Tales From Lambeth And Leicester

Posted on December 17, 2015 by Chris Axon

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 14 December 2015.

In all of my Chelsea days past, present and future, this one would surely stand alone. It would be a day of mixed emotions in two cities, remembering the past, appreciating the present and contemplating the future. At lunchtime, there was the sadness of dear Tom’s funeral in South London, with three of my closest friends. Then, a drive north for an evening match in the East Midlands. In between, and after, all points of the compass; heading east, heading north, heading south, and heading west. A circle of life in sixteen hours.

Sadness, joy, hope, fear.

And Chelsea.

Here are my recollections of the day that we said goodbye to Tom.

I collected Glenn from his house in nearby Frome just after 9am. Of course, despite the sadness of losing Tom, who sat alongside us at Stamford Bridge in the North West corner for almost eighteen years, there was a very tangible element of relief that the Footballing Gods had aligned Tom’s funeral on the very same day as a Chelsea game. Glenn and I were thankfully able to take a day’s holiday to combine the two. Alan, the fellow South Londoner who regarded Tom as his “football Dad” was able to do the same. The moons had aligned and we were so thankful. Alan had commented that Tom would have been livid if the three of us would miss a Chelsea game because of his funeral. To that end, there was a deep contentment that we were all able to attend both. Parky, not quite as familiar with Tom as the rest of us, was collected at 9.45am and we made our way east into London.

We all knew that this would be a testing day.

From my perspective, it was all about Tom.

With the M4 devoid of rush hour traffic, we made good time. We stopped at Heston just as the news of the Champions League draw came through at about 11.15am. Fate had drawn the cities of London and Paris together once again, for the third year in a row. In 2014, great memories of a trip to Paris and a fine Chelsea victory at Stamford Bridge. This year, darker memories with both of the games coming either side of my own mother’s passing. I had already decided that I would not be bothering with an away game at Parc des Princes in 2016 should we draw PSG again. I was nervous enough about Tel Aviv. Paris for a game of football? Thanks, but no thanks.

I pressed on, down the Fulham Palace Road and past Craven Cottage. Over the River Thames at Putney Bridge and further south, I was in relatively unfamiliar territory, but ironically in Chelsea heartland. Outside Lambeth Crematorium, stood Alan, awaiting our arrival. I wound down the window and shook his hand. I gripped it strongly. I was glad to see a sizeable crowd had gathered in the car park.

Also representing Chelsea Football Club were Steve and Frank, faces from our section of the Stamford Bridge stadium, who originally sat with Tom in the old West Stand in the ‘seventies. A hug for Tom’s daughter Debbie, who is now living only half an hour or so from Glenn and myself in Somerset, alongside her daughter Anna, and other family members. We watched as the hearse slowly drove towards the chapel. Heads were bowed.

As we took our seats in the small chapel, “That’s Life” by Frank Sinatra was played.

“That’s life (that’s life) that’s what all people say.
You’re riding high in April.
Shot down in May.
But I know I’m gonna change their tune
When I’m back on top, back on top in June.

I said that’s life (that’s life) and as funny as it may seem.
Some people get their kicks
Steppin’ on a dream.
But I just can’t let it, let it get me down,
‘Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinnin’ around.

I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing.
Each time I find myself flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIiUqfxFttM

A Chelsea flag was pinned on the platform where Tom’s coffin rested. It was a lovely memorial service. Tom’s story was told. Born in Battersea in 1936, his national service was in Kenya. Tom worked many years for Watney’s, the brewers, in Whitechapel, before moving on to work for Hammersmith and Fulham Council. He lived in Sutton, further south, and was truly a proper South London Chelsea man and boy. The word “Chelsea” in fact dominated the eulogy. His love for the club shone through. It seemed that his TV was perpetually tuned to Chelsea TV.

Of course, no surprises, “Blue Is The Colour” was played in the middle of the ceremony.

My eyes were moist. I am sure I was not alone.

At the end, “We Are The Champions” by Queen – probably not Tom’s favourite, but chosen by Debbie because, well, just because – was played and the curtains in front of the coffin were closed.

We all said a little silent prayer for Tom.

“God bless you mate.”

Outside, there were a few bouquets, but three blue and white floral tributes stood out.

“DAD.”

“TOMMY.”

“CFC.”

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Alan, bless him, had planned and purchased the last one, and the words are shared here.

“To a loyal and true blue and friend to many. You are very much missed by all of us who had the pleasure of knowing you. Keep the blue flag flying high in heaven. From your friends Alan, Chris, Glenn, Frank, Joe, Gary, Alan and Steve. Rest in peace Tom.”

After, there was an hour or so spent reminiscing about our own particular memories of Tom at the Leather Bottle pub, a lovely old Victorian boozer, smelling of mulled wine ahead of Christmas. I spoke to his daughter –

“Looking back, I’ve only ever seen Tom in two places. Stamford Bridge and Wembley. That says a lot about our football club the past few years.”

“What I remember about Tom, more than one particular thing, is his childlike and giddy enthusiasm for Chelsea.”

And how true this was. I can picture him now, rosy cheeked and bubbling over with joy as he retold a particular goal, or a described a favourite player. Alan joked that he had a particular dislike for West Ham, maybe born out of the years working at Whitechapel, and how Tom would have got a chuckle out of the West Ham fans in the chapel having to sit through “Blue Is The Colour.”

We were some of the very last ones to leave. At around 2.30pm, I rustled up the troops and looked back at Debbie and Anna as I said “come on, let’s go and win this for Tom.”

I wended my way back through Lambeth, Wimbledon and Wandsworth and over the Thames once more. Out through Hammersmith and past Griffin Park, out towards Heathrow, then a quick stop at Heston to change from suits and black ties to jeans and trainers. North on to the M25, then north again on to the M1. The four of us were on the road once more, following the love of our lives.

Parky, who had opened up his first cider of the day not long after a McBreakfast in Chippenham at 10am, passed a can to Alan who was alongside me in the front. This was a rare treat indeed for Alan, usually cocooned without alcohol, and with little leg room, in a Chelsea coach on away days such as this.

I was now heading north – the second leg of a triangle – on the M1, which was quite an unfamiliar road for me, at least this far south. The rain began to fall, but our spirits were raised with some music from Parky’s Magical Memory Stick. There was talk of the evening game against high-flying Leicester City.

“If someone had asked a thousand football fans before the season began which team out of Leicester City and Chelsea would be on one defeat and which would be on eight in the second week of December, not one would have guessed correctly.”

In fact, the sample size could be increased to 10,000 and a winner would not be found.

I eventually pulled in to the anointed parking place about a mile to the south of the King Power Stadium at around 6pm, just as “Up The Junction” by Squeeze sparked up on the Memory Stick. A little bit of South London in deepest Leicestershire. Without missing a word, Al and and I sang along to every single verse. I turned the engine off. We had arrived.

The rain had eased, and we had a good period of time to relax before we needed to turn our attentions truly to the game at 8pm. There were immediate memories of returning to the car, triumphant, after our 3-1 win at Leicester last May when a rather subdued first-half performance was followed by a fantastic second-half, with goals from Didier, JT and Rami. Fabregas’ hat was never lauded so loudly. It was one of the games of the season. As we marched towards the stadium, all four of us were wise enough to know that a repeat would be a very tall order. Leicester City were ahead of us in the league with good reason; from my viewpoint they seemed to boast all of the very qualities that we had so far lacked in this most disheartening of seasons.

Vim, vigour, pace, confidence, togetherness, fight.

If only Chelsea Football Club had shown even half of these attributes thus far in to 2015/2016.

On the flipside, the team had showed signs of the Chelsea spirit of old in the reassuring 2-0 win over Porto the previous Wednesday. All four of us hoped that Fabregas would again not be selected to start. How that hat has lost its magic since May. We plotted up at The Local Hero, a busy bar, looking out on a car park. The view wasn’t great, but the beers were going down well. My two bottles of Peroni were the first of the day and gave me the chance to properly toast Tom.

We gathered together and Alan took a photograph of the four plastic glasses touching.

“Team Tom.”

With the rain falling again, we quickly moved on.

The stadium was only a ten minute walk and we were soon outside the away end. Leicester City’s stadium is one of those much-maligned identikit stadia which have been built over the past fifteen years or so. Outside, it is nothing special. Inside, although it is neat and tidy, there is not one single design feature which lets you know that you are at the home of Leicester City. How different it is from the lop-sided and intriguing Filbert Street, which once stood not more than a few hundred yards away. Filbert Street’s large main stand and double-decker behind one goal contrasted wildly with the ridiculously petit stands on the other two sides. Ironically, the one feature that sets the King Power Stadium apart from all others is seen only by spectators within the concourses. Oddly, the steps leading up from the ground level to the upper level, double back on themselves to provide a viewing platform of the lower concourse, and from where I got sprayed with beer when over-excited members of The Youth went a bit doolally before the game.

