fellow Brazilian.

“Great goal, Willian.”

“It was really nothing.”

For the final five or six minutes, one song boomed around the south-east corner of Carrow Road.

I think you know the words.

We were buoyant as we filtered out of the away section. I soon met up with His Lordship, who had clearly enjoyed himself. We raced back to the car, hopeful for a quick getaway.

Alas, it took us forty-five minutes to get out of the city centre and our homeward journey was further impeded by slow-moving traffic on the A140 and then, depressingly, by an accident on the M25. I was held up for almost an hour. It was excruciating. Eventually, we freed ourselves of the problems on the M25, and were back on the M4 heading west, past Slough, past Bracknell, past Reading, past Swindon. Ah Swindon; where this road trip in 2013 began. It seemed most cruel to be reminded that this all began at Swindon, a mere thirty minutes away from work. After dropping Parky at his home, I eventually reached home at 10.30pm, some six and a half hours after leaving Norwich.

Phew.

I had driven for the best part of twelve hours. It had been a 520 miles round trip.

For once, I think I’ll enjoy this international break.

Tales From The Internationalists

Posted on October 5, 2013 by Chris Axon

Steaua Bucharest vs. Chelsea : 1 October 2013.

There was a moment during the breaking hours of Monday, as I circumnavigated the M25 from the M3 to the M1, when I was lost in thought, already planning my next travel burst. Even though I was headed out for a first-ever visit to Romania for our game with Steaua Bucharest the following evening, here was proof that I am never happier than letting my mind wander and allowing it to flit from city to city, dreaming of possible itineraries, buoyed by the knowledge that another destination will soon be awaiting me. I suppose this is the definition of wanderlust; always wanting to be elsewhere, the constant preoccupation with other lands, other cities, other experiences. If life is a journey, does this mean that I am unhappy with my own journey, since I am forever willing myself to new lands? Who knows? Not me. Especially at 5.30am on a drab Monday morning.

Back to basics; for now, Bucharest was my destination.

I had left home at just after 4am and there was the inevitable text to a few night owls in the US to let them know that I was “On The Road.”

“Jack Kerouacu.”

All of my goods and chattels had been forced rather strenuously into a 42cm x 30cm x 25cm Karrimor ruck-sac. It was the maximum size allowed for an item of hand luggage for my Wizz Air flight from Luton to Bucharest Coandi airport. In truth, my trusty camera and lenses took up around 40% of this space; there was no room for a pullover. I might be freezing in Bucharest, but at least I’d be able to record it all on film.

Stonehenge looked even more spooky than usual as I shot past it on the A303. I dropped into Fleet Services for a coffee. All was quiet. On the M25, I glanced across at Heathrow’s Terminal Five and, with memories of that building being the starting point of a trip to Philadelphia with my dear mother in 2010, came a cavalcade of yearnings to be elsewhere. That my craving for foreign lands has been partially-satiated by the international travels of Chelsea Football Club, of course, is one of the joys of my life. The trip to Bucharest would be my twenty-sixth Chelsea game in mainland Europe .

I reached Luton airport at 6.30am. On the bus from the long term car park to the small terminal building, with me unable to stifle the early-morning yawns, I spotted the first Chelsea fan of the trip (“face familiar, name unknown”) and I knew there would be more as the morning progressed.

It is one of the great annoyances of following Chelsea in European competitions that we always seem to get drawn against teams that we have already met. How is it possible for us to continually meet Porto, Valencia, Barcelona, Schalke, Juventus, Lazio et al? In this year’s CL Group Phase, UEFA had tucked us up even further; not only have we played all three group members before, but we only met Steaua and Basel last spring. Have they never heard of wanderlust, damn it?

At the gate, I noted a few Chelsea fans – FFNU – but then spotted a trio of very familiar faces; Rob, Callum and DJ. Here were three members of the very loyal band of Chelsea supporters who – quite literally – follow Chelsea over land and sea, and Bucharest. Only a couple of friends had travelled out to see us take on Steaua in the Europa League last March – I believe we only took around 200 to 300 – but their comments about the city made me choose Romania over Germany and Switzerland in 2013. Although a German trip is always brilliant, a previous visit to a grim Gelsenkirchen in 2007 easily dissuaded me. Basel? No. Bucharest it was.

The flight lasted around three hours; thankfully I was able to catch up on some sleep. The rest of the trip was spent chatting about various flights, travel options and prices of current trips and of previous escapades following Chelsea. There is no doubt that Chelsea supporters – like those of the other clubs in England who have been blessed with European competition – are masters in the art of winkling out the cheapest route from the UK to any given city in Europe. It seems that certain fans know the schedules of Ryanair, Easyjet, Wizz-Air and others off by heart. Often, routes are quite bizarre.

London to Berlin, then to Madrid.

London Gatwick to Bergamo, then to Bucharest, but returning via another airline via Vienna to London Heathrow.

London to Porto, then train to Lisbon, but back via a train to Faro then home.

All to save £20 here and £20 there.

Top marks to everyone. Top marks to the Chelsea Internationalists, the masters of budget air travel. In fact, among the talk of flight combinations and ridiculous routes, there is almost a hidden agenda to come up with the most tortuous itinerary of all, but only if a cash saving is to be had.

“Yeah, I travelled out on a flight to Paris for only £20, but I knew that there was a budget coach going to Milan every second Tuesday in the month for just £5. I hopped on that. From Milan, I caught a train to Como using my Italian mate’s rail season ticket and then cycled, like James Coburn in “The Great Escape,” over the border into Switzerland. Job done, son.”

The rumours were true; it was raining in Bucharest as our flight landed at 1.30pm. The airport looked bleak; tired concrete buildings and associated fittings. Rob and I managed to get ourselves on a bus into the city for a ridiculously cheap price. Patiently waiting on the bus, just arrived from Heathrow on a Tarom flight, were Alan, Gary, Tom and a few other familiar Chelsea fanatics. Good stuff. The bus ride in to the city reminded me of the journey into Moscow in 2008; rain beating down on the windows, slow-moving traffic, but vast warehouses, garages and superstores lining the road.

Carrefour, Ikea, Porsche, BMW, Harley Davidson.

We passed the Romanian version of the Arc de Triomph and continued along the main artery into the city. We alighted at the end of the line at Piata Unirii, the large central square, surrounded by large shops to one side, the hint of the old town to another, and the vast open space of the east-west Bulevardi Unirii to the south. It was teeming with rain. Tom, Alan and Gary made their way to their hotel in the old town, while I headed off in another direction, with my pronunciation of a street name drawing nothing but consternation from a local policeman.

I reached my hotel on Strada Mantuleasa at 3.30pm. On the twenty minute walk from Piata Unirii, the rain hadn’t stopped. It was time to have a shower, dry my clothes and take a power nap. It was going to be a long night ahead.

At 7pm, I met up with a work acquaintance, Elena, who I have been communicating with on email and the occasional phone call, for the past seven years. She works, just a few miles to the north, right next to the Dinamo Bucharest stadium in fact, for an office furniture company. We hopped next door in to the adjoining restaurant and spent an hour or so chatting about work, Bucharest, her personal family history under the old communist regime, and the particular circumstances that brought me to her home city on an autumnal day in 2013. It was, of course, fascinating to hear her speak of the old regime and, I am ashamed to say, made me realise how little I knew – or know now, even – of the countries in the former Eastern bloc and how they all existed before the walls came tumbling down, quite literally, in the late ‘eighties. Elena spoke of her parents who both worked at a factory making engines. I made the stupid mistake of asking the name of the company. Of course, there was no company; her parents were working for the state. In that exact moment, my mind did cartwheels attempting to understand what it must have been like in the old regime where poor productivity was hidden, where objectives and goals were masked in a cloud of bureaucracy and where the fear – in Romania especially, one of the most terrifying communist states – of being investigated by the state was omnipresent.

In truth, I could only imagine. And I was sad that I would just be brushing the surface of Bucharest on this trip. There was a long day ahead on the Tuesday, but – if the rain continued to fall – I wondered how much of the city I would actually manage to see.

At 8.15pm, Elena kindly deposited me on the eastern edge of the old town, with the flashing neon of the advertisements in Piata Unirii, a hundred yards to the south. Within a minute, I had stumbled upon Base Camp Bucharest 2013.

The “Old City” bar had been used by the Chelsea expeditionary force during the visit in 2012-2013. A return visit in 2013-2014 was a necessity. The owner, Cristian, had again decorated his bar with Chelsea flags and a few of his female friends were wearing blue Chelsea T-shirts. The girls weren’t working behind the bar; they just welcomed us in at the front door and posed for photographs.

Lovely jubbly.

Just inside the door, I soon stumbled into a bevy of good friends; the ever-present Alan and Gary, but also Rob, Tom and Pauline, everyone already deep into beer and vodka. They had been enjoying the warm welcome from the bar staff since around 4pm. The night was already rocking.

“Fasten your seatbelts, Chris, my son, this is going to be a good one.”

Within a few seconds, that Chelsea stalwart “The Liquidator” was booming throughout the long, narrow bar, deep in the heart of Bucharest’s old town; a cramped hotchpotch of cobbled streets, lined with bars, restaurants, ice-cream parlours and fast-food stalls. Outside, the rain was falling and the streets were near-deserted. Inside, it was noisy and the songs continued.

“Stop dreaming of the quiet life, ‘cos it’s the one you’ll never know.”

There was talk of a myriad number of topics, but laughter was the one constant. The music pounded. At the opposite end of the bar, Chelsea fans in their ‘fifties – all FFNU – were stomping.

“We’re going down the pub.”

Tom soon acquired a navy blue cap from one of the local constabulary and flitted from friend to friend with the look of someone who was enjoying a second – or third or fourth – childhood. His face was a picture. The songs, from my youth, were continuing and we were shouting out the lyrics.

“Echo Beach, far away in time, Echo Beach far away in time.”

Goggles, one of the Fulham OB especially assigned to keep an eye on the Chelsea supporters on our European adventures, was in the bar, chatting to a few faces. What a crazy life for the Chelsea Internationalists.

“It’s just gone noon, half-past monsoon on the banks of the River Nile.”

My good mate Orlin – San Francisco via Sofia – soon arrived with three mates with ridiculously unpronounceable names and joined in the fun. In March, our support in Bucharest was bolstered by Chelsea fans from Sofia and Varna. Orlin told me that around sixty Chelsea fans from his home town of Sofia would be in town for Tuesday’s game.

“When I’m with you baby, I go out of my head.”

Out of nowhere, two Chelsea fans decided to do a streak through the bar.

“I am an anti-Christ, I am an anarchist.”

As the night rolled on, the local Ciuc beer (7 lei for a pint or around £1.30) gave way to vodka and Red Bull.

