Tales From A Halfway Point

Posted on December 29, 2014 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 28 December 2014.

It was almost a complete year since our last visit to Southampton. On New Year’s Day 2014, I travelled the relatively short journey to the city on the South coast with Glenn and Parky. It was a day of torrential rain, but of also a fine 3-0 win.

There was no Boxing Day game for me this Christmas – other priorities took precedence – but our play looked sumptuous at times against a surprisingly lack-lustre…or “crap” to be more succinct…West Ham United team.

There was a different type of inclement weather this year; bitter cold. Parky met me at my house for a change and we were soon on the way in to Frome to collect PD. Both were unfortunately suffering with severe head colds. By the end of the day, I wondered if I would be too. Southampton is only ninety minutes away and I was parked-up, on target, bang on 11.30am outside the city’s featureless train station. This was the same scenario as last season; in fact, as I type these words, I am aware that my footsteps in Southampton in December almost exactly mirrored those of January. This is a shame really – it is always nicer to experience new sights on these away days. I’m not particularly taken with Southampton though; it must have some, as yet hidden, charms.

As with 362 days previously, we based ourselves in the heaving “Yates” pub in the centre of the city. Unfortunately, the service was dreadful, but we were eventually served. In a little corner, again eerily similar to last season, there was a small conclave of Chelsea supporters from the Somerset / Wiltshire border.

The dirty dozen.

Mike, from further afield – Brooklyn, New York – arrived via a tortuous train journey from Kent and it was great to see him once again. Not only were we drinking in the same locale as in January, but the same music was playing too. At around 1.15pm, we needed to set off for the ground. Parky and PD were without tickets at this point, and I needed to collect them, on their behalf, at the stadium. Via a brisk walk, we soon reached St. Mary’s.

While I waited for the tickets, I had time to spot a huge sign on the stand wall which typifies how clubs try to engage supporters these days using words to stir the emotions and help create a bond between team, club and supporters.

“We are the Saints. It’s not just a name. It’s who we are. We will be in that number. We march on.”

I spotted something similar at Everton in August.

Signs, posters, hoardings, pennants.

There is none of this hyperbole on show at Stamford Bridge, although there was a short-lived ‘’We Are Chelsea’’ tag line a few seasons ago. Maybe we don’t have to try too hard to engender a sense of belonging – but at least it adds colour to an otherwise dull stadium façade. In the modern era – or post-modern, I’ve lost count – I find it increasingly popular for clubs to use their stadia as a canvas, sometimes on a huge scale, for such shows of belonging. We had the pre-game light show versus Tottenham a while back. It was pretty impressive; although I am not sure it needs to be repeated too often. I have a feeling that it could easily grow tedious. Maybe save it for the big games.

The most ingenious use of stadia that I have seen recently was from the pre-game show at a Montreal Canadiens ice-hockey match, when video images of team players were superimposed on the ice itself. Maybe Chelsea can superimpose iconic images on the hotel wall before night games; Graham Wilkins scoring an own goal, Chris Sutton slicing over from five yards or Darren Wood getting stranded in midfield. Maybe with the God-awful “Proper Chels” tagline.

After a slight delay at the turnstiles, we were in. The concourse under the stands at Southampton always seems to be particularly dark and gloomy. The difference between the inside and outside could not have been more spectacular. As I steadily climbed the small array of steps into the seating area, the brilliant blue sky – no clouds at all – and the low sun meant that the light was searing in its intensity. Even with sunglasses on, the light was blinding.

I soon located Alan and Gary. The game began with me still trying to work out who was playing and where. There were several changes since Boxing Day.

So –

Thibaut – Brana, JT, Gary, Filipe – Mikel and Matic – Cesc, Eden, Schurrle – Diego Costa.

The Chelsea choir were in good voice from the start. The pubs and bars in the city had obviously made a killing from hundreds of away fans. But that damned sun. Myself, and hundreds of others, ended up shielding our eyes from the sun with our hands. I mused that not so many years ago, away terraces at Chelsea games often used to house hundreds of fans raising their right arms, but with far more nefarious a reason.

It was odd for Chelsea to be attacking us in the first-half, but I am sure that the sun was a major factor. JT obviously thought that it was more advantageous for Frazer Forster to be facing it than our Thibaut. We began lively enough, but Southampton more than matched us. They threatened our goal but shots were saved and blocked.

The sun made viewing – and concentration – difficult. I didn’t enjoy it at all. I even missed the Southampton goal on seventeen minutes. I was too busy looking at the two managers, Mourinho and Koeman, observing the play like spectators at a tennis match, their heads moving as if synchronised; left, right, left, right. I looked up just as Mane slipped past JT to plant the ball past Courtois.

This was not expected; despite the home team’s fine form thus far this campaign. The home fans momentarily roared but then returned to a rather docile state. I looked over at a section of home fans adjacent to our segment; they looked neither happy nor even contented. I felt a tinge of pain – for want of a better word. It felt like they were making light of who we were.

“You bastards should be rocking the place. You’re beating the flippin’ league leaders here. We’re bloody Chelsea, not QPR. Make some noise you buggers.”

Their indifference annoyed me.

There was the occasional “Oh When The Saints”, but St. Mary’s was mainly quiet. Over on the far side, there was a “We March On” hoarding at the back of the stand, but St. Mary’s is quite a bland stadium, especially compared to the cramped yet wonderful and idiosyncratic Dell.

I will be honest. I thought we were pretty poor in the first-half. Yes, Southampton pressed us, but our verve and drive was sorely missing. With the sun still annoying the crap out of me, this was a game that I was simply not enjoying. The minutes passed. I was ready for a spirited Jose team talk at the break to inspire us in the second period.

Then, a miracle. A magnificent ball from Fabregas found Hazard. He soon brought the ball under control and quickly advanced. With amazing speed, he ran at two Southampton defenders, glided past both and shot – snap! – into the goal.

1-1.

Phew. Wild euphoria in the away section.

The whistle for half-time quickly blew.

The general agreement was that we had not deserved the equaliser. Saints had been the more impressive team.

Gary commented :

“Just like his goal at Hull last season.”

Down in the toilets at half-time, some Chelsea supporters celebrated Eden’s sublime goal by sparking up. To say that the air was thick with cigarette smoke would be an understatement. One bare-chested supporter began singing –

“Is there a barbecue?”

I think can still taste the bitterness of the smoke now.

As the teams assembled for the second-half, it surprised nobody that Andre Schurrle was the sacrificial lamb to allow Willian to join the action. Schurrle had not impressed in the first period and was the target of a little frustration from the fans around me. I spoke to Alan :

“Always difficult to come in to a starting eleven when you haven’t been playing regularly…”

Willian soon impressed with his – here I go again, I wish I could illustrate his play with words other than these – urgency and energy. Two shots were blocked. Then a Chelsea player fell in the box, but no penalty was given by the referee. Although the sun had now dropped below the level of the stand roof to my right and I could now watch in comfort, the challenge was simply too far away for me to judge. Fabregas – it was him – was booked for diving.

Chelsea had begun the second forty-five with much more aggression and intent. The away fans kept up a constant barrage of noise and we hoped for a goal to raise our spirits further. The home fans relied on an odd, new, chant of –

“Red and white” – clap, clap, “red and white” – clap, clap, “red and white” – clap, clap.

We now dominated the game and the Southampton defence needed to continually readjust as we came at them time after time. Hazard went close, then Diego Costa. At times our ball retention was a joy to watch, but it also became a little frustrating. We were overplaying at times. There was an annoying reluctance to shoot. We lost count of the number of times that intricate passes on the left ended up with a long ball out to Ivanovic on the right.

“Shoot for fuck sake.”

Extra artillery came in the form of Didier Drogba, who replaced Mikel, who had enjoyed a fine game. Our fabled striker soon linked up well with Diego Costa. Chances were rare, though. Neither ‘keeper were too busy. Courtois was more involved at Stoke.

Schneiderlin was booked – his second of the game – for a crude challenge on Hazard, and received his marching orders but there were only a few minutes left. Loic Remy replaced Diego Costa. A few late Chelsea chances peppered the home goal, but I was never convinced that a goal was forthcoming. This was a well-marshalled Southampton team and they had denied us our usual high number of efforts on goal. At the final whistle, it felt like a loss. There were groans on the way out from the assembled Chelsea masses – Manchester City were already two up at home to Burnley – and the game at Tottenham suddenly became even more important than before.

However, it had been a fair result. We had been poor in the first-half and despite our lengthy spells of possession, never looked like winning it.

The three of us met up outside and began the long slog back to the car. The temperature had dropped further and it was a tough walk back. I was in two minds whether or not to turn “Five Live” on, but I am a creature of habit. There was a tirade from Jose about a vendetta against Chelsea and our manager seemed supremely annoyed. Manchester City, possibly our only real threat for the title – though United are getting worryingly close – then imploded. And how.

Two Burnley goals in Manchester caused the three of us to bellow as my car headed towards the waiting M27.

“Yes!”

Football, eh?

On a day which marked the halfway stage in the campaign, it was left for our opponents in our very first game to take two massive points away from Manchester City. What an amazing and unexpected end to the first-half of the season.

We are 14-4-1 and on Thursday we go again.

Tales From The Top Of The Tree

Posted on December 24, 2014 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2014.

Thanks to the power brokers at the FA and Sky TV, our game at Stoke City was changed to a Monday 8pm evening kick-off. Not to worry; the city of Stoke-On-Trent is a relatively easy place to get to-and-from, especially since I now finish work at 3.30pm. I set off from Chippenham alone.

I texted Steve, visiting from California and en route to Staffordshire on the official club coach with his wife Sonia, with a message to say that I was “on the road.”

“Duck Kerouac.”

This was a solo-mission for me, for once. Last season, there was a similar Monday night away game tucked in just before the yuletide festivities. However, our dull 0-0 draw at Arsenal is remembered more by me for the atrocious weather conditions which were waiting for me during the last hour of my drive home. This was the occasion when my car became stranded in rising floodwater on a local road, only ten miles from home, and when I had to cadge a lift with a policeman and then walk home for the last three miles, sodden to the skin. Happy days.

In 2014, I hoped for no repeat.

I also hoped that there would be no repeat of our fixture at Stoke City’s Britannia Stadium last season, when they inflicted a painful 3-2 defeat. That away game in The Potteries represented a low-water mark for this particular website since the match report drew a season-long low number of views, by quite a large margin.

What’s the old saying?

“If you only support Chelsea when we win, don’t support us when we lose.”

At the time, I wondered if I ought to change my website tag line.

“Read when we’re winning. You only read when we’re winning.”

I ate up the miles on the familiar road north, stopping at the new Gloucester services where I was financially abused in order to eat a pasty and a sandwich.

“£7 please.”

“Merry Christmas.”

With a backdrop of music from The Buzzcocks, I thought a little about the game. With Manchester City now level with us at the very top of the table, the pressure was now on us to perform. This would be a tough physical, battle, no doubt. It had the potential to be a season-defining moment. Would we buckle under pressure or would we reconfirm our championship potential?

The time soon passed.

I turned off the A500 and was soon parked at my usual place, on the grass verge on the exit road. Around twenty cars were similarly parked.

It was 6.30pm.

Although I love revisiting my old college town, there would be no time, alas, to visit old haunts before the game kicked-off. My college years began in the autumn of 1984 and I found it hard to reconcile the fact that it all seemed relatively recent; for several moments during the evening my mind wandered back to fleeting thoughts of my student digs during that first year, my college mates – some of which I still see – and, of course, memories of Chelsea, and also Stoke City, games.