There were familiar faces in the away corner, which seemed to be deeper than that of most of the new stadia. We quickly learned that – yes! – the team was unchanged from Porto. At last Mourinho and the fans were on the same page, even if it did have several names scratched out and then written over again. Alan was especially confident that we would win. I was not so sure. Anything but another defeat for me please.

Kick-off approached and I sensed a palpable air of expectation from the home ranks. The touchlines were lined with youngsters waving flags. The unique sound of the “Post Horn Gallop” was piped through the PA. As the teams entered, the corner section away to my left – I noted they were the noisiest of all back in May – held up shiny blue and white mosaics. I also noted – sigh – that the home fans had been given thousands of those damned noise-makers again.

So much expectation and so much build up, but what a shocking first-half. It left us at half-time fully depressed and lamenting, again, our demise into woeful mediocrity.

As the game began, the home fans were constantly pounding out noise to support their team. We were in good voice too though, quickly singing across to our beleaguered manager.

“Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho.”

Across the technical area stood our former manager Claudio Ranieri, unbelievably back in England with his quaint version of the English language, but also even more unbelievably looking to take his team back to the top of the table.

The lively Mahrez quickly forced a fine save from Thibaut Courtois and I worried every time that Leicester City broke in to our half. There were echoes of last May as Leicester quickly lost a player, Danny Drinkwater (who?), replaced by Andy King (who?) but they never looked perturbed.

We struggled to find any rhythm as the first-half progressed. Our main attacking threat seemed to be – not finding Diego Costa early, nor playing in Eden Hazard – pushing the ball eventually out to Branislav Ivanovic, who tended to take a touch before hitting the back of a defender’s head. As every sideways pass was played, the sense of frustration increased in the away corner.

“Fackincomeonchels.”

Hazard was fouled and received treatment. It is such a rare event to see our Belgian disappear from the pitch, except for a late substitution, that we looked on with horror as he appeared to be too injured to continue. He then seemed to step back on the pitch. But then walked away. There was confusion among the Chelsea fans. I think – I hope – some were jumping to the wrong conclusions.

“Hazard didn’t want to know.”

Regardless, Pedro replaced him.

Then, calamity. A rapid Leicester break out to their right and Mahrez was able to whip in a waist-high cross towards the penalty spot. Jamie Vardy, who else, appeared from nowhere – or rather with John Terry and Kurt Zouma nowhere near him – to majestically volley past Courtois.

“Bollocks.”

That feeling is all too prominent this season. Leicester had harried and chased us all evening but had not created a great deal. One gilt-edged chance and a goal conceded. Here we go again. All eyes were on John Terry really. A player of his distinction should have got closer to Vardy. The away end muttered three thousand swear words.

I turned to a couple behind with a pained expression.

“Confidence is draining out of us at every turn.”

At the other end, miracles of miracles, Matic rose to meet a header, but the ball flicked away off the bar. We were not fooled though. In a first-half of dwindling penetration, our play was tepid. Matic looked slower than usual, and the attacking players around him only rarely provided any moments of intelligent passing.

You know the score, we’re losing.

I’ve not seen so many long faces at the break in a long time. Although it is always lovely to bump in to many good friends at half-time, it seemed that all of us were going through some sort of post-Armageddon zombie-like state, trying to work out how we had reached this stage in our Chelsea life. Some were hiding the feeling through beer, but the sense of befuddlement was still there. Some didn’t even come back for the second-half, preferring to drink and chat down in the concourse with a few others. Grasping at straws, Alan and myself reminded each other that we were 1-0 down at half-time in May.

Soon in to the second-half, Ramires lost possession with a weak header and Leicester moved the ball from wide left to wide right. The mercurial Mahrez twisted in front of Azpilicueta and dispatched a firm shot which elegantly curled past Courtois.

We were losing 2-0.

For fuck sake, Chelsea.

Leicester’s support had mocked us throughout with cries of “going down with the Villa” and taunts of “worst champions we’ve ever seen.” However, much to my chagrin, sections of our away support began singing “we’re fucking shit” which annoyed me. That sort of talk is best left outside the stadium. There was also the self-mocking “you’re nothing special, we lose every week” which would have been funnier if it had been original rather than stolen from other teams’ fans.

All in all, not two of our greatest moments.

But not all was negative. There were no boos for Mourinho. At times our support tried to get behind the team.

Jose made a bold substitution, taking off John Terry and replacing him with Cesc Fabregas. We went with three at the back. The manager sometimes does this, but not usually so far out. Remy then replaced the woeful Oscar. To be fair, we enjoyed a lot more of the ball, but with the home team 2-0 up, they did not need to attack at will. A few crosses caused Schmeichel some moments of worry, but often our crosses were easily dealt with by the massive Germanic forehead of Robert Huth.

There was no doubt that lour play was improving and, with it, the away support rallied too. Now I was truly proud of the away support. The noise roared around the stadium. We went close again and again.

“Get a goal now and we are right back in this.”

The goal came. A delightful cross from an improving Pedro picked out the leap of Loic Remy who headed firmly in past the despairing block of Schmeichel.

2-1.

And the Chelsea crowd roared.

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

The mood was of sudden optimism and of that four letter word “hope.”

“Let’s have a repeat of Geordies away. Two late goals.”

If anything, our goal strengthened Leicester City’s resolve to keep things tight and our players were simply unable to offer further threat. A few late chances were exchanged and despite a further five minutes of extra-time, we slumped to our ninth league defeat of the league campaign.

“See you Saturday, boys.”

As I exited the seats, I looked down to see just Branislav Ivanovic, Cesar Azpilicueta and Thibaut Courtois walk over to thank the loyal three thousand for our efforts on a wet night in Leicester. A lot of us had taken half days and whole days off from work, a lot of us would be back in at work after minimal sleep. Some players would be wrapped up in their warm beds as I would be dropping Parky and then Glenn off in the small hours.

As a quick glimpse at the ailments within Chelsea Football Club at this exact moment in time, the fact that just three could be bothered to walk thirty yards to say “hey, we know we lost again but bloody hell, thanks” speaks volumes.

Maybe we just don’t have that sense of collectiveness anymore. We might be a team, but maybe we are not a family. Maybe the players – despite the quotes of togetherness and spirit – just don’t get on. Maybe there are cliques. Something has to be wrong. Maybe that spirit of 2004 to 2012 is gone and lost forever. And that is so sad.

I soon met up with Glenn and Parky outside and we sloped off back to the car. I was soon spinning around the city by-pass before heading west, then south – the last leg of the triangle – on the M69, the M42, the M5, the M4.

As the night rolled on, I grew tired. I battled the roads.

Our mood was not great. I am sure every Chelsea supporter was equally confused and disappointed with our latest poor performance. Glenn wanted to talk football, but I was simply too tired for that. On a day when we said a final farewell – physically, never emotionally – to dear Tom, it would be easy for me to brush aside Chelsea’s latest capitulation and talk about putting things into some sort of “football, life, death” perspective. However, I am sure that dear Tom, watching from above, would have hated to have seen yet another defeat and I trust he won’t object at all if I say that the loss hit us all hard.

Glenn played me a “You Tube” segment from a post-game interview with Jose speaking about betrayal and my mood slid further.

There is the gnawing realisation that this season will not only be trophy less, but will probably result in our first campaign without European football since 1996/1997. I do not sense that relegation will worry us, but who knows where this season will end?

On Saturday, it’s back to Stamford Bridge and a game with Sunderland.

See you there.

Tales From The Road To Milan

Posted on December 12, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Porto : 9 December 2015.

Midway through the morning, a work colleague spoke.

“You’re quiet today, Chris.”

A pause…”yep.”

“Are you going to Chelsea tonight?”

“Yep. I think that’s the reason why I’m quiet.”

Here we were again, then. Shades of 2011 and 2012, when we left it – unfashionably – late to determine our progress through to the Champions League knock-out phase. Of course, our fortunes contrasted in both of those seasons. In 2012, we failed to qualify from the group phase for the very first time after we won our last game against Nordsjaeland but Willian’s Shakhtar Donetsk lost 1-0 at home to Juventus.

In 2011, a triumphant win at home to Valencia set us on our way to “you know where.”

Looking back, it’s odd that the last five final Champions League group phase games have all been at home.

2015 : Porto.

2014 : Sporting Lisbon.

2013 : Steaua Bucharest.

2012 : Nordsjaeland.

2011 : Valencia.

Thankfully, we haven’t always left it quite so late to qualify. And Chelsea have a proud Champions League record to uphold. In our thirteen previous campaigns, we have only failed to qualify for the knock-out phase just the once. We have qualified as group winners ten times, as runners-up just twice. It’s a pretty remarkable record.

I yearned for a win against Porto. Not only would it signal our passage through to further European adventures on the road to Milan, and not Basel where the Europa Final would be played, but I hoped that it would give us a much-needed confidence boost to our awful league form.