“Poor old Johnny Ray.”

The crowds grew and the singing increased.

“London calling to the faraway towns.”

Then, Alan and I camping it up good and proper.

“I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.”

It was 1985 all over again. Rob, Gary and Alan then, predictably, hit the amaretto.

The crowds eventually began to drift away; maybe at 2.30am, maybe at 3am. Then a sudden influx of a few late guests and an impromptu song contest involving some very rare Chelsea songs. At around 3.45am, I teetered out of the bar, the rain still falling, and set off on a walk back to my hotel.

“Get to the main square, Chris, and then it’ll be easy.”

Oh boy.

After walking for around twenty minutes or so, I remember being tempted by an all-night petrol station on the opposite side of the road. My receipt for a sausage strudel indicates it was 4.12am. On exiting, my powers of self-navigation had evidently been upturned. I had no idea where I was and no idea of how I had approached the filling station. I was lost. In Bucharest. I yelled out a shriek of pain. I continued walking. The rain got worse. Passing traffic splashed rain water from the kerbside puddles onto my already soaked jeans. My socks were saturated. I shouted again.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.”

At a relatively busy road junction by a garage, I flagged down a yellow cab. I hopped inside. I mentioned the name of my hotel, but the cab driver looked befuddled. I tried to remember the name of the street. My mind was blank. There was a moment of silence. He looked at me. I looked at him. He spoke no English. I spoke no Romanian. This was ridiculous. I exited the cab and slammed the door behind me. For around twenty minutes, I sheltered in a bus shelter. I couldn’t have been wetter if someone had thrown me into a swimming pool. At last another cab; let’s try again. Thankfully, this cabbie – a far friendlier bloke – was equipped with GPS and the back-up of a tablet…he soon pumped in my hotel name. Thankfully, it registered.

“Strada Mantuleasa?”

“Yeah, that’s it!”

What relief.

The cab ride was just 20 lei – around £4 – so I couldn’t have been too far from the hotel; maybe a mile or so. At around 5.30am, I entered the foyer of the hotel; it had been an eventful – for the want of a better word – end to the night.

I slept like a baby, not waking until 11.45am. Miraculously, the ten beers and five vodkas (again the bar receipts tell a story) from the previous night had no effect. I had no hangover, nor the merest hint of one. It was the Miracle of Mantuleasa Street. I showered, checked out and…then what?

It was just after midday. The game was almost ten hours away. Despite no hangover, boy was I tired. Despite the lure of heading back to the Old City bar, I resisted. I wanted to see, at least, a little of the city. I walked a few blocks in search of a coffee house in which to shelter from the rain which was still falling. Not only is Bucharest devoid of bars, except in the old town, it is also deficient in cafes and restaurants. I walked along uneven pavements, with flagstones at every angle possible, avoiding further puddles (there are a lot of puddles in Bucharest) and was dismayed to witness only fast food outlets with no room to sit inside; just a serving counter onto the pavement.

“Bloody hell.”

From 2pm to 3.30pm, I sheltered in a “Subway.” The wind was howling outside. The trees which lined the street were being blown to the left and to the right. The rain – God, the rain – still fell. In truth, it reminded me of travels in distant cities in my youth when I had time to kill, little money, and when I waited for the next train connection – to Verona, to Stuttgart, to Genoa – in a local café and observed the locals. It was OK.

Then, typical me. I emptied the chest pocket of my still wet jacket; although it was rather sodden, there was the Bucharest city map that I had deposited before I set off the previous evening.

Oh boy.

If only I had remembered; my lonely traipsing of the streets of Bucharest would have not happened.

I growled.

I set off to take a few photographs of the Palace of the Parliament, the massive edifice constructed under the guidelines of the ruthless dictator Nicolae Ceausescu in the ‘eighties. The building is huge. I had to take some photographs of it while in Bucharest, if nothing else. Ceausescu, who was shot during the uprising in 1989, never lived to see it finally completed. It remains the largest civilian building in the World. At Piata Unirii, there was a feeling of complete bleakness. The wide boulevard to my left and to my right, and the wide open void of the square, just made me contemplate the absolute greyness of life in the old regime. I took a few atmospheric wide angle shots with my camera as the rain fell and cars flew past. Away to my left, the Palace beckoned me; I walked slowly towards it, the rain still falling. Although Bucharest was known as Little Paris in the inter-war years, with wide streets and pleasing architecture, it was clear to me that this was not one of Eastern Europe’s jewels. This was not Budapest, nor Prague, nor Krakow, each with charismatic architectural treasures and beauties. This was Bucharest, tarnished with the brush of communism and struggling to acclimatise to a new world. I had noted a few ornate churches, but the city centre had shown little to charm me.

At the western end of Bulevardi Unirii stood the imposing monument to Ceausescu. Its subtle and delicate light brickwork belied the building’s dark secrets. I pointed my camera, shielding it from the rain, and snapped some photographs. I sheltered on the steps of an adjacent governmental building, under the yellow, red and blue of the Romanian flag and let my imagination run away with me for a few short moments; what secrets could these buildings tell? During the days of the communist bloc, my sole foray behind the iron curtain took place in 1976 when, on a family holiday to Italy, we paid a visit to some impressive caves in the former Yugoslavia. I remember my father informing me at the time that Yugoslavia was probably the most welcoming of communist states. Not so Romania under Ceausescu. A trip to Romania for football thirty years ago would not have been anything like a visit in 2013.

With that sobering thought, I headed back into the old town, where I knew that a warm welcome awaited me. At the bottom of Strada Selari, I sat in The Bankers pub for a while, but the place was empty. As I headed north, past more bars, Chelsea fans were conspicuous by their absence. I wondered just how many fans were in town.

At the top of the cobbled street, the Old City was overflowing with Chelsea fans. As so often happens on foreign trips, this was evidently “the” Chelsea pub. Inside, the place was rammed, and I sat quietly in a corner, happy to watch on as others continued on at the same pace as the previous night. The Bristol boys arrived. Orlin and the Bulgarians were over in the far corner. The five blue-clad Chelsea girls were again happy to pose with photographs. A TV crew were present and Pauline made a couple of appearances. One of the bar girls hopped up on to the bar and did an impromptu dance routine. The owner had clearly done his research; his CD of Chelsea songs even included the rarely heard Cup Final song from 2000 : –

“Now the blue tomorrow gets closer each day.
We will follow the Chelsea
Til our dying day.
Just look over your shoulder
See the army dressed in blue.
We’ll go where you go.
And fight every fight with you.”

There was talk of buses taking us over to the stadium from 7pm. The game was to be played at the National Arena, a new structure which hosted the 2012 Europa League Final. Steaua – the team of the army in the old regime – have their very own stadium to the west of the city. For big games, they decamp to the larger national stadium. I can remember the stadium’s predecessor which was typically named “August 23 Stadium” from an England game in 1979. I remember the stereotypical shallow banks of terracing, but especially the central platform, or loggia, where dignitaries watched the games. It was like nothing I had seen at a football stadium before or since.

Four buses took the Chelsea fans from the city centre out to the stadium at around 8.15pm. Our bus featured around twenty of the Bulgarian chapter; it was they alone who were singing on the way to the game. Everyone else was quite subdued; I guess we had seen it all before.

I commented to Alan : –

“I hope they are singing good things about us. Or, at least, bad things about Tottenham.”

We were deposited right outside the stadium. With the lights shining from underneath the roof, the new structure certainly looked impressive. Its main feature was the roof itself; hoisted high on supports, adding height to the structure from inside and out. We were, unbelievably, searched an incredible seven times, involving seven different people, on our way in to the stadium.

One – a ticket check.

Two – a full body tap down.

Three – a full body tap down and bag search.

Four – a check of our upper body.

Five – a check of our pockets.

Six – a check of our legs.

Seven – at the turnstile, a full body and bag search once more.

With the rain still falling, we just wanted to get inside the stadium. Although there was no unpleasantness from the police and the security, this was surely being overzealous? I was just glad I was allowed to take my camera inside. We assembled high on the upper tier, a little knot of Chelsea fans in the cavernous stadium.

If we had 200 at the game in March, I’d guess we had 400 at this one. The Bulgarians lead the chanting as the players went through their drills down below. In truth, I was still feeling the effects of my sightseeing; although my jacket was slowly drying out in the cold wind, my socks were still soaking. All around me, fellow fans stood, shuffling from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep warm. The crowd appeared quite sparse. The stadium only looked half-full. In March, Alan had said it was virtually a full house. We couldn’t work it out, although Alan mentioned that the price of tickets for the game in March was half the price of the 90 lei demanded for this one.

The local kick-off time was 9.45pm. The players took to the field, with the tarpaulin of the large roof keeping the night sky out of sight and giving the stadium a strangely surreal feel. The Chelsea players looked smart in the new white / white / blue.

At the northern end, many flags were constantly waved by one group of Steaua ultras in the lower tier. Down below us, another group of ultras were clapping and cheering throughout the game, with capos at the front leading the orchestration. The Bulgarians in our section taunted them. What pleasantries were exchanged is not known.

“Romanian cheese tastes sour and is overated.”

“That’s nothing; Bulgarian cheese tastes like my grandfather’s socks.”

Who knows?

This was clearly a “must win” game after our surprising defeat against Basel. Our early play, in which Andre Schurrle out on the left wing was heavily used, promised that this would be a good night of football. All of our possession was met with a wall of whistling from the home fans. After a few raids, we were all sad to see Fernando Torres replaced by Samuel Eto’o. We were unsure of his injury. A rare Steaua attack was thwarted. We opened the scoring on 19 minutes after another break from Schurrle, who passed to Eto’o. He lost control but Ramires was on hand to stab the ball home. The net bristled and the Chelsea fans cheered in relief rather than an outpouring of elation. Soon after, we sung “Jose Mourinho” and our manager, looking smart himself in trademark coat and scarf, waved back. Our chances kept coming with the German Schurrle still standing out with his direct runs at his marker. Elsewhere in the midfield, Mata and Oscar kept probing away. Ramires and Lampard, playing deeper, were not afraid to support the forwards. There was little cheering or singing in the away section; the shuffling continued.

Cech saved well down below us, thwarting a cross shot with his left hand.

Just before the break, Mata played in Eto’o. We held our breath as he aimed. His shot was parried by the ‘keeper but the rebound struck the hapless Georgievski.

2-0 at the break. Easy.

During half-time I asked Alan if, during the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, he could ever imagine himself seeing Chelsea play in Bucharest twice within six months. He looked wistfully across at home fans in the other half of the stadium and smiled.

Both teams exchanged chances soon into the second-half, but we added a third goal when more diligent work from Schurrle on the left flank was rewarded when his pass found Oscar, who played in an advancing Ramires. His shot was struck hard past the home ‘keeper.