In that first term, from September to December, I travelled down to Stamford Bridge on four Saturdays, plus an away game at Sheffield Wednesday, but I also saw Stoke City play Watford at their old Victoria Ground. As students, we had a reduction in admission – maybe £2.50 and not £3 – and I remember standing in the side paddock below the main stand seats as Watford won 3-1. The gate was around 10,000. Stoke were truly awful in that season and finished rock bottom of Division One. It is a mystery to everyone that their three victories were against Manchester United, Arsenal and Sheffield Wednesday. The Victoria Ground featured three stands with seats and standing terraces in front, but with the standing-only Boothen End to the south. At the time, it was a neat stadium, but nothing special in my mind. Of course, with the advantage of hindsight – and maybe rose coloured spectacles – the old stadium’s charms seem more appealing. Each stand different, each with its own individual charms, and – of course – what I would pay to be able to lean on a crush barrier on a vast terrace such as The Boothen once again. It is pertinent to note that the noisy atmosphere associated with The Britannia these days is a very recent phenomenon. Stoke were never too noisy in my time.

Maybe the three seasons that I attended games there – a relegation season, plus two grey seasons in the Second Division – are not a suitable sample size.

On the walk from my car to the stadium, which is located in a part of the city called Sideway – pronounced “Siddaway, duck” – I walked past the Trent And Mersey Canal. An entrepreneuring fellow was selling oatcakes – the local delicacy, but I never was a fan – from his canal boat. The smoke rising from inside reminded me of the smoke associated with the selling of hot chestnuts and hot dogs on the Fulham Road in previous years. Does anyone else remember those little tin hot dog stands at Chelsea on match days, and the grubby hands of the chaps who sold them?

Shudder.

The main stand at The Brittania is surprisingly high. From the outside, it looks impressive. Unlike the single-tiered bowl at Southampton, Stoke City decided to go for a different approach in the design of their new stadium. The main stand is double-decked, but stands alone, not linked to the other structures. The away end, at the south end, stands alone too. The home end is linked to the other side stand. Maybe the intricacies and architectural anomalies of the old Victoria were purposefully repeated here.

The home end, also called The Boothen End, allows a little continuity for the residents. For those paying attention, the Boothen End was at the southern end of the old stadium, but is at the northern end of the new one. Is this a mistake? Not really, since the area of Boothen, roughly speaking, sits between the sites of the two stadia.

I made another pilgrimage to the grassed area behind the Boothen End to admire the magnificent series of statues which celebrate the city’s most famous son, Sir Stanley Matthews. Against the backdrop of the night sky, I managed to take a few dramatic photographs.

On my approach to the away turnstiles, I chatted briefly to a steward and I spoke about that awful 1984-1985 season.

“Keith Bertschin, George Berry, Steve Bould…”

Inside the away end – it is actually split 60/40 with home fans – I soon spotted Steve and Sonia. While the goalkeepers went through their pre-game routines, which involved fans taking a few selfies with Petr Cech, we chatted about our journeys to Stoke and our plans for the rest of the Christmas matches. A friend outside the away end had mentioned that the Stoke defenders would probably be niggling Diego Costa, especially, from the kick-off and he would need to be strong in mind and body not to get embroiled in any silliness.

I was positioned halfway back right behind the goal. Being an away season-ticket holder has its privileges. Alas Alan was unable to get time off work for this one – “thanks Sky” – but Gal was alongside me. A few Christmas songs were played on the PA and I was filled with a modicum of pride to see the sign on the home end :

“The Boothen End – Sponsored By Staffordshire University.”

…of course, back in my day, it was the more down-at-heel “North Staffs Poly.”

Although it had been a blustery walk to the ground, inside it was relatively OK.

I still remember the bitterness of our cup game up there in 2003; the coldest that I have ever been at a Chelsea game. I’m still thawing out from that one.

Jose Mourinho again played Matic alongside Mikel, which pushed Fabregas alongside Hazard and Willian. This would always be a physical battle. We were ready for the Stoke onslaught. Steve had asked me about the Stoke atmosphere, but the noise levels weren’t great before the game. The Chelsea fans, however, were in buoyant form.

In parts of Manchester, others were looking on.

Chelsea – with blue socks, I’m still not a fan – had a perfect start. Hazard seemed to be in acres of space on the left – maybe an optical illusion caused by the fact that the main stand sits way back from the action – advanced and played the ball in to Brana. His shot was deflected for a corner. Cesc sent over a fabulous corner and, through the lens of my camera, I saw at least three Chelsea players converge to meet the ball. After a slight delay, the three thousand away fans soon realised that the net had rippled and we were one up.

Get in.

It took ages for anyone around me to realise that JT had headed home.

Alan, South London : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, South Stoke : “COMLD, duck.”

Steve, South Philly : “I haven’t even sat down.”

Chris, South Stoke : “It’s OK. Neither have I.”

We completely dominated the game for the next ten minutes and the home team hardly touched the ball. We bossed it and our play was crisp and purposeful. However, the rough tackles were starting to mount up. It took a full twenty minutes for Stoke City to muster much in their attacking third; when they did, the home stands finally delivered some formidable noise. Until that point, Chelsea had been in control off the pitch too. This was my first-ever midweek Chelsea game at Stoke – when was the last one? – and I was loving it. A good game, a noisy away section, good times.

An awful challenge on Eden Hazard by Phil Bardsley, down on the left touchline, made the entire away end howl. OK, I was one hundred yards away, but this was an ugly, brutal assault on our supremely gifted magician. I was praying for a red card to be handed out but was dismayed to see a yellow. Mark Hughes – I loved him as a Chelsea player, but those days are long gone – was full of rage, throwing his arms around in a theatrical display of histrionics. It was akin to the movements shown by matadors or variety performers cracking whips. Maybe Hughes thought he would be getting points for it.

What a fool.

Hughes and Mourinho came together momentarily, and Hughes’ tantrums continued. For the rest of the game, Jose silently stalked his technical area, his presence probably annoying Hughes further. I lost count of the times that Hughes threw his arms down amid a verbal onslaught to the poor fourth official.

Courtois reacted brilliantly to push Nzonzi’s deflected low drive away for a corner. The corner, like others, was superbly claimed by our young goalkeeper. Although Petr Cech is a superb goalkeeper, his control of his six yard box – for a tall man – hasn’t always been great. A goal which was scored last season on the same ground is a case in point. In contrast, Courtois seems peerless. With the ball lofted high in to our box, I am always confident that Thibaut will claim it.

This was a fine game, but there were niggles.

The referee needed to talk to several players at a Stoke corner as players scrambled for an advantage. After a few half-hearted Stoke threats were repelled – a Cahill block comes to mind – we regained the advantage.

After good work from Matic, an oblique pass into space from Fabregas was gorgeous, but Diego Costa shot wide. Our lone striker enjoyed a fine half, running well with the ball, keeping the ball tight, but also his movement off the ball was also exemplary. There were fine performances all over, though Willian, despite his energy, was delaying his final pass which caused the away fans to grow restless. He seemed to spend his time scuttling sideways – in Sideway – rather than penetrating the defence with a pass. However, it was a minor complaint.

At the other end, more comfortable leaps from Thibaut kept Stoke at bay.

Ex Chelsea season-ticket holder Peter Crouch was having a tough ride from our supporters –

“Does the circus know you’re here?”

At the break, the mood was optimistic.

“We need a second, though, Gal. One goal isn’t enough. We need those three points. Massive game tonight.”

We again dominated as the second period began. Willian shot at goal, then continued to do so at regular intervals throughout the half. Eden Hazard was quite magical all night long and it is an absolute pleasure to be able to watch him perform week in, week out. His art is his own, and Sir Stanley Matthews would have enjoyed our Belgian’s performance in his home town.

The pitch was Eden’s.

One dribble down the left went on for an age. It was just beautiful. With his rather chunky thighs, and his low centre of gravity, he is such an obdurate individual once he has the ball at his mercy. I am reminded of Bryon Butler’s description of Diego Maradona in the 1986 game against England.

“Turns like a little eel…and comes away from trouble…little squat man.”

That second goal was elusive, though. For all our possession, there was nothing. Substitute Charlie Adam shot narrowly wide, though I was convinced that it would be the equaliser.

Nerves.

Plenty of them.

“We’re starting to tire, Gal.”

On seventy-eight minutes, the ball was played by a raiding Eden Hazard towards Cesc Fabregas. His first touch wasn’t perfect and the ball was flicked up, but he was able to stretch for a second one, which resulted in the ball almost apologetically trickling over the line, with Begovic flat-footed.

60% of the south stand erupted.

GET IN.

Inside I was boiling, but I remained cool.

I snapped Fabregas’ joyous slide towards the baying away support on film.

Cesctasy.

We could, finally, relax.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away.”

Andre Schurrle, a late substitute for Willian, shot low but Begovic saved. Diego Drogba replaced the excellent Diego Costa. Sadly, Eden Hazard was injured after another errant Stoke tackle. The substitute Kurt Zouma was momentarily deployed within our midfield ranks as the five minutes of extra-time ran out.

“Kurt Zouma – he plays where he wants.”

On the walk down the hill to my car, I was interested to hear the comments of the home supporters.

Asmir Begovic was mentioned scathingly, though the most interesting point of view was about one of our players.

“Matic is an absolutely brelliant play’yeh.”

“He es, ent he? He wens the ball, then pushes on.”

Ah that Stoke accent.

I reached my car and threw my pullover and jacket in the back seat. I flicked the CD on and – no word of a lie – the Buzzcocks sang :

“Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.”

Perfect.

I had my usual “see if I can get back on to the M6 in two minutes” race along the A500.

I did.

With our position at the top of the tree secured for Christmas, I could relax and quickly review my albeit brief time spent in The Potteries. It had reminded me so much of an infamous away win at Ewood Park against a thuggish Blackburn Rovers team during our 2004-2005 championship-winning campaign. We rose against the physicality of another Mark Hughes team that evening and many said that it was a watershed moment in our season. Ten years on, I had similar thoughts.

It had ben a brelliant naght, duck.

Tales From Chelsealand

Posted on December 15, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Hull City : 13 December 2014.

With the talk of an “invincible” league season now behind us, I was hoping for business as usual with the home game against Hull City. Thus far in the league, Chelsea had racked up seven straight wins at Stamford Bridge and, at least on paper, win number eight appeared to be within our grasp.

“Not being disrespectful to our opponents, blah, blah, blah…”

I was back in the driving seat after having Wednesday “off” after the trip to The Bridge with PD and Parky for the Sporting game. I can’t tell you how lovely it was to be simply able to fall asleep in the car after a Chelsea match for once. Sheer bliss. It was a crisp and sunny winter morning and I soon picked-up Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim. The three ghosts of Chelsea past, present and future were on our way to Chelsealand once again.

On the way in to town, Sham 69 were the band of choice.

“Hurry up Chrissy, come on – we’re going down the pub.”

We hit The Goose at around midday. I bought a round of drinks – “Come on Scrooge, you tight git” – and we said hello to a few pals. The usual suspects were huddled together in the back bar and a few fellow drinkers were watching the game on TV. Patrick Bamford soon scored for Middlesbrough in their match against his former team – and our League Cup opponents on Tuesday – Derby County. I approved of ‘Boro’s white diagonal on their red shirt, though it is far from traditional.

There were a few moments spent talking about Munich with a couple of mates; I don’t know about anybody else, but just the mere mention of the city elicits a warm glow.

Three special guests popped in to say “hi.” Steve and Sonia, with their young daughter Yasmin, live just outside Sacramento, the state capital of California. Steve was last over for the run-in to the 2010 Double. He was a lucky man; over on work for a couple of months, his stay was extended because of the volcanic ash cloud. This would be Yasmin’s first ever game at Stamford Bridge. She was a picture of excitable giddiness. Yasmin plays football in the team which Steve coaches and is quite a rabid fan. It was fantastic to see them all again. They soon shot off though. Obviously, the lure of a hot portion of chips from a nearby café was stronger than staying in the pub to hear how Parky took on a train carriage of Southampton fans in 1971. Not to worry, I would see them all again at a few more matches over the next three weeks.

On the walk to the stadium, I noted a few changes to the shops lining the North End Road. One of the recent additions is an “Argos.” For those readers not from the UK and therefore not au fait with this particular retail establishment, “Argos” is a unique type of shop over here. There are no – or at least very few – products on show in the shops, but all of the goods are tucked away in a stock-room behind the counter. You check products for sale in a catalogue within the store and fill in a docket, which you hand to an assistant. Ten minutes later, your purchase is handed to you. It’s a rather peculiar, but typically British, and perhaps rather eccentric shop. If I am honest, I am surprised it still exists. Fancy buying products without actually seeing them?