As the day progressed, my noise levels did not increase. I was truly focussed on the evening game with Porto. After the demoralising loss at home to AFC Bournemouth on Saturday evening, there is no surprise that there was an air of solemnity. These were still edgy times as a Chelsea supporter.

Ah, Bournemouth. Although their manager Eddie Howe called it the greatest result in his team’s history – with sufficient reason – was it really a nadir for Chelsea Football Club? I think not. The troubles of season 1982/1983 surely represented our historical low point. A few games in that season might be awarded the dubious honour of marking our lowest ebb. A 3-0 reverse at fellow strugglers Burnley might signify that. I was not there at Burnley nor many of the other miserable games in 1982/1983. However, the one game that many Chelsea fans quote as “the ultimate low point” actually took place in 1981/1982; the infamous 6-0 loss at Millmoor, the home of Rotherham United. I did not attend that one either. However, on a personal level, Bournemouth away in 1988/1989 represents my personal all-time low. Let me explain. Newly relegated from the top division, our third game that season took us to Dean Court for a game with Bournemouth, in only their second season at that level in their history. I was confident of a win.

We lost 1-0.

It was my “there in person” low point in terms of losing to a team, and club – a small, provincial club – that we ought to have beaten.

No doubt that game will be referenced again when we get to visit Dean Court in April.

In the pub before the game with Porto, there was the usual gathering of mates from near and far. Chris was over again from Guernsey, with his son Nick. They were both in town for the Bournemouth game, too. And get this. Although he has been watching Chelsea games in person for fifteen years, the 1-0 loss at home to Bournemouth was the very first game that he had seen us lose.

“How many games is that then, Nick?”

“Not sure. About fifty.”

“Bloody hell.”

Inside Stamford Bridge, Alan and I compared notes.

Alan : “It took me two games to see us lose.”

Chris : “Three for me. Two wins and a loss.”

Across the stadium, Porto had brought a full three-thousand to Stamford Bridge. They were, of course, still in contention for a passage into further rounds of this year’s competition. Nevertheless, three thousand was a fine showing. It made our 1,100 showing in Porto in September pale by comparison.

This was our fourth Champions League match against Porto at Stamford Bridge. They are our most familiar such opponents, along with Barcelona and Liverpool. There was also a home friendly with Porto in the heady summer of 1995, which marked the home debuts of new signings Ruud Gullit and Mark Hughes.

Jose Mourinho had decided to – eventually – drop Cesc Fabregas and recall Diego Costa. Dave and JT returned, and there was a starting place for Ramires too.

In the Porto team, Iker Casillas made his Stamford Bridge debut – damn it, will we never ever draw his former team Real Madrid? – and old adversary Maicon was captain. There was no place for the remarkably named Andre Andre, whose favourite ‘eighties bands are presumably Duran Duran, The The and Talk Talk.

As the game began, although our sights were focussed on the pitch, the game in Kiev would also be monitored. This was a very tight finish to our group. Although many potential scenarios were spoken about, I am not convinced even now that I truly understood the ramifications should all three teams end up on equal points.

There was an exciting start to the game with a couple of chances exchanged. Alan had brought along his Champions League lucky wine gums. They soon worked their magic. A ball through from Eden Hazard allowed Diego Costa to advance on goal. From an angle, a low shot was parried by Casillas, but the ball bounced back towards the defender Marcano. The ball was goal bound, but seemed to lack “legs.” We watched, time appearing to stand still, as Maicon hacked the ball off the line. We were, of course, at the other end of the stadium. I was not convinced that the ball had crossed the line. A creature of habit, I glanced over to the linesman in front of the West Stand. His flag was down. The crowd were roaring, though. The referee was signalling a goal. I had, of course, neglected to look at the much-abused official behind the goal line.

It was a goal.

It didn’t create the emotional release of other goals due to its rather messy nature, but it was a goal nonetheless. Ironically, Alan and I had just bemoaned the presence of the fifth and sixth officials, who rarely get involved in any decisions whatsoever.

On around twenty minutes, I was fuming as Diego Costa needlessly, and stupidly, tripped Casillas as he had collected the ball and was looking to distribute the ball. It was just so annoying. Just like our season – one step forward, one step back – Diego Costa seems to confuse and infuriate me.

His efforts lead to a goal, but he then followed that up with a baffling trip.

Idiot.

Chances were otherwise rare in the first forty-five minutes. A sweet strike from Oscar was deflected narrowly wide. Just before the break, Courtois saved well and then Diego Costa was through one-on-one, but shot wide of the goal.

Ramires was a major plus during the first-half. His energy and running, his tackling and blocking, seemed to be a breath of fresh air. He seemed to invigorate us and drew good applause from the Stamford Bridge crowd.

It had been a competent showing in the first-half but my pre-match prediction of “a 1-0 lead from early on resulting in a nervous match all of the way through to the final whistle” looked like being correct.

In Kiev, the home team were beating Maccabi. No surprises there.

Porto began the second-half on the front foot. It was in their best interests to attack. Two efforts on goal signalled their new vigour. However, after just six minutes, a fine interchange between Diego Costa and Eden Hazard found Willian, who slammed the ball low past Casillas. It reminded me of his match-winner against Everton at the start of 2015. His run towards the far corner was the identical.

Hopefully, we could now relax a little.

I was able to sit back and appreciate the intricacies of our play. Porto continued to move forward and we were content to let them do so. They had to score. We just needed to keep it tight. Our attacking reverted to that of old-style counter attacks. I lost count of the number of times that we broke away at speed. On one occasion, Diego Costa ran through, tussling shoulder to shoulder with Maicon, but fell to the floor way too easily.

At the other end, fine tackles from our two centre-halves were perfectly executed.

Porto continued to push forward, but I thought that they suffered from the same malaise as us on Saturday; plenty of crosses played in to the danger areas, but nobody able to get on the end of them. The away fans appeared to be resigned to a defeat, a third-place finish and demotion to the maligned Europa League.

While we had dreams, however outlandish and fanciful, of Milan and the San Siro, Porto’s route to European glory would now be diverted to the Swiss city a few hundred miles to the north of the Lombardy capital.

Our counter attacks continued, and Eden Hazard went close.

A few spirited tackles from Oscar drew applause. Matic, ambling around but in control, was able to soak up Porto pressure. Hazard was not involved as much as I would have liked but was neat and rarely gave the ball away. It was reassuring to see Dave back.

One moment, involving Diego Costa, annoyed me further though. At the end of a great move, the crucial killer ball evaded him. He ended up in the goal mouth, turning his back to play. Although the ball was still “live”, rather than chase it down and keep pressure on Porto, he slowly walked back on to the field. Whereas other players had shown more of the old Chelsea spirit, it was annoying to see Costa still not 100% focussed on the team ethic which Mourinho so espouses.

“One step forward, one step back.”

Mourinho made some late changes.

Pedro for Oscar : lots of applause for the Brazilian.

Mikel for Diego Costa : this signalled an exodus from the stands, the game was safe now surely, Mikel was closing the sale.

Remy for Hazard : the poor bugger, surely he deserved more than a few minutes.

We were through. The road to Milan continues.

Tales From An Evening Of Bouquets And Boos

Posted on December 7, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 5 December 2015.

Alan, Glenn and myself were in the stadium far earlier than normal. After the sad loss of our dear friend Tom on Friday 27 November, whose season ticket was right next to our line of three, we had planned to mark this first home game without him with a small floral tribute. Glenn and I were the last to arrive at seats 369 to 371 in row D of the upper tier of the Matthew Harding. Alan, who had arranged with a florist outside Fulham Broadway to assemble a fitting bouquet, had already secured the flowers to Tom’s seat.

It was around five o’clock and Stamford Bridge was only just starting to fill up. There were probably less than a few thousand inside and the stadium was still. In our little section of the wraparound, housing maybe five hundred seats, there were only forty or fifty inside. It seemed right that we had the time and the space to ourselves. All three of us took a photograph of the blue and white flowers, and the hand-written note from Alan. A few friends came over to pay their respects. Alan used his mobile ‘phone to send a couple of photographs of the bouquet to Tom’s daughter. Although Tom’s last appearance at Stamford Bridge was back in May when we were presented with the 2014/2015 trophy, and his seat has been unused this season, there was a huge sadness as we looked down on his seat, knowing that we would never see him at Chelsea again. Alan’s words were chosen well.

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As the stadium filled up, and as the players appeared down below us on the floodlit turf, our thoughts slowly turned towards the early evening game with newly-promoted Bournemouth. On the drive up to London, we had agreed that our form was slowly improving and we should be able to harvest nine points out of the home games in December against three of the lesser teams in the division.

“Two tough away games, but maybe a little run. There’s a little bunching ahead of us, so we could easily get up in to the top half by the New Year. And then push on.”