3-0. Cruising.

Juan Mata smacked a ball against the near post. The home fans’ whistling had now subsided. We were well on top. Some Chelsea fans left on the hour; the lure of a warm bar was too much. At the other end, Steaua’s Tanase struck at goal; Cech back peddled and flung his hand up to push the ball over the bar. We watched on, horrified, as he crashed into his left post. It looked quite horrific. He stayed down. After a few minutes of concern, he rose to his feet and we were mighty relieved.

Shots from Schurrle and Eto’o caused the Steaua ‘keeper to save again. In the last minute, substitute Willian was found by Eto’o and he set up Frank Lampard who calmly struck a low shot past a crowd of players in the box. The ball grazed the far post and crept in.

4-0.

More songs for Mourinho. He again waved.

Job most definitely done.

At the end of the game, long after the Chelsea players had applauded us as they had walked off, the home players, although clearly disconsolate, walked slowly right up to within yards of both of their ultra groups at opposite ends of the stadium and applauded them. I thought this was a lovely gesture. Even the Chelsea fans applauded the Steaua team off.

We feared that we would be kept inside for ages after the game, but the wait was not long. In fact, even the rain had stopped once we slowly exited. The buses were waiting for us. With a police escort, we were returned to the city centre. There was a mood of cool relief at the outcome of the game. A Chelsea fan from Abu Dhabi, in Romania especially for the game, chatted to us about his fanaticism for the team. He had been present at the game in Barcelona in 2012 too. His enthusiasm was heartening.

“It’s a religion” he exclaimed.

Chelsea truly is an international club these days; off it as well as on. I had inadvertently bumped into a lad from Sweden during the game too. England, Bulgaria, Sweden, the United Arab Emirates. Our appeal knows no bounds and no geographical boundary.

Truly over land and sea.

As my flight home was to take off at the ungodly hour of 6.15am, there was simply no point in paying for a second night in a hotel. I took a bus back to the airport at 1.30am, past the illuminated Arcul de Triumf, and waited patiently in the terminal building for the return to England.

At least I was dry.

Tales From The High Road

Posted on September 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 28 September 2013.

I was cutting this one a bit fine. Despite leaving home in good time, I only reached Seven Sisters tube station at midday. The Tottenham vs. Chelsea game was due to start in just forty-five minutes. I ascended the elevators and steps and soon found myself on the Tottenham High Road. The warm September weather surprised me; I threw my rain jacket behind my shoulder and began walking north. This was a well-travelled path for me. And for thousands of Chelsea fans like me.

One of my favourite passages of Chelsea prose over the years came from the pen of the venerable Chelsea scribe Scott Cheshire. After another F.A. Cup Semi-Final replay defeat against Arsenal in 1952, closely following on from the same scenario in 1950, I remember his words as he described the long and painful walk south from White Hart Lane, a Wembley Cup Final appearance having just evaporated in the spring air once more. In 1952 remember, Chelsea had not one item of silverware to our name while Arsenal were the great London rivals with trophies aplenty. Scott Cheshire spoke of the depressing familiarity of Chelsea failure as he trudged through puddles alongside hundreds of other typically disheartened Chelsea fans. The sense of longing and the yearning for a trophy struck a chord as I read his evocative words in the mid-‘nineties. It seems that every time I repeat my walk to White Hart Lane, past the Turkish cafes, the colourful Asian clothes shops, the hardware stores, the supermarkets, the pubs and the eastern European convenience stores, I am walking with Scott Cheshire and all of those hopeful Chelsea fans from a greyer time over sixty years ago.

The day had begun with a cursory flick through a few Facebook updates. The match in London N17 was clearly the main event. There were a few references to the publicity in the media about the continued presence of the “Y” word at Tottenham games. A couple of classic lines from a Nick Love film were popular too. I wonder why.

“Up and at em! Early start for Y word away!”

“Time to rise and shine. Spurts away beckons, see some of you at that wonderful part of London!”

“What else are ya gonna do on a Saturday. Tottenham away. Love it!!”

“Off to cheer on the only London club to win the European cup.”

“Off out to catch a rattler to meet up with some of the chaps for a couple before going on to cheer on London’s first and finest against the Ys.”

“What else ya gonna do on a Saturday? I know what I’d rather do! Tottenham away… luv it!!”

“En route to Three Point Lane.”

“Very soon I’ll be off to our biggest away of the season. Tottenham away.”

“Tottenham oy vey. Love it.”

I entered the fray –

“The Biggest Away Game Of The Season. Why? Tottenham. That’s Why.”

After the faux rivalry of Fulham the previous Saturday, this was the real deal, the main event. I have detailed our ridiculous dominance over our bitterest rivals since 1990 many times before; to go over old ground seems pointless.

Just like Tottenham.

As I headed north – “head down, avoid eye-contact, be wary” – police sirens wailed and a phalanx of police vans raced past. I wondered what was going on a mile or so to the north. A Tottenham versus Chelsea encounter, even after all these years, still has an edge. Old habits die hard. There may not be the widespread violence of the ‘eighties, but the intense dislike – yes, hate, even – is still there. It is now standard form for the main body of Chelsea to meet at The Railway and The Hamilton Hall down at Liverpool Street and then travel up to Northumberland Avenue. For me, travelling up from Somerset, the early kick-off made this a non-starter. I wasn’t worried. On the drive to London, my head was full of thoughts of Swindon last Tuesday, the War Zone at Tottenham and Steaua Bucharest away on the following Tuesday, to say nothing of the game in deepest Norfolk the following weekend.

Four consecutive away games; tick, tick, tick, tick.

I reached the corner of the High Road and Park Lane at 12.25pm. There were a few familiar faces in and amongst the Spurs fans, but I had no time to dwell. I skirted past a couple of police vans and soon joined the short line outside the entrance to the away section of White Hart Lane; prison blocks have been more architecturally appealing. Tottenham, of course, have been given the green light to build a new stadium just a hundred yards or so to the north of their current stadium. My conscience was pricked slightly; that’ll be three London team with new stadia, while Chelsea will be limited to 41,500. Will we be left behind, struggling to compete against the larger, potential, attendances at Arsenal, Spurs and West Ham? In October 2011, should I, and the other CPO shareholders, have meekly surrendered our certificates to the club so that they could earnestly begin a search for a new home? The answer is still no. I hear rumours, just whispered at the moment, of the Hammersmith & Fulham council desperately trying to entice the club into redeveloping the Stamford Bridge site and the club, again, whispered rumours, being slightly more willing to listen than in the past. I have a feeling that this one will run and run, like a Jesper Gronkjaer dribble. My stance on this has not wavered.

I, like many more Chelsea fans – as per the recent Chelsea Supporters Trust survey – believe that tradition and history, and that difficult to describe notion of “community and brotherhood” are just as important as an overpowering lust for silverware. Staying at Stamford Bridge is wrapped up in all of this.

I soon met up with Alan and Gary and we took our seats. There was little time for chat. The players soon appeared on the pitch. Chelsea, for the first time in a while, were back to wearing white socks at White Hart Lane. Spurs have changed their kit yet again. Last year’s all white kit has now given way to white / navy / navy. As a kid, it was always white / navy / white. Every two or three years, it seems that Spurs try a different combination. It would drive me crazy. What was I saying about tradition?

We reviewed the team. Would Ramires be playing wide right with both Lamps and Mikel starting? The three thousand Chelsea fans were in good voice as the match began. I always remember White Hart Lane, back when they longed to beat us, as having a very hostile atmosphere. In truth, the Spurs support before the whistle seemed subdued. I commented to a fellow fan that it is ironic that Fernando Torres is now many Chelsea supporters’ favoured striker.

“It’s a case of addition by subtraction.”

With Lukaku out of the picture, Torres’ stock has now risen.

The match began.

Down on the touchline, in the technical area, Jose stood, hands in pockets. He ignored the home fans’ shouts of “sit down Mourinho.” Villas-Boas, so often the fidgeting, crouching figure while at Chelsea, was nowhere to be seen. At times, it is hard to believe what has happened to Villas-Boas since the summer of 2011. He was lauded at the start. He looked the business. We were behind him. His demise was catastrophic. I still think he’ll be a good manager; hopefully not at Tottenham. Going in to the game, I was concerned. Spurs have been performing well – one of the form sides. We, however, had undoubtedly struggled. In reality, I would have been content with a point; Alan and Gal agreed.

We played well in the first quarter of an hour. What this really means is that we had more of the ball than I had expected. We weren’t subjected to raid after raid of home pressure. The home crowd were quiet. The away fans not so.

“We won 5-1, Wembley.”

“We won 6-1, at The Lane.”

“You got battered, in Seville.”

The Willian song, repeated again and again.

It was seemingly going well.

Then, a quickfire break by Tottenham down their left. A pass from Eriksen to Soldado, who played in Sigursson. He took a touch and I willed John Terry, slightly out of position, to get a block as he lunged forward. The Spurs player rode the tackle and delicately flicked the ball past Cech.

Groan. Here we go again. We always seem to concede first at Tottenham. The home crowd came to life. All four parts of the ground soon joined in with a rendition of “Oh When The Spurs.”

It was loud. Very loud.

An Ivanovic block from Paulinho saved us further blushes just after.

Spurs dominated the rest of the half. We just didn’t gel. Oscar was particularly poor, with awful first touches and wayward passes. But the whole team seemed to be off the pace. The one highlight of the first-half was an exquisite chipped pass, with perfect fade, from David Luiz into the path of a raiding Ramires down the right flank. A Hazard shot – I was right behind it – was goal bound, but a home defender blocked. Tackles were starting to test the referee and Townsend was booked for diving. It was turning into a predictably tetchy affair. Spurs again cut through our defence like a hot knife through butter but Paulinho – I last saw him in Tokyo, the bugger – scraped the near post from inside the box. At the break, time for quiet contemplation.

I wished that we had played the ball earlier to Torres. I explained to Gary –

“Not hitting it at his chest, Gal, but just hit it into the space behind the central defenders. We haven’t done that once yet.”

Over to you Jose. Work your magic in the away dressing room.

Either Hazard or Oscar, in my opinion, could easily have made way for Juan Mata. Instead, Mikel was substituted, with Ramires dropping in alongside Frank.

Soon after the restart, Fernando Torres did ever so well to turn and beat a couple of Spurs defenders down the right flank – running towards us in the Park Lane – before sliding in a low pass, which unfortunately Oscar just failed to reach. The Spaniard soon became embroiled in a personal duel with Vertongen. He was soon booked for a foul, though I presumed that the referee Mike Dean had shown him the yellow card for placing his hands on Vertongen’s face.