I have reason to believe that Brendan Rodgers buys his Liverpool players from “Argos.”

I was soon inside Stamford Bridge. Hull City were well-supported with 1,400 away fans; a good showing. I soon spotted Steve, Sonia and Yasmin; they had fantastic seats in the very front row of the Shed Upper. I promised Steve that I’d take a few, admittedly long-range, photos of them during the match. It is a big regret that my parents didn’t bring along a camera for my first-ever Chelsea game way back in 1974. To be honest, this is very surprising, since we have hundreds of photographs of “my early years” to this day. In fact, in all of my first ten seasons of match-going, I have one solitary photograph – Butch Wilkins shaking hands with the Southampton captain in 1976 – and it annoys me no end. However, I have certainly made up for it since. Along with a few others – Dave, Peter, Cathy and my mate Alan – I revel in taking my camera along to each and every game I attend. Without a camera, I’d feel odd. I guess we are known as “the Chelsea photographers”. I have to chuckle when some of my photographs appear on various internet forums; it’s nice though. Who’d have thought that the grainy photo I took of The Shed in 1994 would have people reminiscing about terraces twenty years on.

“The Liquidator” played and the teams marched on.

So, the Lions versus the Tigers, a match-up which must make the fellows in the Detroit branch of the Chelsea Family feel slightly odd.

There were new faces, as expected, from Wednesday. We began brightly. After just six minutes, Mikel – doing what he does best – robbed a dithering Hull midfielder of the ball and Matic – doing what he does best – advanced a few yards and passed the ball to Oscar. Our slight but skilful Brazilian looked up and – doing what he does best – sent over an inch perfect cross into a parcel of space for Eden Hazard to attack. Eden rose unhindered and headed down and past McGregor in the Shed End goal.

My immediate thought was :

“He has headed that right towards Yasmin and her parents in the Shed Upper. How perfect.”

My second thought was :

“That wasn’t too dissimilar to the first goal that I ever saw at Stamford Bridge when a Mickey Droy cross found a leaping Ian Hutchinson, unmarked, at the North stand end, and whose header went down into the Newcastle goal past Iam Mcfaul way back in 1974.

Snap.

The only difference is that nobody was on hand to photograph my joyous reaction. In 2014, I did the honours.

Snap.

Little Yasmin’s face was a picture.

With Chelsea a goal to the good, we enjoyed a pleasing spell of football, but then lost our way a little. Hull City enjoyed a little possession, though never really troubled our defence. On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding Lower tried its best to get The Shed to sing. After a poor response, they turned their attention elsewhere.

“East Stand, East Stand, give us a song.”

Blimey, good luck with that, I thought.

Well, what a surprise. Several fans in the East Stand responded and within seconds the whole stadium was echoing to the sound of Lord Of The Dance.

The East Stand as cheerleaders? Another miracle at Christmas.

To be blunt, it was a disappointing half after the early goal. Not for the first time this season, Ivanovic seemed to be our most active player, forever involved on that right flank. After an initial flurry, the creative midfielders created little.

Paul Canoville was on the pitch at half-time. Was it really over 32 years ago that I saw his home debut in a 2-1 defeat to the hands of a fine Luton Town side?

The second-half began and referee Chris Foy continued to hand out seasonal cards. I didn’t really see the Willian “dive” in the first-half, but I must admit I thought that Diego Costa’s fall to the ground in the second-half was rather theatrical. Soon after, Filipe Luis stretched out a leg to claim a loose ball, and Tom Huddlestone went “over the top.” To me and PD – not best placed, obviously – the tackle looked 50/50. How wrong were we?

OK, with our visitors down to ten men, let’s go to work.

However, rather than capitalise, our play became increasingly ragged and the atmosphere turned rather nervy with every misplaced pass and back-pass to Petr Cech. We again lacked real, punishing, width.

Thankfully, salvation came on 68 minutes. Eden Hazard collected the ball and danced into the Hull defence before playing a one-two with Ivanovic (Joey Jones was never this far forward) before playing in Diego Costa with the ball of the match. Diego Costa delicately clipped the ball past McGregor and the ball trundled over the line, to be met by a triumphant roar from all four stands.

The game was safe.

Jose made three late substitutions but we failed to add to our goal tally.

It had been a tough game to watch and not particularly pleasing on the eye. However, with Manchester City winning at Leicester – for now “Frank” or “Lamps” has been replaced by the little less cosy “Lampard” – another home win was hugely valuable.

We go again at Derby and Stoke.

Tales From The Road To Berlin

Posted on December 13, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sporting Lisbon : 10 December 2014.

With our advancement into the knock-out phase of the Champions League already assured, the home game against Sporting Lisbon was another one of those rarities; a match which was, on the face of it, of no consequence. Not only were we through, but we were also guaranteed first place in our group. Some of my friends were already well advanced in planning potential trips to cities in February. Return visits to Basel, Leverkusen, Turin and Paris loomed.

Having missed-out on the 6-0 drubbing of Maribor in October, my last Champions League night was the tetchy 1-1 draw with Schalke in September. That draw meant that our trip out to the Portuguese capital became an important “must-win.” On a sultry night at Sporting’s home stadium, Chelsea triumphed in a very entertaining match. We haven’t looked back since.

PD took a turn to drive to London for this one. I commented to Parky –

“The weather will be a bit different tonight compared to the T-shirts and shorts weather in Lisbon, mate.”

Ah, Lisbon 2014 was a great trip indeed. Was it already over two months ago?

On the elevated section of the M4, with the night having fallen, and with neon advertising signs and a smattering of impressive new buildings welcoming us once again to England’s capital, I summed up my feelings from the back seat of PD’s car.

“I always feel like this road, from Heathrow in, seems like we’re entering London through the front door.”

They agreed.

It felt like we were getting the red carpet treatment – for us Chelsea fans, maybe the blue carpet – as I spent a few seconds lost in thought. I dwelt on the number of dignitaries, politicians, world leaders, heads of state, film stars, pop stars and rock stars who have entered London via that same route.

It was definitely an “in through the front door” moment. And Chelsea was just around the corner. I experienced a slight tingle of excitement.

There were lit Christmas trees lined up outside the Fuller’s brewery at Chiswick.

Another tingle.

We were inside The Goose just before 6pm. It didn’t appear to be particularly busy. This was another sell-out though, for a game which would be inherently bereft of high drama, due to the very nature of the game. Whether or not the 40,000 fans would be “the right type of fans” – think noise – is another matter of course.

We heard through the grapevine, while supping pints of lager and cider, that both Nemanja Matic and Jon Obi Mikel were starting. My first thought was –

“Ha. Good old Jose. A Mourinho masterclass.”

Following our narrow defeat at Newcastle – another game I missed – I felt that too many fans throughout Planet Chelsea were too quick to criticise our much-maligned Nigerian midfielder. To be honest, I felt that we played pretty well in the first-half and, over the entire game, I agreed with the manager’s view that we deserved more. It wasn’t a time to studiously re-evaluate “what went wrong.” It was, simply, one of those games. However, too many fans were too quick to jump to the “Matic Good, Mikel Bad” conclusion in my view. If Jon Obi Mikel is good enough for Jose Mourinho, then he should be good enough for plasterers in Peckham, graphic designers in Guildford, warehouse workers in Wichita and dentists in Dallas.

That in the very next game Mourinho decided to play them both was just delicious.

While I was lining up at the turnstiles, I glimpsed my match ticket.

Chelsea vs. Sporting Clubbe De Portugal.

It took me by surprise even though I had seen a similar sign at their stadium in Lisbon.

Not Sporting Lisbon, then?

This was evidently another example of us, the English, getting the name of a famous European team completely wrong. Go to Italy and talk about “Inter Milan” and you will be met with puzzled looks from locals, maybe similar to those which greet Americans talking about rest rooms to the English. “Inter Milan” do not exist; if anything, it sounds like a clumsy amalgamation of the two clubs, like “Rangers Celtic” or “Liverpool Everton.” So, neither does “Sporting Lisbon” exist. From henceforth, I will seize the moment and call them “Sporting.” Until I forget.

As a tube train rattled by, just beyond the boundary wall outside the Matthew Harding, I thought back to the times of my youth when I travelled up to games with my parents and we would take the District Line from Earl’s Court to Fulham Broadway. The train would plunge underground after leaving West Brompton, swing west, then emerge in the day light and the scruffy embankment – festooned with litter and weeds – supporting the north terrace, would appear just yards away. I always used to edge over to the left-hand side of the train compartment, just so I could set eyes on Stamford Bridge – my mecca – for a few fleeting moments. I remember the base of that floodlight pylon, then a quick view of the West Stand roof, then the buildings of the Oswald Stoll Foundation. The Bridge was gone in a flash, but the memory is etched in my mind.

Inside Stamford Bridge, I was immediately impressed with the three thousand away fans who had made the trip, but I had momentarily overlooked the fact that Sporting were still in with a shout of progressing. We had been promised an appearance by Ruben Loftus-Cheek at some stage during the game; I had seen him play at Yankee Stadium in 2013, but this would be his official debut. The pairing of Matic and Mikel meant that Fabregas was playing in a more forward role. Maybe this wasn’t a game of no consequence after all. Maybe these fine-tunings might come to fruition come May, or June. Elsewhere, Kurt Zouma was alongside Gary Cahill, Petr Cech was back between the posts, Dave was playing right-back, Filipe Luis was at left-back and Fabregas was alongside Salah and Schurrle. Diego Costa was up top.

We were blessed with two early goals.

After just eight minutes, we were awarded a penalty when Filipe Luis was bundled to the floor just inside the Sporting box. Cesc Fabregas struck the ball home. On sixteen minutes, a fine move involving Matic picking out Schurrle, resulted in our recently-overlooked German exquisitely firing a low shot home.

We were 2-0 up and we were coasting.

Alan made a remark about the Brazilians, possibly in shock after their World Cup humiliation in the summer, doing well so far this season. Oscar has been in good form and I like Willian, though some don’t. Ramires has been OK, though not often used. Schurrle, the World Cup victor, however has been less successful. In some respects, the reverse might have been expected. Fair play to our Brazilian three; well done to them for digging in and bouncing back well.

We traded chances for a while. It wasn’t a bad game. The three thousand visitors from Lisbon kept singing, though it wasn’t one of the loudest away supports I have ever witnessed on these European nights. One of their songs surprised me; a Portuguese version of “Take Me Home Country Road.” I know that there is a bit of a link between Sporting and Manchester United – Nani, Ronaldo, Rojo – but I honestly didn’t know that it included the exchange of songs.

Nemanja Matic came close with a rising volley from twenty-five yards. I was behind the course of the ball all of the way; I’m still waiting for the net to ripple. I joked with Alan :

“Mikel would have scored that.”

I soon received a text from a good mate in the US who said :

“Mikel would have scored that.”

More efforts on goal were exchanged as the game wore on. In the stadium, there didn’t seem to be any atmosphere, as such, at all.

In the match programme, there was a feature on Vienna 1994, John Spencer and all that.

In the second-half, Schurrle soon fired over from a free-kick. Sporting quietened the docile Stamford Bridge crowd further when they nabbed a goal back. A crisp shot from Silva was fired low past Cech.

Game on? Not really. Only a wonderful finger-tip save from Patricio – their hero in the away game – kept Mo Salah from scoring with a fine shot. On fifty-five minutes, Cesc Fabregas sent a dipping corner into the box. Both Zouma and Cahill rose, but the latter managed to get his head to the ball. It was undoubtedly goal-bound, but none other than Jon Obi Mikel was on hand – seemingly not offside – to touch it over the line.

He scores when he wants, you know.

Mourinho rang the changes in the last fifteen minutes with Remy, Ramires and Ruben all coming on. There are high hopes for our Ruben. He was involved in a few moves during his ten minutes of debut action. Let’s hope that he becomes a part of our history at this club.