It definitely felt, especially after a well-fought point at Tottenham, that the worst was behind us.

Pre-match had been a little different. While Parky and PD joined up with the usual suspects in “The Goose”, Glenn and I had decided to meet up with Dave for a cheeky Peroni or two and some nosh at Salvo’s restaurant on Old Brompton Road. We met up with Dave in “The Pembroke” but all was not well. Dave reluctantly told us that Salvo’s restaurant – “Dall’Artista” – was closed. My heart sank. We had not visited it this season, but I was truly saddened that there would be no more visits, no more laughs with the owner, no more fun. We have been visiting it since around 2003. Countless Chelsea fans – and friends – have accompanied us. How many? Maybe a hundred. Many from the United States. It really was a home from home for us. Tons of memories. What a great place.

And then my thoughts wandered. I hoped and prayed that Salvo, now in his late ‘sixties for sure, was OK.

We still decided to have a bite to eat, and chose a relatively new restaurant nearby – “The Bottlery” – where, after a very tasty meal and another lager, I was relieved to hear that Salvo was fine. He had just decided to move on. He might have even headed back to his home town in Italy. We were relieved. I just didn’t want any more bad news in 2015.

Dave and Glenn joined the others in The Goose.

My pre-match was still gathering pace. I headed down to the stadium, through the eerie Gothic majesty of West Brompton Cemetery, to meet up with Beth, who heads up the Chelsea In America supporters group. As an aside, Beth had visited Salvo’s with us after a game at Arsenal in 2009 I seem to remember. One of many. Beth presented me with my honorary CIA membership card for the season and we had a little chat. Back in 2006/2007, after getting to meet many of the US-based fans at a Chelsea game in Chicago, I decided to start detailing a few Chelsea tales on the Chelsea In America bulletin board. Ad hoc postings after games – sometimes a few sentences, sometimes several paragraphs – eventually lead to a weekly match report, which people seemed to like, and the positive feedback gave me the impetus to create this current website. Beth, from Texas, and Andy, from Michigan, encouraged me in those early seasons to get my own personal blog up-and-running, and I am grateful for their support.

This is my 381^st consecutive match report.

You don’t like it?

Blame Beth and Andy.

In The Goose, alongside my mates, it was clear that many a boozy session had taken place. The team news came through in a sudden rush of Facebook alerts.

“Hazard playing as a false nine again. Costa sub.” It had worked really well at Tottenham, but playing without a recogniseable striker – or at least a target man, a finisher, a “presence” – was, well, odd.

Thibaut Courtois was back between the sticks, but strangely Dave was not playing.

Glenn and I popped into “The Malt House” en route to the game for a quick livener before heading on to join up with Alan. There were positive noises being made about our recent improvements. Glenn – excited like an eight year old – was a little wobbly as we walked along the Fulham Road and it reminded me of his lurching walk towards a certain stadium in Germany in May 2012, bless him.

Outside by the West Stand entrance, stood a Christmas tree, bedecked in blue and white.

We had heard that Stoke City had defeated Manchester City 2-0.

Oh this crazy season.

Just before the 5.30pm kick-off, the Stamford Bridge floodlights were extinguished, leaving only the smaller marker lights of the balconies. The grass became strangely lusher, the stadium more dramatic. The teams entered the pitch. The three thousand away fans were already in their seats, whereas there were many late arrivals in the home areas.

After a very encouraging start, with the ball being played quickly between our attacking four – Oscar, Willian, Pedro, Hazard – we had to be grateful for two blocks from the recalled Courtois. They were easily the best two chances of the game thus far and gave us food for thought. As the half continued, Bournemouth did not threaten our goal quite as much, yet certainly made life very difficult for us with their desire to close down space.

At last, a shot on target. Eden Hazard cut in from the right and forced a fine save from Artur Boruc. Soon after, Pedro – flitting about, looking to get involved – advanced and steered a shot towards the far post. Boruc again saved well. As the game wore on, I was having to re-evaluate my hopes for the evening. This would clearly not be as easy a game as I had hoped.

The atmosphere was pretty dire. The away fans were heard. Only occasionally did the home support rouse itself.

At half-time, I had a quick word with the Chelsea Supporters Trust chairman Tim, who sits a few rows behind us, regarding the recent planning proposal for our new stadium which was submitted to the local council. On the Friday evening, I had flitted through some of the incredibly comprehensive diagrams and associated design details; I was very impressed indeed. The level of information available to access is breath-taking, but so too is the research that the architects – and the club – have obviously undertaken.

I have said it before, but the new stadium looks a winner.

I was especially pleased to note that the “corporate” middle tier, will only be so in the new East and West Stands. Behind both goals, there will be three tiers of general seating, thus hopefully enabling some noise to be generated. I also noted that the away fans will be split in to three tiers – see my comments about Manchester City away this season – but this section will move over to the west side of The Shed, where the Bovril Gate will act as a separate entrance for away fans. This seems to be a common sense approach.

In fact, the entire planning proposal is full of sense, from the Chelsea insignia detail on the brickwork, to the use of every spare inch of space, to the iconic and unique design.

I heartily recommend taking a peek.

http://public-access.lbhf.gov.uk/online-applications/applicationDetails.do?activeTab=documents&keyVal=NVL8QGBI0IE00

On the pitch, former centre-forward Steve Finnieston was walking the pitch with Neil Barnet. After Neil did the introduction, “Jock” grabbed the microphone and began an increasingly manic monologue involving name-checking many Chelsea supporters in the four stands. He didn’t want to stop. This seemed to go on for minutes on end. It was one of the great half-time shows. Who needs Janet Jackson’s nipples when we have Jock Finnieston and his ramshackle ramblings? He would probably still be talking now if it wasn’t for the second-half.

Ah, the second-half. Do I have to?

Jose decided to replace the very quiet Oscar with Diego Costa. With us attacking the Matthew Harding goal, scene of many a second-half deluge over the years, we hoped that a bona fide striker inside the box would pay off.

However, a rasping drive from Matt Richie – who? – just cleared our goal, and again I wondered if I had to rethink my hopes for the day.

Our first real chance of the second-half followed a corner from Willian. The ball flew off a near post head towards the waiting Matic, but the ball came too quick for him to react. The header flew over. A penalty appeal for handball on a sliding Simon Francis – who? – was waved away. The portents were not looking good. To be honest, we were dominating possession throughout the second-half. However, I lost count of the number of times that crosses were admirably whipped in by Ivanovic and even Baba, but with no threat inside the penalty area. Further back, Matic and Fabregas were very poor.

Only rarely did the home support rally behind the team. Despite all the possession, there was rising levels of anxiety at our lack of a killer punch. One ridiculously optimistic effort from Ivanovic almost went out for a throw-in. Our much troubled Serbian was having a pretty reasonable game in all honesty, and his constant jaunts up the right touchline resulted in many good crosses. Willian too – of course – was constant movement, and how we wished that others could replicate his touch and drive. Hazard, often marked by three players, was struggling and Pedro was tiring. Fabregas and Matic were simply not involved.

With around ten minutes to go, and after a very rare foray by Bournemouth in to our half, we conceded a corner.

Stamford Bridge tensed up.

I leant forward and whispered to the lads in front –

“Here we go. Corner. Far post.”

It seemed that the entire crowd was besieged by the same fear.

The ball was swung over. Courtois flapped and the ball dropped to a Bournemouth player, who clipped the ball back towards the other post. In a scene that seems to have become oh-so familiar over the years, a seemingly unmarked Bournemouth player – Glenn Murray, who? – headed home. I leant back and sighed.

“Knew it.”

We were losing 1-0 at home to A bloody F bloody C Bournemouth.

Jose replaced Baba with Traore, Fabregas with Remy.

It was no good.

Our play went to pieces, and our support started to go home.

At the final whistle, there were boos from some home areas, though not from Alan, nor Glenn, nor myself.

As I edged out of my seat, I reached over and touched the empty seat next to where Glenn had been sitting.

“God bless Tom.”

I spoke with a clearly miserable Long Tall Pete out on the Fulham Road, who could not fathom why Mourinho had not played with a striker in a home match.

“4-4-2, Costa and Remy.”

I had to agree.

Back in the car, after the initial flurry of moans from all four of us, I soon headed home. I am usually quite sanguine and philosophical after such defeats, but on this occasion I really was pretty low. This was a game that we should have won easily, yet our deficiencies were exposed once again. There had been little fight from any of our players – perhaps one exception, the redoubtable Willian – and it left me jaded, upset and confused. As Gaspar, Balthasar and Melchior slept for virtually the entire trip back to the West Country, I was left with my thoughts.

“Porto. Wednesday. We simply have to win that fucker.”

Tales From Tottenham

Posted on November 30, 2015 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 28 November 2015.