Torres was now on fire and a gorgeous jink and strong run past Dawson meant that he only had Lloris to beat; his shot was blocked. Soon after, a long ball from Luiz was expertly chested down by Torres into the path of Mata who shot home, but the goal was disallowed for offside. A daisy-cutter from Frank soon followed. We were playing well, with intelligent passing making life difficult for a faltering Spurs team. Mata was heavily involved.

A horrible tackle by Vertongen on Ramires brought us all to our feet. He was easily becoming the villain of the piece. From the resulting Mata free-kick, played with perfect strength and position, the Spurs back line seemed to freeze, allowing John Terry to launch himself and guide the ball in past Lloris at the near post.

Pandemonium in the Chelsea section.

I pumped my left arm continually, then glanced down to see the Chelsea players following JT into the near corner.

My camera was ready; click, click, click, click, click, click. A lovely mess of fans’ fists and ecstatic Chelsea players’ faces.

Mourinho brought on Schurrle for a quiet Hazard. Torres again did ever so well to shimmy away from markers and lay the ball into the path of the German substitute, but Lloris again thwarted a near certain Chelsea goal. This was evolving into a cracking game of football.

With around ten minutes remaining, with Chelsea well on top, the on-going feud between Vertongen and Torres came to a head. A ball was pumped towards Torres and the two protagonists leaped for the ball. From my viewpoint, there seemed to be little contact, save for the flailing of arms, which is to be expected in any airborne challenge. If anything, Vertongen’s right arm seemed to catch Torres in the face. Both players went down, but the Spurs defender stayed down. Both sets of fans were baying. We knew that both players were on a yellow. When Alan suggested that Torres was in greater danger, I could hardly believe my ears.

What had he done? I had witnessed nothing untoward.

Mike Dean brandished a yellow towards the crowd of players. Some of the away fans presumed that it was for Vertongen. Fearing the worst, I knew that it was aimed at Torres. It soon became a red. We howled our displeasure. Fernando could not believe it. He took ages to slowly walk off the pitch. There was a genuine level of support for our number nine from the three thousand away fans. I think that this was his best game – OK, his best 36 minutes – in a Chelsea shirt by far.

However, it still irked that our hopes were dashed so cruelly.

“Well, we won’t score now Gal.”

Thankfully, two long range efforts from Sigurdsson and substitute Defoe blazed wide and over Petr Cech’s goal. A loss would have been unbearable. A draw was, in the circumstances, well deserved.

Walking south along the High Road once more, there was an overwhelming feeling of pride in that second-half performance. Our team is still evolving, but here was a great standard for us to aim for in all subsequent games. I was soon heading home, listening to the demise of both Manchester teams on the radio, and I was quick to reflect that an away point at the league leaders (yeah, I know) was becoming greater and greater by the minute.

It had been a good day.

Tales From Wiltshire

Posted on September 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Swindon Town vs. Chelsea : 24 September 2013.

Chelsea’s Capital One Cup game at Swindon Town’s County Ground was always going to be a special one for me. It would be our first competitive match at Swindon for almost twenty years but, more importantly, it also represented the nearest that I would get to a “home” game – of sorts – during this season and, probably, for many a season to come. From my place of work in Chippenham, right on the A4 – on the path of the old Roman road which linked Bristol and London – to the County Ground in Swindon is a journey of just over twenty miles. After countless midweek jaunts up the M4 to London, this was almost too good to be true.

The county of Wiltshire is not known for its footballing heritage. For many years, though, it was 1-0 up over my home shire of Somerset. Swindon Town’s presence in the Football League ensured that the rural county of stone circles and chalk horses stayed ahead in the local football bragging rights. Only since the emergence of Yeovil Town in the past decade has Somerset equalised; both counties now have a Football League team. Maybe my home county wins though; it has a county cricket team, while Wiltshire doesn’t. I have lived my entire life in Somerset – save for my college years and the three years of wanderlust which followed – but I have always worked over the border in Wiltshire; my twenty-three years of employment has taken place in the small towns of Westbury, Trowbridge and Chippenham. During my childhood in Frome the local teams, supported by a few school friends, were always the City and Rovers of Bristol; Swindon Town was definitely off the radar. Since working in Wiltshire though, I’ve encountered more followers of Swindon. It must be a county thing.

As soon as the draw was made, it was obvious that this match would entice many of my local Chelsea friends to attend. A hefty “gathering of the clans” from my surrounding home area was guaranteed. However, the game at Swindon turned out to be an extra-special “local” game for one friend in particular, even although her home is on another continent.

The plans for the game at Swindon came together over a few days. I nabbed my ticket at the earliest opportunity. After a few days of waiting, Parky thankfully acquired his ticket too. We made tentative plans to meet up with Mark from Westbury at the Red Lion pub in the midst of the historic stone circles of Avebury on the way to the game. There was quite a local “buzz” about the game. A few Swindon fans from work had tickets; it would be their biggest home game for years. Then, out of leftfield – or at least outside the penalty box – came a bolt from the royal blue. My friend Karen, from Connecticut, contacted me and explained that she would be in Swindon, of all places, on a work visit on the day of the Chelsea game. Talk about serendipity. Although I promised to try to attain a ticket for her, I wasn’t sure any remained. At the very least, we could meet up for a pint. I had first met Karen, surreally, on a yellow school bus, which was used to ferry bevvied-up Chelsea fans from a pub in central Philadelphia to nearby Chester for the MLS All-Star in the summer of 2012. We had chatted about Chelsea in between swigging warm beer and singing a few old favourites. I had briefly bumped into Karen at Yankee Stadium last May, too.

Miraculously, the very next morning more tickets went on sale.

I was able to get hold of one.

Karen was a lucky girl.

Ticket requests from a few friends continued, but I had given up hope of getting hold of any extras. However – quite fortuitously – at the Fulham game on the Saturday, two more tickets became available; one for Les from Melksham, one for Glenn from Frome. Things were falling into place. This was going to be a great night of football.

Then, the good luck continued. Bristol Tim informed me that he had heard that the Chelsea team were staying at the very same hotel, just off the M4, that – yes, you’ve guessed it – Karen was staying in.

I quickly texted Karen the news and I am supremely confident that her reaction was –

“Awesome.”

I was actually surprised that the team would be staying in a hotel, just 80 miles from London, on the night before a League Cup game. It made me stop and think how professional this game of football now is. Rather than travel down on the afternoon, Chelsea had obviously thought that it was important to get a base in Swindon to fully prepare for the match. I had visions of team meetings, reminders of tactical plans, videos of the opponents and exercises in the hotel gym, but also of monotonous hours spent in anonymous hotel rooms, games on lap-tops, idle banter and possible boredom.

On the day of the game, I thankfully managed to wriggle away from work at a good time. I collected Glenn and Parky and, with chatter between the three of us making the twenty minutes seem like twenty seconds, soon found myself pulling into the Swindon Hilton (yeah, that just sounds funny doesn’t it?) bang on time at 5.45pm. Lo and behold, I soon spotted that the sleek black Chelsea coach was parked right outside the entrance. I screeched into the car park and we hopped out, with my trusty camera in hand. Gary Staker and Eva Carneiro were standing next to the coach, but it was soon evident that the players were yet to emerge. I soon spotted Karen, full of smiles, and we both agreed that this was “perfect timing.” Within just a few seconds, the blue track suited players appeared. I took a few photos. There was a small group of well-wishers nearby, but most players walked straight on to the coach. Kudos to Juan Mata and David Luiz, plus one or two more, for stopping by to sign autographs.

Jose Mourinho was close by and so I gathered my nerve and approached him. As I held out my hand, I wished him “good luck for tonight” but for a horrible moment I was sure that he would blank me. He looked as miserable as sin – I felt like saying “come on mate, Swindon can’t be that bad” – but thankfully he shook my hand, albeit rather dismissively. Glenn wished him well, too. Karen, I think, was near to fainting. As we walked back to the car, I wondered why Parky was nowhere to be seen.

The answer? In my haste to rush off to see Karen and the players, I had unfortunately locked him inside the car.

Not so perfect.

Karen was bubbling as I drove into the town centre. During the afternoon, she had found herself alongside Doctor Eva on the running machines in the gym; they had exchanged words and, once Eva found out that Karen was a CFC supporter, had offered her a ticket.

That’s lovely.

Within a few minutes, we were parked up in a side street, just minutes from the County Ground. The evening was gorgeous; blue skies, warm, no hint of clouds, no hint of rain, the business. As we walked through the rather down-at- heel streets, which reminded me of the area around Fratton Park, Glenn and I spoke about our last visit to Swindon Town. In the summer of 1996, we played at Swindon in a testimonial on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I believe that it marked Frank Leboeuf and Roberto di Matteo’s Chelsea debuts. We won 2-0 in front of a healthy gate of 13,881. The game was unremarkable and dull. It was notable for one reason only; for a year or so, Glenn’s German girlfriend at the time had fancied seeing Chelsea play. Glenn’s rather antiquated view of “football being no place for a woman” was jettisoned for one game, but Anke hated the experience of live footy. In truth, it was a poor game, with virtually no atmosphere to speak of. The look on all three of our faces must have been a picture. Glenn and I vowed never to go to another meaningless pre-season friendly ever again. As we reminisced about that day some seventeen years ago, we joked –

“Anke left you to it from then on, Glenn.”

“Too right, Blue.”

We decided to have a couple of drinks at the adjacent cricket ground, which adjoins the football ground to the north. The rather antiquated, but still ornate, white pavilion housed a small bar and we soon ordered a round of lager and cider. Within seconds, the queue at the bar was formidable; again, we had arrived just at the right time. Outside, there was chat with a few friends as we made our way out into the gorgeous evening as the sun slowly faded to our right. Karen was enjoying the cider as I explained a few things about football in England and how it differs in so many ways from the US sport scene; there’s a book there, or maybe an encyclopaedia, waiting to be written. We chatted with Big John, who sits just a few seats away from us at HQ, about all things Chelsea. Karen was amazed at our collective weight of support for the club and team. Karen asked John if he went to all the games.

“No” replied John, almost apologetically, “most seasons I miss a couple.”

Karen yelped “a couple?!?!”” as if it was beyond belief that someone could be so devoted.

I smiled. Karen was in good company.

This would be Karen’s fifth Chelsea game. Her first one was Juan Mata’s debut at home to Norwich in 2011. After numerous visits to Swindon with work, Karen was still pinching herself that Chelsea were in town and she had a ticket.

Good times.

The night fell and we made our way to the ground. I told Karen to be sure that the next time a rogue Manchester United supporter back in the US confronted her about being a glory hunter, Karen should be sure to respond with the two key words “Swindon away.” Glenn and Parky made their way to the open Stratton Bank – where I stood with a Newcastle United mate in 1993 as Andy Cole made his Geordie debut – while Karen and I lined up for the seats in the main stand. We bumped into a few lads from Trowbridge and I think Karen was slightly surprised how many people I knew.