It had been a reasonable enough game. Another Chelsea win. Mustn’t grumble.

In 2015, more foreign fields await.

The story continues.

Tales From Johnny Neal’s Blue And White Army

Posted on December 5, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 December 2014.

In my book, there is no bigger game each season than Chelsea vs. Tottenham. This was a match that I had been relishing for a while. Midway through my working day, the excitement was rising with each “match-day thought” that entered my mind. There were the usual nerves, too. I’m more nervous about Spurs at home than any other. There’s that unbeaten run – stretching back to 1990-1991 – which needed to be preserved. I am sure that other Chelsea fans would only be happy at 9.30pm with a win, but I was a little more pragmatic;

Anything but a loss please Ye Footballing Gods.

That is not to say that I was unduly worried too much.

The only negative thought fluttering in and out of my consciousness as the hours raced by was the thought that our team would be missing Diego Costa.

I wondered who Jose Mourinho would turn to.

Didier Drogba?

Loic Remy?

Only time would tell.

When I left the office at 3.30pm, there was a supreme sense of joy that I would soon be on the road with three good friends – Glenn, PD and Lord Parky – and an evening’s football lie ahead.

To paraphrase Tommy Johnson – “Tottenham At Home – Love It.”

PD, bless him, kindly volunteered for driving duties and so I was able to relax a little. The four of us had enjoyed the From The Jam gig in Frome ten days previously and our spirits were buoyed by a cracking ‘eighties compilation CD which accompanied our trip east. I remember mentioning to somebody at the gig that there was a spell a few years ago that as soon as we hit the traffic at Hammersmith, The Jam would always seem to be playing on my CD player. On this occasion, PD had changed the CD and to a “Suggs Selection” and, yes – lo and behold – as soon as we neared the church underneath the M4, “Beat Surrender” came on.

“Come on boy, come on girl.
Succumb to the beat surrender.
Come on boy, come on girl.
Succumb to the beat surrender.

All the things that I care about.
Are packed into one punch.
All the things that I’m not sure about.
Are sorted out at once.

And as it was in the beginning.
So shall it be in the end.
That bullshit is bullshit.
It just goes by different names.”

We were parked just before 6pm and The Goose was predictably heaving.

As soon as I walked in, I was pleased to meet up with Danny and his girlfriend Sonja. I got to know Danny , who hails from the wonderfully named Rancho Cucamonga in California – through my trips to the US over the past ten seasons and I first met him – to talk to – in Texas in 2009. This was his third trip over to England to see the boys play – he was at Sunderland on Saturday – but this was Sonja’s inaugural visit to London and England. I introduced them to my closest Chelsea mates and I had to smile when Sonja exclaimed that she was the “token female.” I quickly looked up and scanned the pub. Of course, Sonja wasn’t wrong. In a pub full of Chelsea fans, no more than 5% were female. I presume this came as a slight shock to Sonja. It reminded me of a similar comment by another American female last season who was amazed by the lack of the fairer sex in and around the pubs at Chelsea.

I quickly remembered some of my many visits to various baseball stadia – plus the Chelsea games I have seen too – in the US over the years. There were, indeed, many more females at the games in the US than there are at football in the UK. No time for too much social commentary on this, but I would suggest that this shows that football is still predominantly a male preserve in the UK.

In Chelsea’s case, it remains a preserve of middle-aged men with receding hairlines and a predilection for trainers, polo-shirts, lager and taking the piss out of each other.

Proper.

As we left the pub on a cold, but thankfully not bitter, evening, we all wanted to make sure that we were in the stadium well in advance of the minute of appreciation and applause for our former manager John Neal, who sadly passed away at the age of 82 the day after our last home game against West Brom.

There was a nice piece devoted to John Neal in the night’s programme. He was a much-loved man by us Chelsea fans of a certain generation. I only met him in person on one occasion. Back in the autumn of 1995, Chelsea celebrated the 25^thanniversary of the 1970 F.A. Cup win with a pre-match gathering of former players in the bar which used to be called “Drake’s” (named after our 1955 Championship-winning manager). In those days, only CPO share-holders were allowed in to “Drake’s” (which nestles under the north-east corner of the Matthew Harding, but is renamed these days and is, presumably, one of the many corporate suites at Stamford Bridge). On that particular day – before a game with Southampton – Chelsea legends such as Peter Osgood, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Bonetti and Ron Harris attracted the attention of the Chelsea fans in attendance. Away in a quiet booth – I can picture it now – sat John Neal and his assistant manager Ian McNeill, quietly eating a meal, generally being ignored by the majority. A few fans dropped in to say “hello” – I am sure that it was John Neal’s first visit back to Stamford Bridge since his early retirement in the mid-‘eighties – but I was shocked that these two figures from our relatively recent past were being generally shunned.

My only conclusion was that the Chelsea fans present were so in awe of the heralded 1970 team, that the appearance of John and Ian was – wrongly, of course – overlooked.

I made sure that I said a few words of welcome and gratitude and was very pleased that they allowed me to have my photograph taken with the quietly spoken former manager and his trusted Scottish assistant. I did – to be blunt – wonder why the two of them had been invited on a day when a different team was being honoured. In retrospect, the two should have had been the centrepiece of a ten year anniversary of the 1983-1984 season a year previously, but that is a moment lost forever.

Looking back, John Neal had a very mixed reign as Chelsea manager. He joined us after a spell as the Middlesbrough manager, and his teams were relatively steady, occasionally entertaining, but playing to low attendances in the First Division. Chelsea, in 1981, were dire and entrenched in the Second Division. I remember being hardly enamoured by his appointment. I can easily recollect attending John Neal’s first ever league game as Chelsea manager in August 1981 and the photograph of him on the front cover of the programme, standing proudly by the newly-adorned Chelsea crest above the tunnel, is quite an iconic image. After two years of poor performances, narrowly avoiding relegation in 1983, it is – with hindsight – a miracle that Chelsea maintained the services of John Neal over the summer of 1983.

1983-1984 was a different story of course. We plundered the lower leagues for talent during the close-season and John Neal’s true worth as a man-manager bore fruit from the very first game. For anyone who was at the 5-0 annihilation of promotion favourites Derby County, wasn’t it fantastic?

Kerry Dixon scored twice, we triumphed 5-0 and the tube was literally bouncing back to Earl’s Court after that one.

John Neal – for that 1983-1984 season alone – must rank as one of my favourite Chelsea managers.

It is a shame that we never saw him back at Stamford Bridge over the past twenty years or so. I believe that he suffered from dementia towards the end.

The Boys In Blue From Division Two would have loved to have said “thanks” one more time.

Thankfully, the timings were fine and I was inside Stamford Bridge with five minute to spare. As I stepped inside the seating area, I noticed that the main flood lights had been dimmed and, instead, the advertising boards were shining bright along with smaller strip lighting in and around the stadium. It was a scene which was quite similar to the pre-match routine at Manchester City a few seasons back, with the lights dimmed and blue moons appearing on the TV screens.

It looked stunning to be honest – other worldly – though my immediate reaction was “what the bloody hell is this, more contrived nonsense?”

The two teams appeared from the tunnel, but the lights were still dimmed. Only when all the players were walking on the deep green sward of the pitch were the main lights turned on.

Another full house, though the Tottenham section took forever to fill.

The two sets of players assembled in the centre-circle and Neil Barnett spoke. The minute of applause in memory of John Neal, bless him, was loud and heart-felt. A chant of “Johnny Neal’s Blue And White Army” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.

God bless you, John.

Of course, Jose Mourinho had decided on Didier Drogba to lead the line. My choice would have been the nimbler Loic Remy, but – once again – what do I know?

Right then, game on, and a near twenty-five year record to defend.

We had agreed in the chuckle bus on the drive to London that Tottenham were a “hot and cold” team thus far this season. In the first twenty minutes, they were warmer than us. Harry Kane (“he’s one of our own” sang the away fans, as if it mattered) threatened Thibaut Courtois’ goal with a header which rattled the crossbar. The same player twisted away from Gary Cahill and screwed a shot wide. My pre-match nerves were seemingly vindicated. It took a while for a Chelsea player to threaten the Spurs goal; a Cesc Fabregas shot curled into Loris’ clasp.

At around 8.02pm, I decided to take a comfort break.

At around 8.04pm, I approached the refreshment stand with a pie in my sights. I glanced up at the TV set above the servers (blimey, imagine that in 1983 – a TV set by the tea bar) and spotted Eden Hazard clean through. Before he had struck the ball, I heard the roar of the crowd. The TV had a split-second time delay and I then saw the ball flash past Loris into the net.

I returned back to Alan and Glenn with a chicken and mushroom pie and a very big smile on my face.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Before I could let it all sink in, Oscar had tee’d up Didier – mmm, maybe offside? – who calmly slotted the ball past Loris.

2-0 to Chelsea and my magic pie had done the trick.

I confided in Alan…”you know, to be honest, over the years…there have been times when Tottenham have played pretty well here. How they have never beaten us here is a mystery. And here they are again. Playing well, but now 2-0 down. I know we say we hate Spurs, but they must fucking loathe us.”

Alan agreed.

And then we both smiled.

The highs and lows of the rest of the half?

The high was a sublime volleyed cross field ball by Fabregas to Hazard – I think – which was pinpoint perfect and with just the right amount of dip and fade.

The low was me finishing my magic pie; no more goals ensued.

The noise was pretty decent in the first forty-five minutes, though the volume noticeably fell away towards the end.

At half time, two stalwarts from the John Neal era were on the pitch with Neil Barnett; Pat Nevin and Nigel Spackman. Nevin is still much revered, Spackman not so, after his sporadic comments about his spell at Liverpool and a few thinly-disguised digs at Chelsea.

Neil then spoke about “two girls from America – Lisa and Sonja (yes, that Sonja) who are at Stamford Bridge for the first time tonight, with their blokes Joe and Danny (yes, that Danny)…enjoy the match.” There was a picture of Joe and Lisa in the programme; I remembered Joe from a few pre-season tours too.

A nice touch. I texted Danny to see if Sonja was OK.

“Sonja is singing more than the chaps in the row in front.”

Good work.

Prior to the second-half, Kurt Zouma replaced Gary Cahill, who had battled on after an early collision with Vertonghen, but who was obviously unable to resume.

Nemanja Matic, possibly my player of the season thus far, was stupidly booked for a clumsy challenge on Kane.

“Silly Alan. Just silly. We’re two-up, for heavens’ sake. What’s the likelihood of them scoring from that move? 5%? Silly challenge.”

The Spurs dirge “Oh When The Spurs…” was roundly booed, but there wasn’t a great deal of Chelsea noise to take its place.

Tottenham were continuing to have a lot of the ball, but on the instances when we picked them off and moved forward we just looked more cohesive. Drogba shot from outside the box, but it was an easy save for Loris. Jose then replaced Didier with Remy. We enjoyed some sublime twists and shimmies from Eden Hazard throughout the night. I enjoyed the energy of Willian too. With around twenty minutes remaining, Dave played in Remy inside the box. Showing great strength to hold off Vertonghen, he nimbly side-stepped a challenge and passed the ball into the Spurs goal.

3-0 and the game was safe.

Fantastic stuff.

1 December 1990 to 3 December 2014.

25 games, 25 seasons, undefeated.

15-10-0

In the south-east corner, there was a fire-drill.

Happy days.

We saw off the last minutes of the game with the minimum of fuss, though the news of Manchester City’s 4-1 win at Sunderland was disappointing. As, of course, was the news that Arsenal had beaten Southampton 1-0 with a goal in the very last minute.

Not to worry. We’re the ones to catch.

Let’s keep this beautiful thing going.

Tales From The Chelsea Die-Hards

Posted on November 25, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 22 November 2014

Although it was only two weeks since our last game at Anfield, the gap of inactivity seemed a lot longer. Not to worry. As so many Chelsea friends remarked on Facebook, with the home game against West Bromwich Albion cheering us all up, “proper football is back.” I had been relishing Saturday 22 November for quite a while. Not only a Chelsea home league game in the afternoon, but there was a From The Jam gig to attend with some mates in my home town in the evening.