OK, how many Chelsea supporters muttered, either to themselves or in hushed tones to fellow supporters, these words on Sunday morning?

“I’ll take a 0-0 draw now.”

Come on, admit it. Virtually everyone, right?

Certainly me.

My words were spoken early on the drive in to London with my two fellow Away Club members, Lord Parky and P-Diddy. They were in agreement. This would be a tough assignment on a bleak Sunday lunchtime. If truth be told, I had been fearing this trip to our bitterest London rivals for a while. Our struggles so far this season, allied to the form of Tottenham, had been weighing heavily on my mind and now the battle royale – or maybe a battle royal and navy – was about to take place.

We had parked up at Barons Court station, not so far away from Stamford Bridge, at around 10am and had traversed the capital on a mixture of underground and overground trains. There was a little delay at Seven Sisters as we waited for the last connection. It was a blustery old day. Not particularly cold, but certainly grey and bleak. By the time we had alighted at White Hart Lane station, daubed in graffiti and battle-worn, I was reminded of how the area around Spurs’ home ground is so very different to that around Stamford Bridge. After slowly descending the steep steps from the platform to ground level, we joined the rush of fans on their way to the stadium. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my lightweight but warm North Face jacket, and quickly walked past some flats, before crossing the High Road. I spotted that the excavations and groundworks for Spurs’ new stadium had hardly advanced from 2012, let alone New Year’s Day 2015. However, now was not the time to wonder how long their new 60,000 stadium would take to rise to the north of the current stadium, nor if Chelsea and Spurs would share Wembley over the next few years. My mind was focussed on the imminent game. We rushed through the checks outside the away end and met up with a few friends in the crowded bar area on the concourse of the upper tier of the away corner, which is squeezed between the West Stand and the Park Lane.

I was with just Lord Parky now. P-Diddy had left us to watch from the lower tier. I gulped down a bottle of lager and Parky did the same with a cider, while reminiscing with a few fellow fans about the recent pilgrimage to Tel Aviv and Haifa. How ironic that fate would have us following up our game in Israel with a game at White Hart Lane, the home of the club which has engineered a strong Jewish identity over the decades.

I met up with Alan, who had been with me in Israel. I shook his hand and gripped it hard. Alan had passed on some very sad news to me late on Friday evening. Our dear friend Tom, who had sat alongside Alan, Glenn and myself in the Matthew Harding since 1997 had passed away in a Tooting hospital ward. I had been so proud of Alan popping in to see Tom after the Norwich City game last Saturday. We will miss his giddy excitement of all things Chelsea. It was an absolute joy to know him, and to share his love of our club, our players, our history.

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Tom Crowe RIP.

We hoped that Chelsea could provide a win at the home of our great rivals to mark Tom’s passing.

News came through that Jose Mourinho had chosen not to deploy a regular striker, but to instead select Eden Hazard in the quote-unquote “false nine” position. This is something that Chelsea have done on occasion in the past. I can remember Roberto di Matteo doing the same in Turin three years ago, and Mourinho himself doing the same at Old Trafford two years ago.

Of course this threw up a few questions about Diego Costa, specifically, and also Mourinho’s mind-set about the game. I suppose the term “damage limitation” came to my mind. I presumed that we would flood the midfield and close down any space available. Elsewhere there were no surprises. John Terry, sadly, was not fit after his jarring injury in Haifa.

Begovic, Ivanovic, Cahill, Zouma, Azpilicueta, Matic, Fabregas, Willian, Oscar, Pedro, Hazard.

There was only the slightest hint of sun as the game began. It soon disappeared. The grey skies overhead mirrored my thoughts on the game. Tottenham would surely start as favourites. Indeed, the home team – playing with that horrible tyre tread sash over their white shirts – began the better. We had chosen to attack our end in the first-half and it seemed strange. We are so used to see us attacking the Paxton Road in the first halves of games at White Hart Lane. Unlike at Stamford Bridge, there are few individual flags at Tottenham. One new addition was notable on the Paxton Road balcony, referencing former manager Bill Nicholson.

“It’s been my life, Tottenham Hotspur, and I love the club.”

Well, as sporting quotes go, it’s hardly memorable or stirring. One wonders what other quotes from Nicholson were not chosen.

“Come on Tottenham, kick and rush.”

“The goal is over there.”

“That’s it, kick it.”

“Well, well, well, that’s a lovely pass.”

“Lovely stuff, Tottenham, that’s marvellous.”

“Ah bugger it.”

Tottenham were on the front foot but thankfully Harry Kane, especially, seemed to be misfiring. A rare half-chance for Pedro, just unable to reach a long booted clearance from Asmir, gave us hope. The home fans who shared our end had opened up the game with the slow dirge of “Oh when the Spurs go marching in” but had then been silenced by repeated chants from the noisy three thousand in our corner.

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

“We won 6-1 at the Lane.”

“We won 5-1, Wembley.”

A few of us attempted to get a chant from Tuesday night in Haifa going – “Shalom, shalom, we are the Chelsea boys” – but nobody else were joining in. Instead, the original rang out.

“Hello, hello – we are the Chelsea boys. Hello, hello – we are the Chelsea boys. And if you are a Tottenham fan, surrender or you’ll die. We all follow the Chelsea.”

A strong wind was making close control difficult at times. For some reason, several polythene bags had found their way on to the White Hart Lane pitch – the shabbiness outside was mirrored inside – and they swirled around as the players fought out battles nearby. I am sure, at one stage, I saw a carrier bag tackle Harry Kane. A fine cross from Oscar down below us on the right wing was clipped in perfectly towards Eden Hazard, who leapt well, but could not keep his header down. This was promising stuff, though, and after weathering a slight Tottenham storm at the start, we were growing in confidence by the minute. Pedro was the next to threaten Loris in the Spurs goal. He controlled well and worked the ball past his marker and struck a fierce shot which was deflected above the bar.

Tottenham then themselves had the best chance of the game thus far, with Son heading straight at Begovic from close in.

Phew.

Pedro, full of running down the left, then came close from an angle.

Meanwhile, Tottenham were racking up the yellow cards.

At the break, I was very happy with our first-half performance. Hazard, Pedro and Willian (of course) had been full of energy and running. Matic slowly grew as the game developed, but Fabregas was mainly missing. How ironic that our two lauded signings of the summer of 2014, Fabregas and Costa, are the two most likely to be derided by Chelsea fans in the autumn of 2015. In defence, all was well.

However, I commented to Alan that there was a great disparity in the distribution techniques of our two central defenders. Gary Cahill would often take one too many ponderous touches. Kurt Zouma would rather launch a ball in to row Z. Surely the best approach is of John Terry, somewhere between the two.

The quality decreased a little in the second-half, but Kurt Zouma came close from a Willian free-kick. Our energy levels were fine though, no complaints there. Maybe Tottenham were feeling fatigued after their travels to and from Azaerbaijan on Thursday, but they looked off the pace as the game progressed. The “tonking” that many had expected – our heavy loss on the first day of 2015 was still fresh, surely, in everyone’s memory – had not happened.

Another Tottenham yellow card; up to four now. Matic was booked; our first.

As the match continued, I realised that the home spectators were ridiculously quiet. In almost thirty years of attending Chelsea games at White Hart Lane, this was the quietest that I had ever known them. I suppose that the austere weather and the sobering midday kick-off were the main reasons. However, it left me ruing days of yore when even a mid-table London derby between our two teams would have been thunderous and noisy.

Then, a long searching cross from Ivanovic found the excellent Eden Hazard running at pace on the far post. His sharp volley was goal bound, but Loris managed to deflect the ball up and away. It was our best chance of the second-half. I cannot remember Tottenham having an equally threatening effort on our goal. Jose Mourinho chose, strangely, to leave his two substitutions to very late. Firstly Kenedy replaced Willian. Then Loftus-Cheek replaced Pedro. Both had been excellent.

The game petered out really, in the closing moments, with both managers seemingly content with shared points. With Tottenham’s Clinton and Chelsea’s Kenedy now on the pitch, a draw was a democratic outcome.

We quickly exited and were soon headed south and back to civilisation.

White Hart Lane, Seven Sisters, Green Park, Barons Court.

We all agreed that we had played well. It had been a fine, bustling performance, and was possibly our best show of the season. We left London with a little unbeaten run intact, and three consecutive clean sheets. However, we have a tough month ahead with five league games on the horizon, including two difficult aways at Leicester City and Manchester United, plus a possible season-defining game against Porto in Europe. In this season of false starts, and now false nines, let’s hope that by the last day of 2015, we have continued our resurgence.

Tales From The Holy Land

Posted on November 28, 2015 by Chris Axon

Maccabi Tel Aviv vs. Chelsea : 24 November 2015.

This was a unique game for me. For the first ever time, I had decided to attend more than just one of the autumnal group phase away games. Until now, my forays in to foreign lands have been limited to one game before Christmas – due to financial constraints and annual leave limitations – but on the evening of the Champions League draw in August, I soon followed up an EasyJet booking to Porto with one to Tel Aviv.