“Going away with Chelsea is like going away with a mad extended family, though – everyone knows each other.”

The ground hadn’t changed one iota since 1996. To my left, the Stratton Bank, proper old school, open to the elements. To my right, the small covered Town End. Opposite, the single tiered Don Rogers Stand, which had replaced the idiosyncratic Shrivenham Road Stand in the early ‘nineties. The Shrivenham Road Stand consisted of a small terrace underneath a single tier of seats which had originally been part of the parade ground where the Aldershot Miliary Tattoo took place. It was so antiquated and flimsy that it seemed that a gust of wind would tear it asunder. That it survived so long is a miracle.

It took me back to 1988. On a cold midweek evening in January of that year, we played Swindon Town in the Simod Cup. My father had battled hard against the evening traffic and then found parking almost impossible. He dropped me off and I rushed to the away section, right underneath the upper tier of the old stand. I arrived about five minutes late and, by then, Chelsea were already 2-0 down. My parents were hoping to get tickets for the main stand. Our turn out was about 1,200; not bad for a midweek game in a ludicrously unimportant match. My mate Leggo had informed me – as was the way in those days – that a mob of Swindon had charged some Chelsea chaps back at the train station. At the time, Swindon were a Second Division team. We eventually lost 4-0. I remember gallows humour throughout, but also chants of “Hollins Must Go” too.

At the end of the game, with dogs barking outside and the police trying to ensure that the locals had been dispersed, we were kept inside for around ten minutes. I looked down to my left and there, to my disbelief, were my parents. I had to rub my eyes. My parents – my Dad in his work suit and a sheepskin coat I am sure – in amongst the hoodlums of the Chelsea away pen.

I sauntered down to see them. I was in shock.

Evidently, all seat tickets had been sold – the gate was 12,317 – but my parents were allowed entry into the home turnstiles at half-time for a half-price £2, and were then escorted around the pitch by stewards and taken to the away pen.

Too surreal.

Even now, that makes me laugh.

As the teams entered the pitch, the TV cameras picked out Mourinho on the bench. His image was shown on the large screen to my left. He was looking pensive and still quite miserable.

In addition to around 2,000 fans on the Stratton Bank, Chelsea had around 1,400 in the corner section of the main stand; I was stood right next to the docile home fans, right next to a line of police, though there would be no trouble tonight surely? My mate Simon – from 1984 – came down to sit next to me and I soon retold the story of my parents being led around the pitch in 1988. If only I had my camera with me then.

It was a full house; over 14,000. I hoped that the Chelsea fans would put on a special show for Karen but, in the main, we went through the motions. Only on sporadic occasions did the 3,400 roar as one. Soon into the game, the home fans confirmed who their biggest rivals were :

“Oxford United – We Fucking Hate You.”

It was lovely to see Michael Essien back; he did well throughout. Elsewhere, there were mixed performances. I thought that Willian had a very quiet first-half and did not try anything adventurous. The van Ginkel injury – not far from where I was stood – looked serious and it was with sadness that he was replaced so soon. Ramires entered the fray and his energy gave us a little more vibrancy. A David Luiz free-kick whizzed through the air and the Swindon ‘keeper Foderingham did well to save.

The away fans sang about Dennis Wise and the San Siro and I soon realised that our former captain – and for a short period, Swindon manager – was in the Sky TV studio in the far corner, just where I had stood in 1988. He waved at the Chelsea fans and they roared again. There were pockets of away fans singing, but nothing worth noting.

When my local team Frome Town played the wonderfully named Swindon Supermarine a few seasons ago, the Frome Ultras – yes, really – taunted the away support with the surprisingly witty chant of –

“Inbreds and Roundabouts.”

Swindon is inundated with roundabouts. I’ll get back to you all on the inbreeding.

Fernando Torres was clean through after a Juan Mata touch, but the Swindon goalie flung up an arm and batted his effort away. Right after, Ramires set up Mata whose effort was parried only for Torres to touch in at an acute angle. He celebrated quietly in front of the home fans who had just recently taunted him. Quickly, a second goal, with a sublime ball from Torres allowing Ramires to deftly chip over the ‘keeper. Swindon, with the diminutive Pritchard at the heart of their attacks, offered a few efforts on goal, but Mark Schwarzer was largely untroubled.

John Terry replaced Rami at the break. Our captain was actually applauded by the home fans as he entered the pitch; this made a refreshing change. I guess that the locals were just happy to see a famous player on their home turf. A Swindon goal was disallowed for offside. De Bruyne, clean through, was unable to finish. Swindon perhaps should have scored after a great cross caught us flat-footed at the back. Torres looked as though he was keen to impress and showed neat footwork on a number of occasions, but his finishing was lacking. Next, a wasted Willian chance. Demba Ba, who replaced De Bruyne, then curled a shot narrowly wide. Lastly, another strong Torres run ended up with over-elaboration and frustration when Willian stabbed at the ball instead of allowing Nando to finish.

On another night, we could have scored five.

The four of us reconvened back at the cricket pavilion. Karen had met a few more Chelsea fans during the night and it was clear that she was integrating herself well into the Chelsea Family. We all agreed that it had been a so-so game of football, but everything else had been perfect. There was time for one last drink back at the Swindon Hilton (admit it, it still sounds odd) and time for reflections on the past few hours. Oh, and time for some typically crap jokes from Lord Parky.

“All part of the Chelsea experience, Karen.”

Until next time.

Tales From The Twilight Zone

Posted on September 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 21 September 2013.

There was a fleeting moment, at around 1.30pm – a good four hours ahead of the kick-off between us and near neighbours Fulham – when my mate Glenn and I found ourselves walking past the main entrance to the Fulham Broadway tube station. We were directly opposite Mark Worrall’s “CFCUK” stall and Bob the Tee-Shirt son’s “Half & Half Scarves” stall. I’m not really what made me think of it, but I recollected both of us, aged 18 and 16, walking those same steps almost thirty years ago; our first game of travelling up from deepest Somerset, by train in those days, was against Newcastle United in November 1983. How nice it would be to travel back in time and to be able to show ourselves – young and innocent versions of ourselves – a little clip of us together at Chelsea in 2013. I wonder what we would have made of it.

Firstly, I am quite sure that we would have been utterly amazed that our friendship was still going strong after all of those years. At school, our paths crossed occasionally, but only through stunted conversations about Chelsea. At school, I was so shy while Glenn was always more gregarious. We were quite different; calcium carbonate and cheddar. There was a bond through Chelsea, but we were never close enough to be called “mates” per se in those days. Since then – that storied 1983-1984 season has so much to answer for…we met Alan during that campaign too – our friendship has stayed strong and buoyant. We have shared a treasure trove of laughs and memories; Newcastle United away 1984, Anfield 1985, Tottenham 1987, Wembley 1994, Wembley 1997, Seville 1998, Stockholm 1998, Rome 1999, Barcelona 2005, Bolton 2005, Munich 2012. And all games and places in between. Of course, apart from receding hairlines and the horrible aging process, what would we have noticed about 2013? The new tube station, replacing that little row of charismatic shops which included the famous Stamford Bridge café and the Chelsea souvenir shop, would have been noted for sure. The new modern church, which has replaced the red brick edition, with its little café down below – which we sometimes visited circa 1996 – would have been noted. The old Chelsea Supporters Club – at 547 Fulham Road – has long since been demolished, to be replaced by apartments. I’m sure the 1983 Chris and Glenn would have been intrigued to hear how our footballing fortunes had fared in the ensuing thirty years.

The answer, of course, is the stuff of dreams; two promotions, one relegation, six F.A. cups, three League titles, three League Cups, a European Cup, a UEFA cup and a ECWC cup. If we had known that all of these trophies would eventually come our way in 1983, we might well have dived into The Britannia pub – now a tiki cocktail bar, whatever that is – and chanced our luck in nervously ordering two pints of lager, knowing that our Chelsea life would be just fine.

“Cheers Chris.”

“Cheers Glenn…here’s to the next thirty years.”

After I collected my away ticket for the Steaua Bucharest game at the box office – just £19, I think I’ll like Romania – the two of us spent an hour in the foyer of the hotel. In a repeat of the last game of the previous season, we were privileged to spend a precious few moments chatting to Ron Harris, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling.

What the Glenn and Chris of 1983 would have made of this, I can’t imagine.

Bobby Tambling, now full of colour and fully recovered from his awful illness of the past eighteen months, was able to chat to us for a few moments about his miraculous recovery; he now walks at least two miles per day, has lost a lot of weight and looks magnificent. Glenn and I – plus Parky – first met Bobby at an event in Wiltshire in April 2011 and I can’t praise him enough. He is a lovely, humble man and one of the nicest Chelsea players that I have been lucky enough to meet. I also briefly chatted to former Chelsea player and manager Ken Shellito, who was visiting from his home in Malaysia; there was a reunion of the 1962-1963 Second Division promotion-winning team at the Harris Suite on Thursday. Ken is another lovely man.

Glenn and I backtracked to meet the rest of the boys in The Goose. The place didn’t seem too packed. I spent an hour or so in the bosom of my Chelsea family, chatting away about all sorts; it was lovely to see Daryl’s Mum for the first time for a while and we caught up with a few things.

Lacoste Watch :

Daryl – yellow.

Alan – orange.

Parky – lavender.

There was chat about Simon’s film, Rob’s son’s foray into writing about the sport of boxing, tickets for Swindon, tickets for Norwich, plans for Bucharest, but little talk pertaining to neither our team, nor the perceived crisis at Chelsea since Wednesday’s defeat. Glenn and I had got all that out of our system on the short drive to collect Parky a few hours earlier.

In a nutshell, we trusted Mourinho to sort it out. It might take a while, but so be it. I’m the first one to realise his faults, but I’d rather have him in charge at Stamford Bridge than anyone else.

I decided to leave for the stadium earlier than usual and I spent a while slowly walking up to the main entrance. The analytical part of me wanted to gauge the mood of the Chelsea support base. In truth, all was relatively quiet. The one exception made me roll my eyes to the sky. I do a lot of that at Chelsea these days. To my annoyance, on passing the West Stand entrance, I saw a group of knob heads playing up for a TV camera, and mysteriously singing “Blue Army! Blue Army!” while struggling to stand up straight.

Since when has this been a Chelsea song?

At least they didn’t start singing “I’m Chelsea Till I Die” – another non-Chelsea song which I am yet to recollect hearing at either home or away matches yet seems to be spotted on various Chelsea social media sites with increasing regularity. If I have heard it, I must have consciously deleted it from my memory. It is a bland generic chant, mainly sung by followers of lower league teams, and as far as I am concerned is neither Chelsea, humorous, tuneful or relevant.