Ah, the twin obsessions of football and music (in that order)…the passions which constantly bring enjoyment to millions of Englishmen (and women). I always used to say that if I met somebody new, either through work or mutual friends, and that person didn’t care for either football or music (in that order), then I knew we wouldn’t hit it off. I think that this still holds true. So, if, dear reader, you have stumbled across this website and your two passions are cricket and cars, or science fiction and soaps, or golf and gardening, it’s probably best that you scarper. And it is probably best that you check your search engines on your computer.

The drive to London was uneventful, but it was just pleasurable to be heading to Stamford Bridge again. If the game at Anfield seemed like ages ago, then the QPR home match seemed ridiculously distant. The weather outside was grey and murky; it was, in fact, typical November weather. Before the game, there was a busy period of meeting up with friends in a couple of pubs. It was a pleasure to sort out a ticket for Ryan, a native of New Hampshire, who was visiting Stamford Bridge for the first time on this overcast November afternoon. It was also a pleasure to meet Kevin, an ex-pat now residing in Connecticut, who was back at HQ for the first time for a few years. It seems that every year – every match maybe – my Chelsea family grows and grows. In both pubs, the air was warm and muggy. Outside, too, it was surprisingly mild. The onset of winter was holding off for at least one more day. There was the usual banter in the pub. Yep, proper football was back. Although my interest in international football continues to wane – thank heavens that the third of the international breaks are behind us now – it still throws up occasionally interesting or mildly entertaining stories.

[Clears throat, coughs, adjusts tie and looks around the room to see if anyone is still paying attention]…

Around ten years ago, when I used to work for a different logistics company, I used to book consignments for my client for Spain and Portugal through our office which was based in Dover. The small team in Dover was managed by a chap called Allen Bula, a likeable and affable man, who also used to do some scouting for Dover Athletic. His team was Arsenal, so amid many phone calls from myself which used to involve booking full loads to Madrid, or smaller consignments to Barcelona, Cadiz, or Valencia, there would be the inevitable banter between the two of us. I met him on a couple of occasions. In around 2006, he left P&O Ferrymasters to work for a logistics company in Slovakia called Steeltrans. Allen still stayed in touch and there was the occasional email, but we only used his new company a few times. After a while, I heard that his company were sponsoring the MFK Kosice club, one of the provincial teams in Slovakia. We then heard that Allen was working for Kosice as their football and academy manager. I was suitably impressed. A few years ago, lo and behold, we heard that Allen had landed the job of Gibraltar team manager. Allen was originally from that rocky outcrop at the base of Spain, and we guessed that he had “gone home” to answer the call. Imagine my joy when we heard that Gibraltar had been given full UEFA status and that Allen was now a fully-fledged international football manager. It’s quite a story. Of course, I have been watching Gibraltar’s progress on the international stage over the past two years with growing fondness; some recent heavy defeats have been hard to take, but I’m almost tempted to travel up to Hampden Park to see how they fare against Scotland in the current Euro 2016 qualifying campaign. A recent 0-4 loss in Germany was a mighty improvement after two back to back 7-0 defeats against Poland and Eire.

[This is all very well, mate, but what has this got to do with Chelsea?]…

While at MFK Kosice, Allen Bula uncovered the talents of none other than Nemanja Matic.

So, Allen has gone from freight forwarder to international football manager. He was even featured in a documentary about Gibraltar on Channel Five during the week. There’s hope for me yet. I fancy applying for the Swedish women’s beach volleyball coach. Watch this space.

On the walk to Stamford Bridge, I spotted a facsimile of a World War One recruitment poster which was displayed in the middle of the Fulham Road. The club historian Rick Glanvill was stood close by. What a lovely touch; it was a fine tribute to those young men who gave their all during that most calamitous of conflicts.

DO YOU WANT TO BE A CHELSEA DIE-HARD?

IF SO JOIN THE 17^TH. BATT. MIDDLESEX RGT.

“THE OLD DIE-HARDS”

And follow the lead given by your Favourite Football Players.

(Incidentally, I found it interesting that the term “die-hard” was used in this 1914 poster. It is hardly used in England these days, but I do note that it is used more regularly in North America to describe fandom. I wonder why.)

I noted several Chelsea supporters, scarves on – they looked like tourists – heading away from Stamford Bridge, scowling. I presumed that their search for tickets had not been successful.

I made it inside the stadium with just a couple of minutes to spare; phew. I looked around and – yes – the ground was packed to the rafters. Although attendances are often given as sell-outs these days, the more attentive fan can soon spot the odd empty seat here and there. On this occasion, with no home game for three weeks, Stamford Bridge was bursting. It is no wonder that those fans outside were looking miserable.

Again it was a very settled Chelsea team. The regulars were there. From Thibaut Courtois in goal through the spine to Diego Costa at the front, there was stability. It was a reassuring line-up. Not much had been said about the game thus far. There was the memory of the lucky 2-2 draw last season when…come on, let’s admit it…we were gifted a penalty after a “foul” on Ramires, but my view was that a win was vital, if not 100% expected.

Chelsea began well and John Terry forced a fine save from Ben Foster in the Albion goal after just four minutes. After eleven minutes, a cross from Oscar was played in to the penalty area. From my position, watching in the MHU, it seemed that not only me but the entire West Brom defence presumed that Diego Costa had strayed offside. In one movement, the striker chested the ball down and volleyed home. Offside, right? I hardly moved, let alone celebrated. But there was no flag and no whistle. Goal.

We were 1-0 up and I had hardly celebrated. Weird times.

Chelsea then peppered Foster’s goal, with Costa coming close on two further occasions, the second of which went agonisingly close. On nineteen minutes, a short corner was played in by Fabregas to Hazard, unmarked, and the Belgian maestro settled and shot low. It was as easy and as simple a goal as I have seen all season.

2-0.

On this occasion the Albion defence were again sleeping. This was very promising.

In an undoubted reaction to Jose Mourinho’s comments after the QPR game, the home crowd were in excellent form during this period of the first-half. It was lovely to hear. I joined in with gusto. In my mind, every fan should leave a game with a sore-throat. There was a dirty sky above, but a great atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge.

The positivism sweeping the stands increased further when Claudio Yacob – who? – was sent off for a horrible lunge on Diego Costa. The crowd roared.

Some of the football that Chelsea played in that sumptuous first forty-five minutes was just wonderful. The range of passing, the movement of the players, the fluidity, the style…it really was mouth-watering. Was it the best of the season thus far? Yes. In the middle were the two ever-presents; the intelligent brain and skilful passing of Cesc Fabregas and the tireless running and blocking of Alan Bula’s boy Nemaja Matic.

I commented to Bournemouth Steve : “Matic is just the sort of player that Arsenal have been crying out for.”

A couple of Foster saves towards the end of the first-half denied us further. With the score 2-0 in our favour at the break, and with the visitors down to ten men, there was a high degree of expectation for a sack full of goals in the second period.

Sadly, the second-half rarely reached the heights of the first period. Nemanja Matic was especially profligate, but our long-range shooting was very poor. Foster continued to make some great saves and blocks, but the West Brom players – neatly stationed in two deep banks of four, with the much heralded Berahino a lone striker, hardly involved – maintained a great shape throughout the second-half. I guess it was all a little anti-climactic really. And I hated myself for thinking it.

Yes, Chelsea are playing some lovely stuff at the moment and – yes – we are everyone’s championship tip, but I’d hate to think that I was taking any of this for granted. I was just glad that Ryan and Kevin, the visitors from afar, got to enjoy that blistering first-half display, plus the two goals, down at their Shed End.

I made great time on the drive home and was back in Frome at around 8pm. As Parky and I strolled in to the Three Swans, with an evening of music from our youth ahead of us, the excitement was palpable. I met up with a few other Chelsea mates – Glenn and PD – and a few school friends – including Fran, he of the Anfield game in 1992 – and also a few friends from my school days who I haven’t seen for over thirty years (“do you still support Chelsea?”)

It was a stupendous evening. From The Jam, including original Jam member Bruce Foxton on bass, were in great form, playing the Setting Sons album in its entirety before treating us to all of The Jam’s greatest hits. The beers flowed and the laughter rung out. I always smile when I go to watch my local team, Frome Town, and the teams come on to the pitch to the sound of The Jam’s “Town Called Malice.” That song, plus all the others, made us sing and made us dance.

It was one of Frome’s greatest nights.

Football and music.

That’s Entertainment. Dedicated to the memory of John Neal, the manager of Chelsea during my favourite ever season of 1983-1984. Rest In Peace.

Tales From A Game And A Half

Posted on November 11, 2014 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 8 November 2014.

6.30am on a Saturday morning. Outside, there was darkness and silence. The rest of the world was asleep. However, the invigorating feeling which greeted the thought of a Chelsea away day was coursing through my veins. Not just any away game of course.

It was our return to the scene of the crime.

The afternoon of Sunday 27 April 2014 will live long in our collective memories.

In Liverpool, it is a date that they wish to forget.

Our 2-0 win, a stirring and resolute performance in the face of a local population that had seemingly crowned Liverpool as Champions with games still to play and with allied fawning from the media, derailed the Anfield team’s bid for their first League Championship since 1990.

It was, I’m sure, most Chelsea supporters’ most cherished memory of last season.

Schadenfreude never tasted so good.

However, during the first two months of the 2014-2015 season, the fortunes of the two protagonists had changed immeasurably; Chelsea were now dominant league leaders, Liverpool were dishevelled chasers. Although I was confident of a strong Chelsea performance, there was still a nagging and niggling doubt that there might be revenge in the air, as distant as it might have seemed to some, perhaps in the guise of a dish served cold’; perhaps like a bowl of cold scouse.

I collected Lord Parky at 7am and headed north once again; I soon realised that we would be completing our four league away days in Manchester and Merseyside within the first eleven games of the season. I expected the result at Anfield to be closer to the 1-1 draws recorded in Manchester than the 6-3 shellacking that we gave Everton.

At 11am, I was driving through familiar streets around Liverpool’s stadium. Just like at Old Trafford, street parking had tightened and there were “permits only” signs wherever I looked. In the end, I chose to pay £10 and parked in a secure site a few yards from Goodison Park. There were lovely memories of that Saturday afternoon in August.

Six goals. Phew.

The heavens opened on the short walk through Stanley Park, no longer the site of a proposed new Liverpool stadium. At the top of the steady incline, the Anfield floodlights were already on. We dived into a crowded “Arkels” and soon met up with around ten Chelsea faces from our part of the world. They had driven up in a mini-bus. Soon, the atmosphere became rowdier, with Chelsea songs to the fore. The closest pub to the away section, this pub has long been the “away” pub at Anfield, though home fans are admitted too. At times the atmosphere is a little tense, but I’ve rarely seen tempers flare. The locals seemed brow-beaten in the face of so much Chelsea noise.

They needed no reminding, but one song kept repeating…

“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard…”

I first visited “The Arkels” way back in 1992. It is a story worth re-telling.

In 1991-1992, Chelsea was struggling under Ian Porterfield and a decent run before Christmas had soon petered out. On the first day of February, I drove up to Liverpool on a ridiculously foggy Friday evening with my mate Francis for the Liverpool versus Chelsea game on the Saturday afternoon. I had visited Anfield on four previous occasions – a draw and three defeats – but this would be a seismic weekend for Francis; a Liverpool fan, this would be his first ever visit. On the Friday night, we stayed with friends in the city and then enjoyed a couple of beers in a local pub before setting off for the ground. I already had my ticket, procured during the previous weeks from Chelsea. On the previous Wednesday, Liverpool had beaten Arsenal and – all of a sudden – had found themselves back in the hunt for the league championship behind Manchester United and Leeds United. Francis, my mate Pete and I were dropped off near Anfield at around 2.15pm; the plan was for Pete and Francis to stand on The Kop.