Games like this do not come our way too often.

As the weeks passed, my sense of anticipation grew steadily, although there were several moments of self-doubt, too. I would be attending a game in Israel, a country which has had a history of internal strife with different factions inside its borders and external conflict with its immediate neighbours. Conversations took place with trusted friends – fellow travellers – and these issues were discussed. Yes, there were concerns, but at no point did I think about staying at home. Then came the events in Paris on the evening of Friday 13 November, and my mind became agitated with all sorts of worries for my safety. I am sure that I was not the only one. My worries, thankfully, slowly decreased again.

In the pub before the game with Norwich City at the weekend, my good friend Alan mentioned that he had booked himself on a day tour of Jerusalem and Bethlehem for the day after the game. I quickly followed suit.

I was going to Israel. I was going to Tel Aviv, to Haifa, to Jerusalem, to Bethlehem.

This would surely be one of the trips of my lifetime.

Three days of work (Chelsea in Haifa), rest (the beaches of Tel Aviv) and play (the Holy cities of Jerusalem and Bethlehem).

This would be one for the ages.

My trip to the Holy Land began in the small hours of Tuesday 23 November, the day of the game. I had booked myself on the 7am flight out of Luton, which would get me in to Ben Gurion airport at 2pm. This is not normal for me; I usually have a night in a foreign city to acclimatise, but I would be staying on after until Thursday evening to compensate. As I drove west through neighbouring counties, with the rain lashing down outside, all was surprisingly calm. I think that I was subconsciously trying to put my security and safety fears to one side. Thoughts flitted in and out of my mind.

I thought about our only ever previous trip to Israel, which came only a month or so after the awful attacks in the United States in the September of 2001. On that occasion, several first-team regulars chose not to fly to Israel, and came under considerable scrutiny. My view at the time was that I had great empathy with those who chose not to fly out. For the players that were husbands and fathers, I could understand why they felt they should not go. Marriages could have been threatened if a player and his wife disagreed on this. It was a tense time. Other Chelsea fans were not so forgiving. As far as I can recollect, a very small away contingent – around 150 – followed the team out for the game against Hapoel Tel Aviv, which we lost 2-0.

On a personal level, there was a story too.

My dear father, who I have often mentioned in these tales of my Chelsea life, was in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War. Back in the celebrated 2011/2012 season, I managed to involve part of my father’s wartime history during two match reports. For the away game at Everton in the February of 2012, I wrote about my father’s training at RAF West Kirby on The Wirral at the very start of his RAF career. For the away game in Naples, just ten days later, I wrote about my father’s stay in Naples in 1944, when he was billeted at the San Carlo Opera House for six months. In the space of ten days, I had covered two landmark locations in my father’s wartime story. There were other locations that my father visited, including Algeria and Malta, but my father’s very first overseas posting was – yes, you have guessed it – in the city of Jerusalem in July 1944. Not for the first time in my Chelsea travels, I would be walking in my father’s footsteps.

Like myself, Dad was an avid photographer and as I look back on his life and the many wonderful memories that I can easily recollect, one of the biggest gifts that he has been able to provide me with is a small photograph album which contains an image of his squadron badge on the inside cover – Squadron 283 “Attende Et Vigila” – and around one hundred of his war time photographs, taken in locations as diverse as Maison Blanche in Algeria, Taormina in Sicily and Marseilles in France.

Prior to my departure to Israel, I easily hunted out this precious set of photographs and focussed on the ones at the very start of Dad’s story, when he was just twenty-one years of age.

The album contains fascinating photographs of the garden of Gethsemane, the Dome of the Rock, the Mount of Olives, the Church of the Rock, Arch of Ecce Homo, St. David’s Tower, the Wailing Wall, Via Dolorosa, Damascus Gate, the tomb of Jesus, the Temple area and a panoramic view of the whole city. Interestingly, also, there is a fabulous photograph of my father and his eventual best man Hank, sitting on the roof of the Abyssinian Consulate, in RAF regulation shorts, but bare-chested and seemingly enjoying the view, with their smiles wide.

There is also a single photograph of my father, with Hank and three other friends, at Hadera in the September of 1944. Hadera is near the cost, between Tel Aviv and Haifa and I therefore deducted that my father would have entered and exited Israel – or Palestine as it was called until 1948 – through the ancient port of Haifa.

By October 1944, the photographs were of Naples and my father had moved on.

One photograph among those mentioned piqued my interest.

Via Dolorosa.

Maybe because of the Italian sounding name. Maybe because it was a named street – in Dad’s pen, beneath the photograph – rather than just a “street in Jerusalem.”

It stayed in my mind.

At Luton Airport, I soon met up with Kev from Edinburgh, who was with us in Porto not so many weeks ago. He too had booked himself on to the tour of the holy cities on the Wednesday. It was around 5am on a cold winter morning in Bedfordshire, and we would soon be jetting off to a sunny city on the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean. However, both of us were suddenly a little confused and ill at ease.

“Why are we doing this?”

“I dunno mate.”

“Me neither.”

The flight lasted around four and a half hours. There were only a few fellow Chelsea supporters on the trip. We were greatly outnumbered by many orthodox Jews, in their distinctive black hats, skull caps, black jackets and white shirts, some travelling alone, some with their families. Here was proof that this would be a Chelsea away like no other. With my eyes getting tired, I was thankfully able to catch up on some sleep. We flew over Germany, Hungary and beyond. Refreshed, I was then also able to read sections of the guide book to Israel that I had bought a fortnight previously, but which had been untouched until now.

Of course, the book confirmed several thoughts about Israel. I was reminded of its complex and confusing political history. I tried to understand the geography. My guide book focussed on Israel, with only a minimal mention of the Palestinian lands of the West Bank and the infamous Gaza Strip. And then there was the religious aspect. If any city can claim to represent the cradle of religious beliefs it is Jerusalem. But as soon as I thought that I was getting to grips with a particular train of thought, the words on the page in front of me would flow away on some bizarre tangent and I would have to go back and re-read the section again. Many a moment was spent trying to understand the complexities of the Jewish religion. I was still trying to unravel the notion of the Jews as a race or a religion, or both, when I was met with the conundrum of secular Jews. And then there was the equally baffling notion that not all Arabs living in Israel were Muslim (only 83%, with 9% Christian and 8% Druze.) This was getting all too confusing, but made me all the more excited to think that I would soon be able to see all of this for myself. Then things got a little strange.

I looked up and noted that the chap in front of me was wearing a Manchester United skull cap. I sighed. Then I noted that the Jewish woman to my left was breastfeeding her infant.

There was a tit in front of me and now one to the left.

Oi vey.

I resumed a little sleep and woke with only an hour to go. The flight had zoomed by. At Ben Gurion airport, passport and custom checks were quick and easy. Kev and I hopped in to a waiting cab. We were on our way in to Tel Aviv. The immediate scenery did not look to dissimilar to a city in Southern Spain at first glance, with modern roads and high-rise apartments. As we delved into the city, though, things became more alien.

“Kev, why are we here, mate?”

A pause.

A solemn answer.

“Not sure.”

My first thoughts about the city of Tel Aviv were of contrasts. Modern shops and cars, but shabby buildings. We drove on. Suddenly, the atmosphere changed significantly. Buildings were more modern, the shops sleeker. We spotted the Mediterranean Sea to our left. We reached our hotel, overlooking the city’s small marina, at around 3pm. We soon met up with Alan, who had travelled out the previous day. A serious drinking session had taken place among those Chelsea fans already in town, but I knew that this would be a day of few drinks, such were the time constraints involved. I freshened up, then set off for a local bar, overlooking the sandy beach.

We placed our sunglasses on as we slowly walked past towering palm trees towards the twin bars of “Jessica’s” and “Mike’s Place.”

The weather was fantastic. That first beer would go down well.

“Chelsea away. Love it.”

We bumped in to a few familiar faces at “Jessica’s” and sat inside for a couple of “two for one” dark Tuborg ales. The sun, a huge ball of flame, was setting over the sea – it disappeared so quickly – and we just revelled in the moment.

This was just perfect.

In all honesty, I could have stayed there for a few more hours, but we needed to move on. Big John, who was staying in a hotel around a mile to the south, had arranged for a coach to take around forty of us up to Haifa.

On the walk to the hotel, we spotted Millsy and two mates, shorts on, sandals on, beach towel over their shoulders, licking at ice-creams. It was a surreal sight, and not one that usually accompanies Chelsea in Europe. They were heading off to get the train north to Haifa.

We set off a little later than planned, at around 5.30pm, by which time night had almost fallen, and we were snared in rush hour traffic for a while. The coach was full of familiar faces, but there was little chat or revelry as we slowly moved north. It was so quiet, in fact, that it almost seemed like we were on our way back from a game. The dark evening outside and whispered conversations inside. I don’t think that this was because we were nervous; more likely that the sustained drinking session of the previous night was still affecting some.