This, of course, would be a game played at 5.30pm; a strange time for football, in the twilight zone between afternoon and evening. It was mild. Rain threatened, but there was only mist and a grey stillness.

Inside the stadium, it was clear that the rumours were true; Fulham had failed to sell all of their 3,000 away tickets. There were gaps in the upper tier…a seat here, a seat there…but a large swathe of empty seats in the lower tier. Above, a limp Fulham flag sagged in the damp early evening air. I’d hazard a guess that they only sold 2,500.

Only 2,500 for an away game at their biggest – and closest rivals…or so they would have us think.

Quite pathetic.

Even more pathetic was their oh-so original chant, soon into the match –

“Where were you when you were shit?”

Bloody hell. The irony.

“You’re not even here when you’re good.”

Despite my pre-game comments about Mourinho, the first-half was bloody awful. There was no room for Juan Mata, even on the bench, and I just knew that the pro-Mata/anti-Mourinho brigade would use this as continued evidence that our manager sees Mata superfluous to our needs. Mourinho, to be fair, has continually stated that he rates Mata and wants to integrate him into our team. I think this one might run for a few weeks yet. The sad thing is that Juan Mata is surely one of the most genuine, ego-free, and pleasant and charming players we have seen at Chelsea for a while. He’s in the mould of Gianfranco Zola and that is praise enough. Inside, he must be hurting. I was personally surprised that Eto’o was starting, but I guess he needs games. In the Fulham side, former Chelsea players Steve Sidwell, Damian Duff and Scotty Parker lined up to face our midfield of Ramires, Mikel, Schurrle, Hazard and man of the moment Oscar.

Highlights of the first-half?

A wicked cross from the industrious Ivanovic was met by Eto’o at the near post – a great run – but his touch was heavy and the ball flew away from the goal rather than towards it. A lovely defence-splitting ball set up Darren Bent, who broke away with only Cech to beat; his shot was low and Cech cleared with a mixture of hand and foot. A sustained period of Chelsea pressure ended when the ball broke to Ivanovic but his shot was easily blocked. There was another shot on goal from Eto’o but chances were at an all-time low. The mood inside Stamford Bridge was of depressing concern at our lack of pace, creativity and penetration. All was quiet. There was an audible barrage of boos at the end of the half; supporters began gesturing and pointing among themselves, annoyed at the booing, annoyed at the lack of support. Please, not another civil war like last season, please.

I chatted to a couple of mates at the break. I hate to try to pretend to be the tactical analyst simply because I am not that great at understanding the nuances of modern day football. However, I got dragged into an analysis of the current state of our team.

My point was this –

We all know that Jose Mourinho leaves no stone unturned in his pre-match analysis of where his teams can take advantage of opponents’ weaknesses. I imagine Don Revie-style dossiers on opposing players, flipcharts, DVDs, Powerpoint presentations and training sessions to replicate possible game day situations. Practice, practice, practice. Detail, detail, detail. The 4-2-3-1 formation is merely the skeleton on which Mourinho adds body.

I just wonder if he over-manages. Is he too much the puppeteer? Other managers may have left that vital 10% – the off-the-cuff, the irrational, the personal, the spontaneous, the ludicrous, the tantalising – to the players themselves. I imagine Ruud Gullit saying to the Chelsea team –

“You boys are great footballers. Go play for each other.”

I just wonder if the current players, at this juncture in the team’s growth, are not allowed that personal freedom. There definitely seems to be a lack of bohemian creativity in the team just now, save for an occasional Hazard back-heel. And then I remembered back to Jose Mourinho’s first spell in charge and the rather prosaic and pragmatic approach to our games in the first few months of 2004-2005; defence first, clean sheets, win at all costs, kill the game, then build. That season ended in just one defeat, just fifteen goals conceded and our first league title in fifty years. I hoped for an enigmatic Mourinho pep talk at half-time. In order to make that omelette, it was time to turn up the heat.

During the interval, Neil Barnett spoke –

“As Chelsea fans, we certainly believe in miracles.”

Bobby Tambling, in a mid-sixties retro shirt, walked unaided around the Stamford Bridge pitch and was serenaded by all. I had warned him that he might well be a blubbering wreck during this, but he appeared to be holding it together well. His shirt bore the words “thank you” and his convalescence was due in no half-measure to the love he has received from us all.

Thankfully, we only had to wait five minutes into the second period for a much-needed goal. Persistence from the fitful Andrea Schurrle down below us in the Matthew Harding Upper resulted in a cross come shot which Stockdale only parried. A prod from Eto’o was blocked, but the ball spun out to Oscar who struck home.

The place roared. A jig from Oscar in front of the Chelsea fans in the corner. Phew.

There was a Tommy Trinder-eseque “THTCAUN/COMLD” from Alan and myself and all was well with the Chelsea World.

1-0 to Chelsea.

It was autumn 2004 all over again.

In truth, we completely dominated the second period. Apart from a Steve Sidwell miscued header at the far post, Fulham were on the back foot, rarely troubling us.

Mourinho rang the changes. Eto’o, who was starting to show good movement, was replaced by Torres. The volume of support for the boy from Fuenlabrada surprised even me; the Chelsea fans clearly haven’t given up on him. I am dreadfully worried where goals will come from this season, but all we can do as supporters is to support and encourage them all.

This was much better fare from Chelsea now, with Fulham tiring and our passing improving with every move. Ramires’ movement and drive spurred others on, Mikel was breaking up play, Hazard and Oscar were linking well with Torres. Fulham simply were not in it.

A corner was met by a lovely jump from Torres. His downward, goal bound header, was parried by the Fulham keeper. Frank Lampard, on for Schurrle, swiped the ball in. A header from Terry kept the ball alive and Mikel twisted his body to connect and slam the ball in from eight yards. I snapped a photograph, but the image is too blurred – maybe I was in a state of shock – for sharing.

Again, the Stamford Bridge stadium roared. Thankfully, Mikel ran straight towards Frank right down below me. I was able to take a succession of photographs of his beaming face, tongue cheekily poking out to one side, before he was engulfed by smiling team mates. I noted that JT stuck his head right into Mikel’s chest and I can only imagine what words of encouragement our captain gave our massively underrated midfielder. At last, he had scored his first league goal.

A song was soon forthcoming from the Matthew Harding Lower –

“Jon Obi Mikel – He Scores When He Wants.”

At the final whistle, Neil Barnett was soon keen to point out that Chelsea, the crisis club as always, were top of the league.

It had been the strangest of days.

Tales From Under The Full Moon

Posted on September 20, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Basel : 18 September 2013.

A full moon shone brightly from the wedge of night sky between the silvery steel of the East stand roof and the beige brickwork of the hotel abutting the Shed End. Here was evidence enough that a full lunar month had passed since our last home game at Stamford Bridge, a narrow 2-1 victory over a resolute Aston Villa side, when I watched as the same full moon traced a slow curve into the August night. In some ways a lot had happened since then; a failed courtship of Wayne Rooney, the purchases of Eto’o and Willian, a dour draw at Old Trafford, a spirited but ultimately disappointing loss in Prague and a weak defeat at Everton. In other ways, not much at all had taken place; a period of four long weeks but only three games, stultifying inactivity, lots of emptiness and all of us waiting for the real football to recommence.

However, as I took my seat alongside Tom, with barely ten minutes to wait until our Champions League campaign of 2013-2014 began, my lack of excitement concerned me. In fact, this sense of ambivalence was seemingly shared by many. There just didn’t seem to be that air of anticipation that usually accompanies our first home game in the Champions League group phase each autumn. It was surely there when we played Milan in 1999 and it was also in evidence when we hosted Juventus last season. You would think that the return of Jose Mourinho, the most sought-after manager in world football, might add a crackle of electricity to the clear September night.

I didn’t feel it. From the quietness in the stands, neither did thousands more.

Alan soon joined us and we spoke briefly about the journey back from Everton. I was lucky, reaching home at just before midnight. Alan wasn’t so blessed; he had made it home, via a night bus full of clubbers, ravers and nutters from Piccadilly Circus, at 2.45am. We spoke with disdain of the over-reaction to our defeat by some supporters within the club. As the teams entered the pitch – Chelsea in blue shirts, Basel in blue tracksuit tops – we hoped for a better result in our match against the returning Basel side. It was a strange quirk of fate that the Swiss team were the last European visitors to Stamford Bridge in early May. Unlike that Europa League semi-final, I was dismayed to see that they were being cheered on by a paltry away allocation – maybe only 400 strong – in this, the much more prestigious tournament.

I had briefly heard Jose Mourinho, on breakfast TV that morning as I rushed between kitchen and bathroom, utter something about his Chelsea players being like eggs. I didn’t capture the whole quote and I was simply too busy with work (there – that’s the reason for my lack of focus on the evening’s match, I knew there was a reason), to delve deeper, but it certainly made me think back to a quote from 2007, just before his last match as Chelsea manager of his first reign.

On 18 September – exactly six years ago – we drew 1-1 with Rosenborg in another group phase home opener. In the build-up to the match, Jose provided a typically candid sound-bite for the gentlemen of the press. There had been a lengthy period of unrest between Roman Abramovich and the increasingly frustrated Mourinho; the clear message from his quote about omelettes and eggs –“you buy class A eggs in Waitrose, you make a great omelette” – was that he had been tied to using sub-standard players.

Twenty four hours later – or was it forty eight? – Jose was gone. Seven years later, an admittedly much more relaxed and jocular Mourinho was again using wordplay with the press. My fleeting glance of a smiling Jose on TV, giggling like a schoolboy, gave me hope that the frustrations of Goodison Park would be forgotten and that his evident trust in his new young players would make us smile too.

The match began. I was heartily thankful that, unlike that fateful Rosenborg game in 2007, we had again sold out Stamford Bridge. It was a so pleasing to see; another 40,000 gate. This might surprise some newer Chelsea supporters, but the gate for Rosenburg was a lowly 24,973. The club had a tough wake-up call that night; they had charged the supporters a whopping £45 – if memory serves – for the visit of the team from Norway. Obviously, supporters voted with their wallets on that night. In all subsequent seasons of CL football, match tickets for the group phase games have been held at the £30/£35 mark, which is considerably less than for standard league games.

It was one of the toughest few days; lots of derision from other teams’ supporters about our inability to fill Stamford Bridge. Then, the night of the long knives. Mourinho out and Grant in. Oh boy.

As the early exchanges took place on the pitch, against a sad backdrop of near quiet in the stands, Alan and I chatted about our plans for the trip to Bucharest; Alan ventured to the Romanian capital last season, this will be my first visit. The game was almost inconsequential; I watched, but wasn’t concentrating.