However, the streets around Anfield were milling with people. Bizarrely, we bumped into an old college acquaintance – a Scouser with the unforgettable name of Johnny Fortune – and our heart sank when he barked at Pete :

“The Kop’s full.”

I could hardly believe it. Our plans had been hit by a wave of optimism by the Liverpool fans, enticed to Anfield in vast numbers after the midweek win. Not a spare ticket was to be had anywhere.

“Bollocks.”

Without dwelling on it, I quickly thrust my ticket for the away section in the Anfield Road into Francis’ hands.

“Take it.”

There was no way that I was going to allow Francis to miss out on his first ever Anfield game. Fran was almost stuck for words, but I shooed him away and told him to enjoy the game. Pete and I, once we had realised that there was no way in for us, retreated back to “The Arkels”, where we took our seats in a corner, drank a lager apiece and half-halfheartedly watched an England rugby international.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when the news came through that Vinnie Jones had put Chelsea ahead. Liverpool then equalised. With half-time approaching, Pete and I finished our pints and walked behind the Kemlyn Road Stand and found ourselves on the road behind The Kop. The idea was to get some chips. At the half-time whistle, we suddenly noticed that one gate behind The Kop was opened and several – ten, maybe fifteen – Liverpool fans exited the stadium, crossed the Walton Breck Road, bought some chips, then returned back inside the stadium.

Pete looked at me.

I looked at Pete.

No words were needed.

Pete approached the gate. For those who knew the old Anfield, the gate was by the ship’s mast, in the south-west corner. Pete knocked on the gate.

“Alright.”

In we went.

In we fucking went.

We silently ascended the steps and soon found ourselves among 15,000 scousers on The Kop. I looked at Pete.

“Fucking get in.”

Anfield was not a friendly place, neither on nor off the pitch. And here I was, stood right among the enemy on the famous Kop. On the pitch, our form at Anfield was shocking. Save for a lone F.A. Cup win at Anfield in around 1965, Chelsea had not won at the home of Liverpool Football Club since 1937.

Yep, that’s right : 1937.

Fifty-two sodding years.

On that Saturday in February 1992, I watched from The Kop and Francis, the Liverpool fan, watched from the Chelsea section as a Dennis Wise goal gave us a 2-1 win. When Dennis scored, a low shot from an angle, my heart exploded but I – of course – stayed silent. What joy. We even missed a late penalty too. The locals were far from happy. I can remember one grizzled old chap spitting out a few words of consternation:

“Come on Liverpool. We can beat dese. It’s only Chelsea.”

Inside, I purred with happiness.

At the end of the game, Pete and I raced around to meet up with Francis by the Shankly Gates and my first words were –

“We got in.”

Francis was relieved.

“Our first win since 1937 and we got in for free.”

Ironically, in the circumstances, Fran had thoroughly enjoyed himself despite his team’s loss. He commented that the Chelsea fans never stopped singing, never stopped cheering. On more than one occasion, he found himself singing along too; I guess that he was caught up in the emotion of it all. I’m sure he said one Chelsea supporter kissed him when Wisey scored. Also – fantastic this – Fran was deeply moved by Micky Greenaway’s urging of fellow fans to get behind the team with his demonic “Zigger Zagger” chant. It was, Francis exclaimed, an incredible afternoon.

I agreed.

At 2.15pm, I left Parky, Cooky, Ash, Andy, Sir Les, and the other members of the Trowbridge Chelsea crew, and walked the three hundred yards to take my place in the Anfield Road. I was surprised how few were inside; 1992 it was not.

Alan and Gary, fresh from their enjoyable trip to Slovenia, soon joined me in row 22, high above the goal. The Chelsea players were soon on the pitch, going through a few set drills. Long gone are the days when the players would appear on the pitch for ten minutes and nonchalantly ping balls to each other. These days every routine is planned and precise.

I spotted Diego Costa.

Phew.

I was quietly confident. Chelsea was flying high. Liverpool was the opposite.

Let’s go to work.

None other than Gianfranco Zola, commentating on the game, walked in front of the main stand and was rightfully serenaded by the three thousand faithful. I can well remember a game I attended at Anfield in 2002 when our little magician was playing out on the wing on the touchline by the Centenary Stand. A ball was booted high into the air and he killed it with one sublime touch; even the Scousers applauded it. The man was a genius.

The time seemed to suddenly race by and the stands filled-up in the blink of an eye. The teams entered the pitch behind two members of the British Army. I wondered if there would be time for the usual Liverpool anthem. Sure enough, “You’ll Never Walk Alone” rattled around Anfield, though not with as much noise and fervour as in other visits. Then, thankfully, there was an impeccably observed minute of silence for the fallen.

The referee’s whistle.

Mario Balotelli touched the ball to a team mate.

Game on.

There was an initial period of free-running from the midfielders of both teams. Emre Can, a face I bluntly did not recognise, tested Thibaut Courtois with a shot which was deflected wide. I remember that Liverpool began the game in April very brightly, but failed to pierce our defence. This time around, they scored with only eight minutes gone. Liverpool were gifted too much space and the ball was played to Can once again. His speculative thump from twenty-five yards was headed for goal – I was right behind its flight – but the ball deflected off a Chelsea defender ( I was unsure if it was John Terry or Gary Cahill) and therefore wrong-footed Courtois. The ball nestled in the net and Anfield erupted.

“Rather they scored now than in the last ten minutes, Gal.”

Chelsea responded magnificently. A spell of pressure in front of The Kop. Two corners. On the second one, John Terry rose unhindered and headed towards goal. Mignolet parried but only knocked the ball in to the path of a blue-shirted assailant. Everything happened so quickly, but I saw the ‘keeper make a diving attempt to keep the ball from going over the line. The Chelsea fans around me roared, but I was unsure. I could only truly celebrate when I saw the referee and then the players running back towards me.

My immediate thought?

“Luis Garcia. Same part of the goal. Revenge. Get in. Come on you blue boys.”

Liverpool then threatened; a Balotelli goal was offside, a block by Gary Cahill. Coutinho, who always looks threatening, forced a save from Courtois. But, in an open game, Chelsea continued to move the ball well. Matic, as ever, was covering huge amounts of ground and our play was intelligent and forceful. Liverpool were getting stretched. Diego Costa shot over. A couple of Eden Hazard’s shots were blocked. There was a slight hint of Chelsea’s play being overly-elaborate.

Very often a call came up from the away section : “shoot!”

Total domination from Chelsea in the closing section of the first-half sadly brought no further goals. I was still confident though. It had been a fine first-half.

In the second-half, yet more impressive running from Hazard set up the rampaging Diego Costa, whose overhead kick flew over. Then a chance for Liverpool in front of The Kop; Sterling forcing a save, down low, from the reliable Courtois. Hazard’s turn again to run at a bewildered Liverpool defence, but we felt he held on to the ball a little too long; it is a flaw of his play. Eden needs to know when to release the ball. The resulting shot was blocked.

Willian, on for Ramires, found the advancing Cear Azpilicueta, who danced past Coutinho on the far touchline and took my advice to “get in the box Dave.” He flicked the ball in to the danger area and after Mignolet could only partially parry, the ball fell enticingly in to the path of the waiting Diego Costa.

I was right behind the path of this one too.

Our new goal-scoring icon slammed the ball low.

The net rippled.

2-1.

YEEEEEEESSSSSSSS.

The Chelsea crowd reacted brilliantly. For a few seconds, we all lost it. Arms pumping, faces gurning, hearts pumping, voices loud.

Alan : “Dey’ll ‘ave to come at us now……”

Chris : “Come on my little diamondsssssssss.”

It was no more than Diego Costa deserved. He was a constant thorn in Liverpool’s side all afternoon. One turn and run in front of the Centenary Stand, fighting off the challenge of two defenders, was a pure joy to watch. Liverpool’s home support, rather than attempting to cheer their team on, remained quiet. Our defence remained in control. I lost count of the number of times that balls were headed clear. Towards the end of the game, both Liverpool players and Liverpool fans alike responded loudly when a goal-bound shot seemed to strike a Chelsea defender. I was one hundred yards away. I was none the wiser.

In the last period, mindful of Robin Van Persie’s late equaliser at Old Trafford, the Chelsea support grew edgier and edgier. I kept looking at the old fashioned clock in the corner of The Kop. The minutes ticked by. Didier Drogba came on. Finally, Filipe Luis came on. The final kick of the game was a failed clearance from Mignolet which spun off for a Chelsea corner. The referee then blew.

A roar from the Chelsea section of the Anfield Road.

This was another enormously professional Chelsea performance. There were smiles aplenty all around me. Lovely stuff.

I soon met up with Parky and we bounced our way through Stanley Park, past the down –beaten Liverpool fans waiting for their coaches to take them back to Worcester, Bristol, North Wales, Birmingham and beyond.

“They must hate us up here, Parky.”

In 1992, we had to wait fifty-two years for a league win at Anfield.

In 2014, we have enjoyed two in seven months.

Good times in darkest Liverpool.

Tales From The Driving Seat.

Posted on November 3, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Queens Park Rangers : 1 November 2014.

With two consecutive away games at Manchester United and Shrewsbury Town behind us, the home match with Queens Park Rangers represented a fine chance for Chelsea to maintain a healthy gap at the top of the pile. Having driven over seven hundred miles to Old Trafford and New Meadow, I was back in the driving seat once again for yet another trip to Stamford Bridge. After collecting PD and Glenn, Lord Parky joined us. It didn’t take too long for me to share my growing frustrations with work with my fellow match-goers. For the past few weeks, my life has existed against a dull rhythm of “work/sleep/work/sleep/work/sleep/work/sleep” albeit with the occasional “football” excursion thrown in, perhaps like a lifebelt, to allow me to survive under increasing work-related stress.

I hoped that a trip to HQ would help to reduce the pain.

Within a few miles of leaving Parky’s home village, my car was rocking with laughter as we headed east and the problems of work soon started to subside. As we neared Reading, our sides were hurting so much from all of the giggles which were erupting in The Chuckle Bus that I had to put on some music – “Dexy’s Midnight Runners”, thank you Parky – in an attempt to settle us all down.

However, after the tedious traffic jams of Sunday and Tuesday, we were hit with yet more delays, this time on the M4. I was immediately reminded of a horrible trip that my parents and I took to Stamford Bridge in March 1979 when horrendous traffic on the M4 resulted in the three of us arriving very late for a Chelsea vs. QPR game. In 1978-1979, Chelsea were quite awful. Relegation was inevitable from before Christmas. I have to be honest and admit that the season was a tough one for me. I didn’t enjoy much of it. It seemed quite apt, then, that the QPR game, which I had been anticipating for weeks before, should be such a negative experience. I only used to go to two games per season in those days. The whole day was crap. We took our seats a few minutes before kick-off, which meant that the whole pre-match was spent nervously checking my watch to see if we’d be late, rather than relaxing and taking it all in. Chelsea lost 3-1, some mouthy QPR fans were sat in front of us in the East Lower, and we were dismal. I think that day ranks as one of the least enjoyable in all of my visits to Chelsea in over forty years. And it wasn’t that QPR were half-decent either; at the end of the season, they too were relegated. Yep, 1978-1979 was a tough one.

In 1979-1980, although we were in the Second Division, I regained my passion for Chelsea Football Club.

A very enjoyable pre-match (the antithesis of the March 1979 game) took place within the beer garden of The Goose. Yet more laughter, yet more banter, yet more silliness. Again, my general mood lightened considerably. The weather was bright and cheerful. This was going to be a fine day.

News broke through that Diego Costa was starting; excellent. There was also a Newcastle United goal against Liverpool to bring added cheer.

Although we all left the pub in good time, there were long queues at the turnstiles and so my first regret of the day was that I missed the minute of silence in memory of the fallen. I hated myself because of that. At least I will have the chance to pay my respects properly at Anfield next Sunday.

During the past few days, there were internet rumours flying around that QPR had not sold all of their tickets – something I found surprising – but their section of 3,000 was full.

Blue skies overhead. An eager crowd. Chelsea in royal blue, QPR in Tottenham white.