The game didn’t kick-off until 9.45pm local time. It seemed that we were going to arrive in Haifa way too early. However, a journey which should have taken an hour took two. We were deposited outside the sleek and photogenic Sammy Ofer Stadium in the southern outskirts of Haifa at around 7.30pm. Around fifteen of us were still without match tickets though. After a little walk out to the main road, Kev and I managed to flag down a cab and we hopped in. The taxi driver hardly spoke a word of English and there were a few moments of concern as we tried to tell him where the Chelsea ticket collection hotel was based. Thankfully, his GPS kicked in and we were headed in to town on a twenty minute ride which would cost us eighty shekels or around £15.

Once the cab driver realised that we were in town for the football, he began annoying us both.

“Chelsea bad (smile), yes?”

“Arsenal good (smile), yes?”

“Chelsea not so good (smile), yes?”

“Leicester good (smile), yes? Jamie Vardy good!”

“Ferguson good (smile), yes?”

“Wenger good (smile), yes?”

“Mourinho not so good (smile), yes?”

I whispered to Kev…”the fucker ain’t getting a tip at this rate.”

As we neared the city centre, we drove past a throng of local Chelsea fans, all bedecked in all types of royal blue, with Israeli Chelsea Supporters banners and scarves on show. I thought that I recognised my mate Dom from New York who was in town for the game. With our tickets firmly in our hands – phew – at around 8.15pm, we walked back to the bar where the locals had been spotted. Bizarrely, the place was like a bar after a gunslinger had visited. They had all just left.

We backtracked to another bar, where we quickly sipped another dark Tuborg with Kev, from London, who sits near me in the MHU. The three of us then caught a cab – no football chat from the cab driver this time, thank heavens – and back to the environs of the stadium. The place was heaving with the yellow and blue of the team from Tel Aviv. With a capacity of 30,000 I presumed that it was chosen as a venue ahead of Maccabi’s own Bloomfield Stadium, which holds half that number.

Kev summed it up.

“It’s like Hearts playing at Celtic Park. Different city, main rivals. Crazy.”

There were about forty-five minutes to the kick-off, so we had a little time to take it all in. I love the hustle and bustle of match-going crowds, especially in foreign lands, and Israel was no different. There was little chanting outside, but I could tell that the locals were exhilarated to host the English Champions. We each bought a couple of – straight, not circular – bagels for ten shekels, but they were a tough chew. Outside the stadium, there is a rather graceful statue of a young woman in flowing robes holding a dove, and the night lights reflected off its shiny metallic surfaces. In the distant, spotlights shone high in to the night, and a full moon shone down on the stadium, which is shrouded in old gold metallic cladding. It is a stunning sight. My camera whirled into action.

We approached the turnstiles by the away sector. I was dreading a repeat of Porto, when my camera was not allowed entry. Thankfully, after a very quick glance in to my camera bag – “no bottles”? – and a cursory pat down, we were in.

A hot dog with sauerkraut, ketchup and mustard went down well, and we took up our seats in the lower tier. Although sleek and visually appealing outside, the two-tiered stands were quite mundane once inside. It was “sit/stand” where you like, so Kev and I shuffled up next to Alan and Raymondo – who had spent their pre-match at a bar in a local shopping centre – alongside Brighton Tony’s group. Above me, a set of familiar flags were draped over the balcony wall.

Ontario Canada (Burger and Julie).

Hastings Chelsea (Mark).

Hayes Chelsea (Kenny).

Studham Loyal (Ronnie).

Badgercrack Nebraska (Sergei and Dmitry).

Down at the front, easily spotted due to their near unanimous wearing of Chelsea replica shirts (not really our “thing” on tour in Europe), were a gaggle of around forty young local fans. To our immediate right was a larger section of local fans too.

Skull caps and Chelsea scarves.

One chap even had a Chelsea / Tottenham half-and-half scarf.

The irony.

We had apparently sold around one thousand tickets for this game, but my take was that around a third of these were to Israelis.

It was a warm night, and designer polos with shorts were the order of the day. On the far side, the more vociferous home fans were making a din. Fair play to them, this was their big night. The teams entered the pitch and the whole stadium held up plastic yellow and blue mosaics. It was a fine sight. The Champions League anthem was played, and a middle-aged chap to our left held up a Tottenham Hotspur scarf towards us.

Fuck off.

Two banners were on show at the north end.

“Ultras Tel Aviv.”

“Maccabi Fanatics.”

I was reminded of how the two common names of Maccabi and Hapoel came in to fruition in Israel. Nothing as simple as “United” or “City” in Israel; these two addendums derived from the political stance of the clubs at their inception. Teams featuring Maccabi stem from the Liberal party, those with Hapoel from the Labour party. Of the fourteen teams in the Israeli first division, all but three contain either of these two words.

There was also a banner crying out for attention.

“Europe Wake Up! Zionism Is Not A Crime!”

All of a sudden, the game was upon us.

Begovic.

Azpilicueta – Terry – Cahill – Baba.

Matic – Fabregas.

Willian – Oscar – Hazard.

Diego Costa.

Within the first few minutes, an unmarked Maccabi player – Iglebor – evaded all defenders and headed over from a central position inside our box. In truth, he should have scored. It was soon apparent that the pitch was cutting up very easily and divots soon started appearing all over. We seemed to enjoy attacking down our right, with Dave heavily involved. This suited me since this is where the Chelsea fans were settled.

Snap, snap, snap.

We enjoyed the majority of the ball, as ever, but we wondered if our shot shy attacker Diego Costa would cause the Tel Aviv ‘keeper much activity.

On twenty minutes, Willian sent over a corner. Gary Cahill rose high, possibly using a defender as a step ladder, and headed goal wards. Radkovic reacted incredibly well but could only push the ball on to a post. Cahill’s momentum carried him forward and he stabbed the ball home.

Get in.

His run towards us was captured on film and it was lovely to see all of the team join him.

We continued to dominate the game. Again we could be accused of over-passing, though. That incisiveness, so missing this season, is still not with us. Eden Hazard, on the back of a warming performance against Norwich City, seemed lost. We had a few attempts on goal. A shot from Fabregas, and one from Willian. An extravagant bicycle kick from Diego, a ball played in to Hazard but his jump and stretch mistimed. On one memorable occasion, with Chelsea attacking hard, Baba was further up the left flank than Diego Costa.

“Get in the box, Costa!”

We were winning, but the mood in the away end was hardly euphoric. There wasn’t too much noise either, save from a few rousing verses of “Willian.”

In the closing moments, the lump of Israeli rock that is Tal Ben Haim kicked out at Diego Costa – I was unsighted – and the ridiculously young looking referee from Turkey produced the red card. Ben Haim – I can never remember warming him to him as a Chelsea player – slouched off the field, his misery complete.

If I am honest, once the second-half began, I found myself losing interest. Chelsea were now attacking the far goal, and I was starting to get increasingly tired. I occasionally sat in my seat and rested my legs. I started to think of how many hours sleep that I would be getting ahead of our trip to Jerusalem on the Wednesday, when we would be leaving our hotel at 7.15am. I was so glad that I had not been drinking.

“Leave here at midnight, maybe 12.30am, a two hour journey, back at 2.30am, maybe sleep at 3.00am, up at 6.00am. Three hours. Bollocks.”

A fine save from Begovic was warmly applauded by the Chelsea ranks. A close-range volley from Dave was well saved, and then Begovic was at his very best again. Despite the one man advantage, Chelsea were far from impressive. As the night drew on, I began dreaming of my hotel bed.

The home fans put on a fine show, with both ends taking it in terms to rally behind their teams, as shouts of “Maccabi” bounced back to and forth.

Pedro replaced a very lacklustre Hazard.

“No more than 4/10 tonight. You can be one of the top ten players in the entire world, but if your confidence is shot, it means nothing” I said to a chap nearby.

Sadly, John Terry crumpled to the floor and was stretchered off. I watched him as he left the field; I could tell he was in pain. There was no clenched fist salute to the away fans, a sure sign that he was troubled.

“God, just what we need with Tottenham on Sunday.”

He was replaced by Kurt Zouma.

A free-kick in “Willian Territory” had us all hoping and praying. He did not disappoint. A curling effort dipped over a weak wall and in to an unguarded net.

2-0.

The game was safe now and we could relax.

In Portugal came the surprising news that Kiev were winning.

Shortly after, a fantastic deep cross from the somewhat maligned Baba Rahman was headed home by Oscar. Towards the end of the game, I eventually met up with Dom, from NYC, albeit for just a few words. He had travelled over with no ticket waiting for him, but one of the local Israelis had sorted him out.