I spotted a few familiar names from May…Streller – mmm, I remember him. Just as Chelsea had Hollins, Houseman, Hutchinson, Hinton, Harris and Hudson in the ‘seventies, Basel’s team included Streller, Sommer, Schar, Stocker, Sio, Safari and Salah.

Chelsea began the stronger team, with Basel content to sit back and soak up the pressure. However, our possession was rarely converted into goal-scoring chances and the crowd were given little to cheer. And cheer, they certainly didn’t. I couldn’t help but think back to previous European nights in the mid ‘nineties when we were fresh-faced and more excitable about the prospect of European football – pick a game, any game…Zizkov, Vienna, Bratislava, Tromso. I’m sure that on those nights, we didn’t wait for a goal to roar the team on.

As the half continued, Basel grew in confidence and occasionally made purposeful forays into our half. With the first-half coming to a close, the stadium was almost silent.

“I wish that bloody owl in Brompton Cemetery would stop hooting.”

This wasn’t great football. It wasn’t even good. It was slow. The players were running in quicksand. There was little flair. Willian was struggling to make an impression. In fact, the midfield in general were poor. Nobody wanted to take ownership of the ball. Nobody wanted to make things happen.

I looked over towards Gary, sitting a few seats away and he simply said “awful.”

Just before half-time, David Luiz played the ball towards Frank Lampard who in turn touched the ball to his right where Oscar was waiting. The young Brazilian made room and drilled the ball in at the far post.

1-0 to Chelsea, “THTCAUN/COMLD” in a Germanic accent, but we hardly deserved the lead.

The second-half began and there was a slight change. The game opened up a little and we created a few chances. I caught Oscar on film wriggling away from markers before curling a wicked shot which bounced off the bar. He repeated this soon after, and then set up Hazard, who infuriatingly shot wildly over. Oscar was our best player by a mile and was rewarded with the first airing of his own song…the highly unoriginal “Oscar, Oscar, Oscar, Oscar.”

Although we were creating – with Willian running at his full-back and getting more involved – Basel were seemingly given full reign to cut through our midfield at will. It seemed to me that the basic premise of the midfielder that I grew up watching in the ‘eighties – Johnny B, Mickey Thomas, Nigel Spackman – was to physically intimidate an opponent. The vernacular of the day was simply “to put your foot in.”

To tackle. To win the ball. To compete.

These days, midfielders – perhaps due the changing of the laws of the game which has made physical contact easily punishable – are simply told to close down space and press. Well, on this particular night, we certainly weren’t tackling and we hardly did any pressing either. I commented to Alan –

“I often feel that when the crowd are not involved, it only takes a couple of strong tackles to galvanise the supporters into roaring the team on.”

That is one of my strongest memories of football in pre-Premier League England.

“Bollocks to flair, I’ll cheer a hard 50/50 tackle like there’s no tomorrow.”

Ironically, as Willian continued to get involved, Jose Mourinho chose to substitute him. He was given a nice reception, but we awarded his replacement Juan Mata an even bigger cheer. A nice ball from Lamps was played behind the Basel defensive line for Eto’o, but the goalkeeper raced off his line to gather. However, Basel had been threatening for a few minutes and their positive play was rewarded. A quick interchange of passes, with the ball being moved around intelligently, found Salah, who dispatched the ball in to the same corner of the Shed End goal as Oscar in the first-half.

1-1. No complaints.

This drew immediate change from Jose. The largely quiet van Ginkel and the subdued Lampard were replaced by Demba Ba and Jon Obi Mikel. Ba played in the middle, while Eto’o was forced to toil out on the left wing. He looked quite disconsolate and offered little for the remainder of the game. Our play deteriorated further. Eden Hazard, on his day our most exciting talent, drew the ire of the increasingly agitated crowd by holding on to the ball for far too long. As Basel cut through our midfield, in which Mata looked lost, Mikel at least gave a little solidity to the team with several strong tackles.

“That’s more like it son.”

With ten minutes remaining, Basel were awarded a corner. The ball was whipped in at head height – a great delivery in fact – and that man Streller rose to arrow the ball in with a great header. Although I was over one hundred yards away, and my view was obviously far from perfect, his leap seemed to go unchallenged.

A couple of half-chances amounted to nothing.

We had lost only our sixth game at home in almost one hundred European matches.

Lazio 1999.

Besiktas 2003.

Barcelona 2006.

Internazionale 2010.

Manchester United 2011.

Basel 2013.

I don’t think anyone on the walk out of the stadium could believe that they had witnessed such a poor Chelsea performance. One fan was heard to say “that’s the worst I’ve ever seen.” It certainly bore no likeness to the spirited and dominant Mourinho teams from 2004 to 2007. It is difficult to write any words of comfort, such was our disjointed and meekly-contested performance. I can only trust that the manager addresses the deficiencies in his typically astute manner and fires us up for Fulham at home on Saturday. I soon met up with Parky along the Fulham Road and the mood was sombre. The next game in the competition – yes, that game in Bucharest – will be huge. At least it makes that trip all the more exciting. In all honesty, it would be “typical Chelsea” for us to go to that particular cauldron – Alan has promised me great things – and chisel out a tough away win. I can’t wait for that trip. I already have a few ideas about places to visit. I’m sure Bucharest will be a great city.

Will I have a lovely time in Romania?

As sure as eggs is eggs.

Tales From The Banks Of The Royal Blue Mersey

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 14 September 2013.

At last the universally despised international break was over and I had my sight set on a Chelsea away day. Over the last few seasons, I have eventually concluded that a trip to Everton’s Goodison Park is my favourite of them all. As increasing numbers of stadia that I grew up with fall by the wayside – The Dell, The Baseball Ground, Highfield Road, Maine Road, The Victoria Ground, Highbury, Ninian Park – or become modernised, and sanitised – Upton Park, Villa Park, White Hart Lane, St. Andrews – there is one old school stadium that defies logic and continues to shine. I have shared my love of Goodison Park on many occasions before, so without going over old ground – no pun intended – I will only say at this stage that Goodison Park, or as the Old Lady as Evertonians refer to it, was dominating my thoughts as the build-up to our first league game in almost three weeks drew nearer.

In addition to seeing the boys play – oh, how I have missed them – I would be wallowing in my own particular and personal slice of football history once again.

The 5.30pm kick-off allowed me plenty of time to plan my day. The intention was to park-up near the Pier Head, where ferries departed in decades past, and amble around the Albert Dock area. I’ve visited both the Maritime Museum and Tate Liverpool on previous football expeditions to Merseyside; I was hoping for a relaxing pint in a pub or bar overlooking the revamped riverside, rather than the usual pint of fizzy lager in a plastic glass in “The Arkles” opposite Anfield, which is my usual routine for Everton.

At just after 10.30am, I was on my way; on the royal blue highway once more. This would be my thirteenth visit to the stadium at the bottom of the gentle slope of Stanley Park. I missed last season’s encounter. In 2011-2012, it was a terrible performance under Villas-Boas. The defeat on the last day of 2010-2011 was remembered for the brutal sacking of Ancelotti.

At 11am, I collected Lord Parky. It was a lovely moment – and long overdue. For all of last season, my away trips were solitary affairs. Apart from the pre-season friendly at Brighton and the Community Shield game at Villa Park, the last time Parky accompanied me to a standard away game was in April 2012 at Arsenal.

Back in the days when England’s capital city had no European Cup to its name.

This would only be my fourth trip the north-west during season 2013-2014. In recent years, the area was very well represented; Premier League regulars Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers and Wigan Athletic were augmented by single-season stays from Burnley and Blackpool. It seemed that I was heading north on the M6 every month in those days. Now, only the big hitters from Manchester and Liverpool remain. In fact, during this season, there is perhaps the largest spread of cities for decades within the top flight; Swansea and Cardiff to the West, Liverpool and Everton to the North West, Newcastle and Sunderland to the North East, Hull and Norwich to the East and Southampton to the South. We only need Plymouth Argyle and Carlisle United to join us and all extremities within the football landscape will be covered.

I backtracked through Bradford-on-Avon, skirted Bath and then headed north. It was brilliant to be back on the road alongside His Lordship once again. However, once on the M4, we were held up for a good thirty minutes as the traffic was reduced to a crawl. After stopping for a coffee at Strensham, and with signs on the M5 warning of even more delays on the M6, I soon realised that our trip down to the banks of The Mersey before the match were probably needing to be curtailed. This was a shame, but there is always next year…and the year after.

Throughout the previous week, one song kept bouncing around my head. It had acted like a constant reminder of where I would be on Saturday, a football metronome, ticking away, keeping me focussed. Let me explain. After a New York Yankees game last summer, I got chatting to three Evertonians in my favourite bar on River Avenue in The Bronx. It was my last night in NYC, my beloved Yankees had walloped the Red Sox and I was in no mood to retire to bed. The beers were flowing and the chat soon turned from baseball in the US to footy in England. The father had been living in Manhattan for twenty years and his two sons were over to visit him. The youngest lad was typically wearing a Lacoste polo. After a while, it was decided to continue the drinking session in a bar down on East 23^rd Street, way down in Manhattan. We hopped into a cab – there were five of us in total, including a bemused local, struggling to understand our quick-fire conversations in unfamiliar accents – and the chat turned to football songs. I made the point – as politely as I could – that Everton were not known for their wide and varied songbook. I remember serenading them with “The Shed Looked Up” and they responded; I was expecting “It’s A Grand Old Team To Play For.”

Instead, the father belted out a song which was completely new to me, and the two sons joined in with gusto.

“Oh we hate Bill Shankly and we hate St.John.

But most of all we hate big Ron.

And we’ll hang those Kopites, one by one, on the banks of the royal blue Mersey.

To hell with Liverpool and Rangers too.

And we’ll throw them all in the Mersey.

And we’ll fight, fight, fight, with all our might for the boys in the royal blue jersey.”

This was rounded off, nicely, with a rousing –

“Kopites are gobshites, Kopites are gobshites!”

I approved. As the drinking continued, we spoke continually about our two favoured teams, buoyed by beer and a mutual dislike of Liverpool. The big moment in the lives of the two sons was the 1995 F.A.Cup win versus the equally despised Manchester United. I sensed a tone of jealousy in their voices when they heard me talk of our recent successes, but I kept telling them – probably to the point of exhaustion – that there really was “no need to be jealous of others. Your team is your team. Relish every goal, every win.” It was a lovely night. One more thing; the father kept referring to me as “Chris, la” which I found to be particularly endearing and authentic. They were good people.