Let’s keep winning, boys.

We began with a flurry of corners, but the first real chance fell to Oscar after a nice flick from Diego Costa. His shot was scuffed and QPR escaped. Soon after, an incisive move down our right resulted in Branislav Ivanovic hitting the side-netting from close in. These were positive signs.

Only a Charlie Austin looping header threatened Thibaus Courtois’ goal.

On 32 minutes, Cesc Fabregas – quiet at Old Trafford on Sunday – drove forward and spotted Oscar to his right. With an impudent flick with the outside of his right foot, he bent the ball out and then in to the goal.

We screamed. We shouted.

Get in.

Alan and I – in the guise of two famous inhabitants of Oil Drum Lane – reverted to our tried and tested routine.

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

Harold : “Come on my little diamonds.”

There was every reason to think that more goals were on the agenda. We had enjoyed the majority of the ball, as is so often the case, and the visitors had shown little attacking aptitude. Just before the break, a sublime twist by Eden Hazard, down in the far corner in front of the travelling fans, made me gulp in astonishment. It was a stunning piece of skill, but I was amazed that his 180 degree turn, leaving his marker stranded, did not warrant any applause or cheer. Were we too stunned to clap or were we too spoiled to appreciate it? I had the feeling that if it had happened in the dark days of 1978-1979, maybe by Duncan McKenzie or Clive Walker, it would have gone down in Chelsea legend.

At the break, my second regret of the day; I missed my childhood hero Ian Britton on the pitch with Neil Barnett.

A lightening break down our right by Willian ended up with a teasing cross in to the box, but Eden Hazard was just unable to reach it. A second goal then would have opened the floodgates, surely.

Then, calamity struck. On one of a very rare number of Rangers excursions into our box, Vargas forced Courtois to make a stunning block. However, the rebound was smashed goal wards by Fer and was diverted past Courtois with a deft flick of Austin’s boot. We groaned. The Rangers fans celebrated wildly, but I was pleased to hear the strong reply from the home support, which immediately rallied to the cause.

To be honest, it hadn’t been a particularly noisy match, certainly not for a London derby. One peculiarity that I had noted throughout the game was that it often took a song or chant from the travelling support to rouse the home sections.

A “Hey Jude” of “la, la, la, laaa – Rangers” soon morphed into a “Hey Jude” of “la, la,la , laaa – Chelsea.”

A “Sit Down Mourinho” soon morphed into a “Jose Mourinho.”

A song ridiculing John Terry from QPR elicited “The Double” song from Chelsea.

I wondered if we were now relying on away supporters to be our cheerleaders.

Sure, there were songs and chants from the Matthew Harding, though I hardly heard The Shed. There certainly wasn’t one moment when I could honestly say that the whole stadium was united in song.

On the pitch, Mourinho went for the jugular and replaced Willian with Didier Drogba. He immediately stood close to Diego Costa. I was warmed at the thought of two strikers playing up front together for the first time in a while.

Didier and Diego.

Phew.

Chances came and went for both sides, although the quality of play never lived up to the highs of previous weeks. Oscar lifted a free-kick over the Rangers wall, but Green saved. With a quarter of an hour remaining, Eden Hazard accelerated into the box, and Vargas clumsily checked him. Hazard went tumbling and the referee immediately pointed towards the spot.

Phew.

Eden Hazard nonchalantly stroked the ball home, but there was not a wild outpouring of emotion from any of our players. Although, the Chelsea fans all around me were overjoyed, I sensed that the players on the pitch were just relieved.

Andre Schurrle then replaced Diego Costa, who had started to tire. The substitute came close. A trademark near post header from John Terry then drew another save from Green.

We held on.

It hadn’t been pretty.

But three points are three points.

We were back in the driving seat.

We listened to Radio Five Live just as I was caught up in the usual slow procession out of the area near Queens Club, my car edging slowly away, alongside other match-goers. We caught a few of Jose Mourinho’s irritable words concerning the team’s performance. It was obvious that his had been a frustrating afternoon. Perhaps his meticulous game plan had not been followed. There was tiredness to his tone. He seemed extra-ordinarily grumpy.

He then turned his attention to the home spectators. On a day when he had praised the away support at Manchester and Shrewsbury during the previous week in the match programme, Mourinho made a sarcastic remark about the quietness of the Stamford Bridge support; it was only when we scored did he realise that the stadium wasn’t empty.

I have written thousands of words in these match reports bemoaning the declining atmosphere at home games, and it is no secret that many Chelsea supporters feel the same way. It is also evident that this has not happened at Stamford Bridge alone. At virtually all stadia in England, fans complain about the dwindling atmosphere in home areas. There are a few exceptions to this rule; step forward Stoke City and Portsmouth in recent years, both solidly working class clubs with no pretensions of global branding and suchlike. But these are rare exceptions. And yet, away support thrives. It is seen as the last bastion of the good old days. I’m just desperately sad that I have noticed the buzz at home games deteriorate over the past ten years; it sadly shows no signs of abating. The usual reasons for this are instantly recalled; high ticket prices forcing the young and working classes away from the game, a gentrification of support, an aging of support, larger proportions of corporate tickets, over-zealous stewards, fans being displaced so that “singers” are never in the same stand together, an increasing number – at Chelsea especially – of visitors from abroad who decide to take in a Chelsea game while in London, the onset of “day trippers” and the over-riding feeling that the club has a real desire to attract a different class of fan. There is, at Chelsea, the added problem of expectation. Long gone are the days when a simple win was met with unbridled joy. With our continued success, there is an expectation to always win. We, as a club, have become bloated and spoiled. All the reasons are well known. Why did Jose decide to utter publicly what many think privately? I am not sure. Surely it wasn’t an attempt to mask a poor team performance? I’d hate to think that. Maybe Mourinho had thought this for a while and had just decided to “get things off his chest”? He certainly seemed in a foul and irritable mood.

To be honest I think I found his tone a little distasteful; rather than talk openly about the atmosphere being a little quiet and a few words of encouragement, his comments were riddled with sarcasm

He has, however, certainly got us all talking.

Maybe the singing will come later.

Tales From Salop

Posted on October 31, 2014 by Chris Axon

Shrewsbury Town vs. Chelsea : 28.10.14

Well, this was something different. This was something out of the blue. We were on our way to deepest Shropshire for a Capital One cup tie with Shrewsbury Town and a lovely added bonus; a new ground.

Mow that meadow.

But first, a frustrating journey. PD and I had left Chippenham at around 3.45pm. After battling the horror show of slow-moving traffic on the M6 en route to Manchester and then getting embroiled in an equally frustrating return on the M5 on Sunday, we found ourselves stuck in yet another traffic jam on the M5 near Gloucester. The two-and-a-half hour journey would be eventually stretched to three-and-a-half hours. On the last section of the trip on the M54 past Telford and then further west on the A5, the heavens opened.

It was a wet and sombre evening in Shropshire.

After navigating the town’s by-pass, we were parked-up at 7.15pm.

The rain still fell.

Coats on, zips fastened, hoods up, caps on.

Thankfully, the stadium – The New Meadow – was less than a ten minute walk away.

The original plan was to have a little meander around the town and pop in to a local hostelry to sample some of the pre-match atmosphere. This was a first-time visit. No previous trips to the picturesque Gay Meadow back in the grim old days for me; I had, in fact, only ever visited Shrewsbury once before, when I travelled up by train from a stag weekend in South Wales for a game at Old Trafford in 1987. These would be fresh fields, but sadly no local sightseeing on this occasion. Like Burnley in August, this would be the briefest of “in and out” trips with Chelsea.

Unlike Gay Meadow, which famously lay against a gentle bend of the River Severn in the centre of the town, the football club’s new stadium is out on the edge of the town, like so many of the new builds of late. There are single tiered stands on all four sides; all-seated of course, these days. The travelling army of around 1,600 Chelsea fans were located at the northern end. I was inside with ten minutes to spare. On the walk to my allocated seat, I bumped into many friends and acquaintances. Over the course of the evening, there would be many more. I know “it’s what we do and all that”, but it honestly heartened me, if not surprised me, to see that an awkward mid-week game, involving all sorts of hardships, had enticed so many of the loyal Chelsea hard core.

I searched for an equivalent.

How about this; 3,000 music fans from all over England attending a concert in Manchester one day and then 1,600 of them attending another concert by the same band in Shrewsbury two days later.

Would that happen?

I think not.

This was dedication from the Chelsea family of the very highest order; top work.

The rain still fell as the teams entered the pitch. There was a nice mix of youth and experience in our team. I was amazed to see Didier Drogba, captain for the night, playing his third game in eight days. Elsewhere, there were starts for Kurt “Monty” Zouma, Andreas Christensen – the debutant – and Nathan Ake.

The stands were packed. The home crowd were full of expectancy. The shrill blast of the referee’s whistle signalled the start of Shrewsbury Town’s biggest home game since, well, maybe we played against them in 2002-2003. The two triangular temporary stands, commissioned especially for the game, added around 600 to the gate, but those poor souls were the only spectators out in the open. Elsewhere, there was colour. The team’s ultras had pinned all of their banners against the back walls of the three home stands and I noted the chequered “Floreat Salopia” banner in the south stand.

“…mmm…I must Google that when I get the chance, must be something to do with Salop, the alternative name for Shropshire.”

Despite the buzzing atmosphere, the first-half was a tepid affair. Of course, Chelsea dominated possession, but Shrewsbury threatened on occasion. Petr Cech made the first significant save of the match, getting down low to turn an effort around his left post. The wet pitch was causing the players to lose their footing and spray accompanied every ball played along the ground. Two wasteful shots from Schurrle caused us to groan. Nathan Ake looked confident, but then was booked for a silly challenge in the opponents half.

“Silly. No need to be making rash challenges that far up the pitch.”

There was excellent backing from the Chelsea supporters throughout the half. One hearty rendition of “Matthew Harding’s Blue & White Army (We Hate Tottenham)” went on for a while. There were all the usual favourites; songs for Dennis Wise, Peter Osgood and – er – Steven Gerrard.

There was typical banter between us and them too.

Them : “Salop. Salop. Salop. Salop.”

Us : “Here For The First Time.”

Them : “Where Were You When You Were Shit?”

Us : “Where Were You On Saturday?”

Them : “We Support Our Local Team.”

Us : “One Game A Season – You Know What You Are.”

Chelsea plugged away, but the wide players Salah and Schurrle found it difficult to break free. The home team played some decent football, to feet, but this was a game which desperately needed a goal. A fine move involving Didier and Salah set up Schurrle, but his headed attempt on goal was hardly worthy of the name.

At the half-time break, there were grumbles about our play among the Chelsea loyalists.

Me? I was just happy to be able to get some pent-up frustrations – from work, ugh – out of my system and be at ease…totally adrift and separate from the real world on Planet Chelsea.

I like it there.

The second-half brought a noted improvement. A few Chelsea half-chances were followed by a nice passing move which resulted in Salah knocking the ball in to Didier’s path. From inside the box, he calmly finished.

We roared.

It was time for another Didier slide and his third goal in as many games. His team mates joined in the celebrations right in front of us. We could almost smell their aftershave.

Next, Schurrle hit a fearsome shot from distance which the Shrewsbury ‘keeper Leutwiler tipped over. The Chelsea chances kept coming as the home team tired. Then a shot from Knight-Percival was deflected narrowly wide when it looked to my eyes like it was about to nestle inside the goal. The home fans were encouraged by this, no doubt. A rasper from Drogba tested Leutwiler. This was more like it.

It was time for more terrace banter.

Them : “We Support Our Local Team.”

Us : “You Support A Load Of Shit.”

Now then, dear reader, as soon as I heard this “witty” repost from the Chelsea fans, I knew that we were in trouble. Not only is it rather pathetic to take the rise out of a team in the fourth tier of English football, but I knew that the Footballing Gods would soon be punishing us for this.