After turning off Queens Drive and up Utting Avenue, with the bright stands of Anfield at the top of the hill, I deposited £8 in the hands of a local at the official car park in Stanley Park. It was 3.45pm. The journey north had taken me over five hours. We avoided “Arkles” and headed towards Goodison. Lord Parky soon disappeared inside for a few beers and to his seat in the lower tier of the Bullens Road.

With my trusty camera at the ready, I had other ideas.

I took a leisurely hour to slowly circumnavigate the four stands of Goodison Park. I was in my element. The sun was out, the sky perfect. The clamour of a match day gave the late afternoon a buzz all of its own.

Goodison Park. So, why do I love it?

Firstly, the location; surrounded by terraced houses, a proper football locale. Secondly, the history; Everton have played here, since uplifting from Anfield, from 1892. Thirdly, the gargantuan main stand; when I first spotted it in 1986, I could hardly believe its scale, towering over the other three edifices. Next, Archibald Leitch; the venerable stadium architect was responsible for the design and construction of three of the original four stands, two of which – the Gwladys Street and the Bullens Road – remain to this day. The signature Leitch cross-trusses at Goodison, which are still on show on the balcony wall of the Bullens Road, are only present at two other stadia. The others are at Fratton Park and Ibrox. Yep, you’ve guessed – two of my other favourite grounds. Next, my imagination; my late father’s first ever football match took place here at Goodison Park, during the grey years of World War Two while he was stationed on The Wirrall. Lastly, another first game; I took football-mad James, then an eleven year old boy, to his first ever football game at Goodison in 1998.

So, yes, Goodison Park ticks a lot of boxes.

My tour began behind the new Park Lane stand; constructed in 1994, it is a banal and insipid single-tiered structure which adds nothing to the overall feel to the stadium. I noted that the statue of Dixie Dean had been moved from its original location; maybe it has been moved inside the stadium. Dean was an Everton legend who once amassed a Babe Ruth-like haul of 60 goals in season 1927-1928, and who died, at Goodison, during the 1980 derby. A “fan zone” was in operation behind the Park Lane stand; I avoided it like the plague. I noted a six-piece samba band, dressed in Brazilian yellow and green, parading outside on Goodison Avenue, which was met by blank stares from the locals. It was as incongruous a sight as you will see. I shook my head, tut-tutted and moved on.

On Goodison Avenue, my senses were going into overdrive. Unlike at Anfield, Everton have made a conscious effort to spruce up the walls of the stadium’s once grim exterior. Long banners depicting current players adorn the main stand, which now looks bright and welcoming. The “Everton timeline” wraps itself around 75% of the current stadium, beginning above the away entrance on the Bullens Road in 1878 and ending on the southern side of the main stand in 2013. It depicts key events, photos of record buys, famous games and Everton trivia. As I found myself walking clockwise around the stadium, I found myself going back in time.

Quite apt.

Opposite the main stand, towering high, were a couple of basic cafes. One sight saddened me though; The Winslow Hotel, which my father may well have entered around 1942, was boarded-up and empty. The sign depicting Dixie Dean had faded. How sad. I once drank at this pub in 1994, when I parked outside the stands of Goodison before walking up the hill for a Chelsea game at Anfield. There is always something rather spooky about being outside a stadium with no match taking place; the ghosts of thousands of supporters, the silence, the stillness.

I once watched a game from the upper tier of the main stand; season 1992-1993, front row, brilliant view, awful retro collars with red laces, Robert Fleck scored, we won 1-0, shortest match review ever.

As I took a selection of photographs of the bustling street scene below the vertiginous structure, I noted Romelu Lukaku being driven slowly towards the main reception. At first, the locals were unaware of who the young man in the passenger seat was. Eventually it dawned on them. With the car halted, the window lowered and the Everton loanee kindly signed a few photographs for a few youngsters. I took a few photographs of his smiling face and then seized my moment. I leaned in and shook his hand.

“Have a great season here. Then come back to us next season. God bless you.”

Romelu smiled.

I hated to see look of pure desolation on his face after his nervy penalty miss in Prague. I also hated to see some puerile comments on the internet by some Chelsea fans immediately after. Oh boy.

The red-brick St. Luke’s church sits right on the junction of Goodison Avenue and Gwladys Street. Back in the ‘eighties, it was still possible to see the whole of this modest place of worship from inside the stadium. It has since been hidden by extra cladding on the Gwladys Street stand and the addition of a large TV screen. Like the cottage at Fulham, it adds to the sense of place that makes Goodison so unique. Still the photographs continued; a turnstile, the angle of two stands joining, a streetside café, Tommy Lawton on the timeline.

There is a rather patronising TV advertisement for Barclay’s at the moment; thanking us match-going fans for our continued presence at games. It strongly features a smiling pensioner, possibly photographed at Goodison, certainly wearing Everton blue; his knowing eyes telling a thousand stories, his slight smile indicating past glories and hope for the future. As I walked behind the Bullens Road – getting close to the formidable Chelsea presence outside the away gates now – I spotted his female equivalent. A lady in her ‘eighties – tight perm, blue and white scarf – was being driven in to her personal parking space in a small car park. The sight of this spritely Evertonian made me smile. For those who bemoan the negative aspects of football – the richly-paid players, the out of touch directors, the price of tickets, the occasional presence of racism and loutish behaviour, the commercialisation, the deadening of atmosphere – here was a reminder of what the game means to a lot of people. She must have thousands of great memories from her time supporting her team.

I wonder if she remembers Tommy Lawton, his hair Brylcreamed, leaping high at the far post, or that dashing young man in his RAF uniform at Goodison Park during the Second World War…

I chatted to a few friends outside the away turnstiles. We had heard that Samuel Eto’o was to start. There was confused talk of how Lukaku had been loaned out – again – when most of us supporters would have preferred to see him in Chelsea blue throughout this season. I guess we will never know the full story of the club’s decision to keep Torres and Ba, though I presume that the former’s wage demands have played a part in possible thoughts of moving him on.

At least Juan Mata was starting.

I looked up and spotted Burger, the erstwhile Toronto native now transplanted into the heart of England. He quickly introduced me to his father – his first visit to these shores, his first football match, his first Chelsea match. I repeated my father’s story about Everton and he smiled. Burger Junior and Burger Senior had been drinking, with Cathy and others, since 10am and I was impressed. I wished them well and hurriedly took my place alongside Alan, Gary and 1,500 others in the Bullens Road upper tier. There were a similar number down below us.

The Farm’s “All Together Now” was on the PA as I scanned the scene around me. Goodison’s capacity is 40,000 now and I spotted a few empty seats, namely those behind the roof supports in the Gwladys Street. Another Goodison favourite – “Z Cars” – was played as the teams entered. Chelsea were in black once more.

Cech – Brana, JT, Luiz, Ash – Mikel, Rambo – Mata, Schurrle, Hazard – Eto’o.

The game began brightly enough. Ramires was full of energy and we dominated the early few minutes. All eyes were on our new striker though; as he moved around the pitch, my mind played tricks on me. I imagined Eto’o to be taller. He seemed willing, but his first few efforts were poor. One header over with Tim Howard untested and another which ballooned into the top tier. At least he was getting in to position. Gary, standing alongside me and already “venting,” made me chuckle with his pronunciation of our new striker’s surname.

Only a Londoner could attempt to pronounce Eto’o without sounding the letter T.

“Cam on E’o’o.”

Oh boy.

The best chance of the first-half came when Howard fluffed a clearance and Andrea Schurrle pounced. He played the ball into the path of the advancing Eto’o and the 3,000 Chelsea away fans inhaled a breath of expectation. Out of nowhere, a leg from an Everton player – Gareth Barry – blocked the shot. We were in disbelief.

On the subs bench, Fernando Torres was heard to utter “even I could have missed that.”

Our support was OK. The home fans, though, resorted to type and hardly spoke, let alone sang. Everton rarely threatened; Naismith shot wide, but chances were rare down below us. At the other end, Mikel and Schurrle shot over. Our chances were being squandered and the away support grew frustrated. During the closing minutes of the first-half, Everton turned the screw. During one attack, two Everton players were completely unmarked at the far post and we were lucky to escape unpunished. Right on half-time, sloppy defending allowed a cross to be headed back across the goal by Jelavic to allow Naismith to leap unhindered and nod home from a yard out.

At half-time, I chatted briefly to Tim from Dublin.

“We should have been three up.”

Straight after the whistle, Andrea Schurrle was played in and inexplicably missed from an angle. It took me a few, puzzling seconds to realise that he hadn’t scored. Eto’o lunged at a cross and failed to make contact. At least he was getting into the right positions. Right?

Jose Mourinho then surprised us all and made a double substitution, taking off Mata and Schurrle. On came Oscar and Frank Lampard. In truth, neither player produced in the remainder of the match. A Ramires toe-poke went wide. The general consensus was that we wouldn’t score even if the game continued until November. In reality, such was our mood, we expected Everton to increase their lead on their rare forays into our half. Luiz was lucky to stay on after a tangle on the half-way line. We were riding our luck. Then, the last throw of the dice; Ashley Cole off, Torres on, three at the back, but with Mikel playing very deep alongside Lamps. Where other players were faltering, Mikel was having a great game…reading attacks, breaking-up play, turning, playing it simple. Top marks.

Two last chances summed our day up. Firstly, an attempted flick from Eto’o from close in, but he missed the ball completely. Secondly, a poor shot from Torres’ weak left foot which looked as ugly as it gets and meekly spun off for a goal-kick. Thankfully, Leighton Baines clipped the junction of post and bar at the other end from a free-kick on ninety minutes. Although it was a far from adequate performance – too many personal errors – we barely deserved to lose.

At the final whistle, we shuffled out as the Evertonians – at last – made some noise. I glanced at Tim, but his face was disconsolate. No words were needed. I glowered back.

On the walk back to the car, Parky and I caught up with Chopper, Jokka, Neil and Jonesy. There were a few mumbles and grumbles and this was to be expected. However, it was a difficult game to summarise. Everton weren’t that great. They did enough. If our players had played 10% better – maybe just 5% better – we would have won 3-0. Our play suffered with just too many silly errors at key times. I spoke with Jokka and offered some home-spun philosophy.

“Maybe another set of supporters would have been quite content with that sort of performance – we created a few chances, we weren’t dire – but us Chelsea fans have higher expectations. High expectations make for bad losers.”

On Wednesday, we have the chance to make amends when our European campaign kicks off.

Let’s go.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2013-2014

Tales From Tyneside

Tales From Kensington And Chelsea

Tales From Home

Tales From East Anglia

Tales From The Internationalists

Tales From The High Road

Tales From Wiltshire

Tales From The Twilight Zone

Tales From Under The Full Moon

Tales From The Banks Of The Royal Blue Mersey