Lo and behold, just moments later…

From a corner, the ball was headed down and Mikel could only tee up the substitute Mangan, who lashed the ball in from close range. It is fair to say that I have seldom heard 8,500 fans make as much noise. The home players and home supporters rejoiced.

It sparked us to life once more, however, and another nice move involving Schurrle and Oscar set up Willian out on the left. He toyed with the defender and sent in a bouncing bomb into the penalty box. Under pressure from Didier, the centre-back steered the ball past the diving Leutwiler with the deftest of headers.

I was amazed when it nestled in the goal.

Get in.

Now we celebrated.

The game continued and we thankfully avoided any last minute goals, unlike at Old Trafford on Sunday. At the final whistle, there was a mixture of pleasure and relief. I met up with PD and we returned back to the car. Within fifteen minutes, I was driving away from the stadium, past hundreds of match-goers who were returning to their cars and homes. It felt odd to be out and away so soon. Back in the car, we quickly chatted about the game. We had both enjoyed it. There was a special mention for Didier Drogba; his attitude and his efforts during the game were exemplary. He chased loose balls, he cajoled team mates and his spirit was infectious. It seemed that the days of old when his sometimes surly and lazy attitude in games such as this seemed a distant memory. Top marks to him.

We eventually got back on to the M6 – “for the second time in two days, hello Birmingham!” – and after a stress-free return, reached Frome at around 1am. On Saturday, four of us will be driving up for the Chelsea vs. Queens Park Rangers derby. Let’s hope that Diego Costa is fit for that one. I will make a concerted effort to not – yet – consult my British Book Of Poultry, nor use my binoculars, nor my calculator, but there could be goals, goals, goals.

Tales From Old Trafford

Posted on October 28, 2014 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 26 October 2014.

Bluff And Double Bluff.

During the several days of build-up to the Manchester United vs. Chelsea match at Old Trafford, there seemed to be constant rumours in the media and among fellow Chelsea supporters concerning the fitness of Diego Costa. Would he be fit or would he not? There were fears about his delicate hamstring injury, but some Chelsea fans were of the opinion that this was a smoke screen used by Jose Mourinho and the club in order to stay “one step ahead” of the opposition, with our new striker likely to undergo a Lazarus-like improvement before our game at Old Trafford. There was also a shady report of a stomach bug too. The home match against Maribor on Tuesday, which I missed, provided further problems and confusion. Loic Remy, Diego Costa’s likely replacement at Old Trafford (should his injury prove scare prove to be justified – “wink wink”) managed to injure himself, thus ruling him out of the game in Manchester. Didier Drogba, Remy’s replacement on Tuesday, then played around seventy minutes himself. Would Jose Mourinho have played Didier for such an elongated spell, knowing full well that he would likely be his Hobson’s Choice of a starter on Sunday? From one perspective, it appeared “odds-on” that Diego Costa would be miraculously recover and start against United. On the long and familiar drive north to Old Trafford, the talk in the car was almost devoid of football chat, but on the rare occasions that we mentioned the game ahead, the main talking point was centred on Diego Costa.

“Would he or wouldn’t he?”

Parky and PD, my fellow travellers on the five hour car journey were gung-ho about our chances, but as we swung around the orbital motorway to the south of Manchester, I was a little more pragmatic.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t be too upset with a draw. I just want to avoid defeat.”

Manchester United, top-heavy with summer signings, was a team of unknown risk in my eyes. Sure, their defence was prone to silly errors and could be harmed by our tricky offensive players, but they possessed a combustible cocktail of attacking options themselves.

However, I was surprisingly confident as I drove into Manchester. I’m sure we could cause them problems. Even without Diego Costa.

Under The Munich Clock.

We were parked-up at around 2.30pm. We paid the requisite £10 to a weather-beaten local, who resembled the third Chuckle Brother, to park outside a garage on the road which leads from the Chester Road to Old Trafford cricket ground.

“Are you lads Chel-seh?”

“Yeah, mate.”

“I want you to win today.”

He reached out to shake my hand.

“City?” I asked.

“I’m blue through and through, me.”

Within twenty minutes, we had walked through the park and then past more parking spots, then past The Bishop Blaize pub – with songs from inside – and then past the chippies at the crossroads. These sights – and sites – were oh-so familiar by know. The red brick of the houses, the red scarves of the United fans, the towering white steel of the stadium behind. Down on the forecourt, we waited for a few moments on the off-chance of bumping into some friendly faces. Alan and Gary soon appeared, fresh from the official coach trip which left Stamford Bridge at 9am. There had been trouble on the trains, apparently, with another mate – Dave the Hat – forced to travel up to Sheffield and across from there. Tickets were handed over for future games. The forecourt, as always, was a volatile mix of United and Chelsea. Squabbles only tend to happen after the games at Old Trafford these days, though. With the Munich clock looking down on the hub-bub of activity below, we decided to head inside. It was 3.15pm.

In Previous Episodes.

This would be my twentieth Manchester United vs. Chelsea away game, and my eleventh consecutive away league fixture. It all started, for me, on an electric night at Old Trafford in April 1986, when a Kerry Dixon brace gave us a breath-taking 2-1 win, with four thousand Chelsea fans crammed into the pens in front of “K Stand” – as it was called in those days – with thousands of belligerent United fans right behind us, glowering, gesticulating and screaming support of their team.

Their shrill shouts of “United! United! United!” is a very strong memory, some twenty-eight years later.

Since then there have been tons of memories. Two odd – recent – games are fresh in my mind. In the opening period of the 2011-2012 season, we travelled north under Villas-Boas. Although we lost 3-1, there were lots of positives on that sunny afternoon; I can never remember a game where we had lost, yet the fans had departed the stadium in such a positive mood. Then, last season, we witnessed a very dour performance – from both teams – and a 0-0 draw, with Jose Mourinho electing to play without a recognised striker.

Strange ways in deepest Manchester.

As I waited for an announcement of our team, I wondered if Mourinho would spring a surprise on us again. Last season, Andre Schurrle was the one man asked to run from deep and pose the biggest offensive threat. Who would be asked to lead the line this time?

The South-East Corner.

I took my place, high up in the corner quadrant of the away section. I tut-tutted as I sidled past a family of four, each wearing a half-and-half scarf, calmly sitting and observing.

“Tourists” I mumbled silently to myself.

Of course, as I have said before, Chelsea has thousands of passionate and committed supporters the world over, who truly “get” what Chelsea is all about, but why do so many others who attend in person have to be such divs?

Answers on a postcard.

There was noise from the crowded bar areas below, but all was quiet within the stadium, which seemed to take forever to fill. At last, the Chelsea team appeared – in their jade warm-up gear, how 1986 – and I quickly scanned the ten outfield players.

“No Diego Costa.”

There were looks of dismay on the faces of my companions in the south-east corner.

“Up to you then, Didier, son.”

I was momentarily subdued. Could our returning hero stand up to two games in six days? We would soon find out. As kick-off approached, the stands filled and the noise-levels rose. The United PA tried its best to rouse the locals.

“Dirty Old Town.”

The Chelsea choir dipped into its songbook. The players appeared from the tunnel in the south-west corner. We were ready.

The First-Half.

I was pretty content with our performance in the opening forty-five minutes. From the start, it seemed that we were confident in possession and resolute in defence. I noted that our use of Didier Drogba was now different than in previous years. Before, we would knock balls into channels or over the top and ask our marauding Ivorian to use his speed and strength to strike fear into opposing defences. Now, he was being asked to come deeper and retain the ball in order to set up runners off him. Our play was a little more compact. A lot depended on our midfield three, or five. Eden Hazard was at times unplayable in the first-half. One shimmy dumbfounded two United players in a gorgeous moment of play. Matic harried and blocked and then supported his team mates with a number of surging runs. Oscar and Fabgregas, though, seemed adrift. It was a pleasing first half, but with only two golden chances. The lively Januzaj played in Robin van Persie who found himself in on goal, but Thibaut Courtois blocked superbly. At the other end, in front of the Stretford End, Oscar reached the by-line, and pulled the ball back to Didier Drogba. His low shot was blocked by the legs of De Gea. United had peppered our goal at regular intervals throughout the first period, but we were largely untroubled. It was odd to see Juan Mata in United red, in person, against us.

The North-West Corner.

I had been in contact with a newly-acquainted friend from Orlando in Florida during the day; we had hoped to meet up outside, but Kim and her friend Jenna were firmly ensconced in one of Old Trafford’s hospitality lounges by the time I had arrived at the stadium. They were watching from way up in the north-west corner, in one of the quadrants that were “infilled” around eight years ago. I wondered how Kim was coping in a sea of United. I wondered if she could hear us singing. I wondered how her day was going; I bet she would rather swap her seat to be among us a hundred yards away and a hundred feet lower.

The Second-Half.

We began brightly, with Hazard again leading the charge. At the other end, Fellaini wasted a good chance by skimming a shot wide. Hazard was clean in on goal, but De Gea was able to save. The Chelsea choir looked away disconsolately, but roared the team on as a corner was rewarded. I held my camera still and waited for the ball to reach the box. In a flash, I saw Didier Drogba leap, virtually untroubled, at the near post. I clicked.

The ball crashed into the net and the three-thousand Chelsea fans in the south-east corner screamed in ecstasy. I was knocked sideways, then backwards and I clung on to the chap next to me, not wanting to fall back and injure myself. If the goal was a virtual carbon copy of Didier’s leap and header in Munich, then so too were the celebrations. This time, though, I managed to keep hold of my glasses. The scenes were of pandemonium; away goals in big games are celebrated like no other.

I steadied myself just in time to witness Didier and his team mates celebrating wildly in front of us.

Euphoria.

I had one thought.

“Munichesque.”

I then had a thought about Tuesday night and Didier’s penalty, hit to the left, which so resembled his winning penalty in Munich. I playfully wondered if his role now was to just replay these two historic moments from “that night” on a constant loop for the rest of the season.

“And Drogba, with his twelfth near post header of the season…”

Kim sent me a text; the two of them had screamed with delight at Didier’s goal and were now being treated like Ebola victims in the North-West Upper.

We continued to impress, with Matic being especially dominant.

I received a text from Steve in South Philadelphia :

“On comes Mikel, Mourinho’s closer.”

In baseball, with a team winning late on, a coach brings in a steady and reliable pitcher – “a closer” – to keep things tight and maintain the advantage. Closers tend to have nerves of steel. It was typical Mourinho. He replaced the subdued Oscar.

Juan Mata was clapped by the Chelsea contingent as he too was substituted. Ivanovic, who had enjoyed a physical battle with De Maria all game, broke in to the United box, but his cross come shot flashed past the far post. The impressive Willian, bundles of energy, went close. As the game wore on, we tended to drop deeper and deeper and our energy levels dropped. United kept probing. I had memories of a late equaliser in 1997 at the Stretford End. Ugh.

Schurrle replaced Hazard, then Zouma replaced Willian.

Four minutes of extra time.

Then, a “coming together” of bodies down our right and Ivanovic, already booked, was adjudged to have tripped De Maria. From over one hundred yards away, it looked like Brana had clipped him. He was given a second yellow and was dismissed.

“Come on Chelsea.”

The delivery from the free-kick found the leaping mop of Fellaini, but Courtois blocked. The ball fell advantageously to Van Persie who lashed the ball in.

Fcuk.

Old Trafford roared and I watched, sick to the stomach, as the scorer ripped off his shirt and threw it into the Stretford End as if it was a match winner.

Twenty seconds later, the referee blew.

1-1.

Within seconds, the away fans reminded everyone –

“We’re Top Of The League.”

Outside on the forecourt, there were police horses and scuffles.

We quickly raced back to the waiting car. I was at my pragmatic best. Although it was disappointing to give up a goal in the last twenty seconds, a draw meant that we had gone six points ahead of Manchester City, who remain our closest title rivals. I must admit that I was warmed with the thought of millions of United fans happy to draw at home with us. I edged out into the dark Manchester night and began our five hour drive home. After the familiarity of Old Trafford, we reconvene at a new stadium, Shrewsbury Town, on Tuesday.

I’ll see you there.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2014-2015

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