Our victory was complete when Kurt Zouma headed easily past Rajkovic from an Oscar header.

4-0.

It matched the result in the home leg.

If Willian made all of the headlines with another excellent goal allied to a typically bullish performance, I thought that Cesar Azpilicueta was also outstanding, combining a fine defensive display with many forceful runs at his opposing full-back. Diego Costa was as frustrating as ever, but – overall – this was a decent enough showing.

Job done troops.

However, I was a little dismayed that only two or three of the players made much of an effort to thank the travelling Chelsea supporters for our efforts. Only Gary Cahill and Asmir Begovic appeared to go out of their way to walk a few steps towards us.

This wasn’t Watford. Or Leicester. Or Southampton.

This was Tel Aviv, for fuck sake, boys.

Disappointing.

Thankfully, the coach driver made great time on the return trip. I was back in my bed just after 1.30am. It had been a long, long day.

I dropped off to sleep.

On the Wednesday, I stumbled out of bed after just over four hours’ sleep. A shower soon revitalised me. With the work behind us, it was now time to rest and play. While the team no doubt headed home to Blighty straight after the game, and some fans were not far behind them, I still had two days left. A quick breakfast at the hotel was followed by a mini-bus calling to take us to Jerusalem and then Bethlehem. It would be a day that would be the highlight of the trip; who says it is only about the football? Not me.

Our tour guide, a chap who lived on a kibbutz in a winery called Ossi, was soon detailing facts about Tel Aviv, Israel, and then Jerusalem as we drove east and up towards the hills. We were caught in a little traffic on the busy road, which was occasionally lined with the metal shells of army vehicles, no doubt in remembrance of lives lost in previous periods of conflict. We stopped for a much needed coffee just as all three of us were starting to nod off. It revived us instantly. A Chelsea fan from Hillingdon, Suk, was on our mini bus and we had a little chat about the game. He had been one of the few at the 2001 game in Tel Aviv. I was honestly surprised at how many minarets, indicating the site of mosques, were visible on the drive in to the city. Up to 20% of the population of Israel are Muslims, and here was the proof. Before we knew it, we were heading past the 9/11 monument on the outskirts of Jerusalem before heading in from the north, past the impressive British Military Cemetery. We were soon parked up on Mount Scopus, which affords a magnificent panoramic view of the seven hills of Jerusalem. What is it about cities built on seven hills? Rome is the same. They say that Bath, my place of birth, is too.

Jerusalem looked spectacular.

I spoke to Kevin, reminding him of the conversation that we had shared on several occasions on the previous day regarding our visit to Israel.

“Right. That is why we are here.”

We looked down on the city once more.

I was in awe.

The shining gold semi-circle of the Temple Mount dominated the vista before me, but this would be off limits on this trip, as non-Muslims are not allowed to enter. My father, in 1944, had visited it, but times had changed since then. I gazed down at the various locations as Ossi pointed out their part in the complex and interesting story of Jerusalem. For the first of many moments throughout my stay, I began questioning what I was hearing. The Temple Mount is allegedly where Mohamed ascended from earth to heaven, a fact that was alien to me before this trip. So, in addition to being the city where Jesus Christ was crucified and rose again – the epicentre of all Christianity – this was Mo Town, too.

And yet, my thoughts on all of this were swirling around me.

I have never mentioned my faith, nor my religious thoughts, in these Chelsea tales ever before – why should I? – and I very rarely talk about such topics with anyone but my very closest friends. But on a visit to the Holy Land, it seems churlish for me to keep my thoughts to myself. My parents took me to church every Sunday throughout my childhood and although I rarely attend these days, I usually pray each night…a few words…and so I guess that I would be called a Christian. I’m certainly spiritual.

However, my rational nature always tends to disrupt my thoughts concerning religious fundamentalism and I can see through the vast majority of the religious bombast which sadly dominates some areas of various faiths.

I knew that my travels through Jerusalem might make me feel uneasy as the day progressed.

Back in the coach, we glimpsed the arid bleakness of the Sinai Desert to the east. I could have stayed looking out at its ethereal bleakness for ages. Then, sadly, the time just went too quickly for me to take everything in. In only ten minutes, the coach drove past the Garden of Gethsemane, the Kidron Valley, the city of David, various churches, a huge Jewish cemetery, all interspersed with a rapid fire commentary. By the time that we had stopped to park near the Jaffa Gate to the west of the ancient walled city, I was in need of a few moments to take it all in.

But there was no time to rest. We began our walking tour of the cramped ancient city.

At times my memories of bible studies at primary school and Sunday school fought with images and lines from “The Life Of Brian.”

“Now you listen here. He’s not the Special One. He’s a very naughty boy.”

We spent around four hours in Jerusalem. We visited the Armenian Quarter, the Muslim Quarter, the Christian Quarter, and finally the Jewish Quarter. Soon into the tour, we were taken down narrow cobbled streets, with shops selling all kinds of wares and souvenirs. As I spotted a few tacky T-shirts (“Guns & Moses”) I was reminded of my father’s comments about Jerusalem. He was expecting a spiritual enlightening, but instead was dismayed at the amount of “tat” being peddled. Seventy-one years later, it was a lot worse.

I kept looking out for Via Dolorosa. Ossi kept mentioning it. As the day unfolded, it came to light that this was the route taken by Christ as he carried his cross to the site of his crucifixion at Calvary. More of that later.

We passed a little enclave of Ethiopian Jews, and visited their very small church, then stopped at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is where – it is alleged – Christ was crucified. My father had visited here in 1944. This is odd, because I always presumed that Calvary – “there is a green hill far away without a city wall” – was some distance from Jerusalem, but here it was, right in the heart of the old city.

I was overwhelmed by the various facts which Ossi regaled us with. We saw a slab of marble which was used as a resting place for the body of Christ. People were stooping to kiss it and touch it. I wasn’t so sure. My faith was being sorely tested.

All the time my camera was recording these amazing images.

Then, outside, a piece of pure drama.

While Kev, Alan and myself rested outside the large and imposing church, and while we had a little discussion about our beliefs, or lack of them, a microphone was broadcasting a call to Islamic prayer. Then, a little group of Jewish pilgrims carried a cross into the little square and a rabbi began saying a few words too.

Muslim and Jewish prayers were taking place simultaneously outside the church where it is alleged that Jesus Christ was crucified.

Some moment.

Our tour continued around and down, through increasingly small and cramped streets. We entered the Muslim Quarter. Shops seemed busier, the pathways narrower. At last, we entered Via Dolorosa. Ossi spoke about the fourteen Stations of the Cross which marked the half a mile or so that Christ carried his cross, and which today is marked by Via Dolorosa, although the original street would have been many feet below the current level.

So, this is why my father was so specific.

I had kept an image of my father’s photograph of Via Dolorosa on my camera’s memory card. As we walked down, I kept referring to it. I wanted to replicate that image. I would soon be rewarded.

So, here were two images taken by my father and by myself, some seventy-one years apart.

Dad was 21 and I am 50.

71.

Spooky, eh?

As we continued along Via Dolorosa, Ossi came to a point where pilgrims were placing their hands on a stone on a wall to our right. Ossi didn’t sound too convincing as he explained that this is where Jesus Christ touched this very wall. And yet the original street was several feet below us. Call me agnostic on that one. It suddenly dawned on me that I was far less excited about walking the same street as Jesus Christ as walking the very same street that my father had visited in 1944.

We found ourselves at the base of the hill. We were asked to place our goods and chattels through a metal detector and then found ourselves outside the Western Wall. Again, my father had visited here. Alan, Kev and myself donned special souvenir “kippahs” and walked towards the holy wall, which actually abuts the Tomb of the Rock.

It was surreal to visit such a famous and spiritual location.

I honestly can’t remember if I prayed for a win at Tottenham on Sunday.

We made our way back up the hill, through the Jewish Quarter, which tended to contain a greater proportion of newer buildings, before stopping for a bite to eat. While eating, one of our tour party spotted my Chelsea US Tour T-shirt and commented that he was present at our MLS All-Star Game in Chicago in 2006. I responded that I was there, too. What is it I have said about Chelsea World being ridiculously small?

There was one final look over the rooftops of Jerusalem’s sacred centre, and we then retraced our steps up to the Jaffa Gate.

Our little mini-bus then headed south, passing a variety of more modern, and rather sturdy, buildings before things started to get a little tense. We were headed for Bethlehem, which is situated just inside the West Bank. Call me naïve, but I stupidly presumed that Ossi would stay on the bus and we would disappear into Bethlehem for an hour or so before returning to Jerusalem.

It soon became evident that I was wide of the mark, like a Radamel Falcao volley.

Oh no, nothing as easy as that.

Our mini-bus would park on the Israeli side of the security wall, constructed in 2000, and the ten of us were to walk over to the West Bank, where we were to be met by a Palestinian.

Ossi : “Yes, you will meet your guide there. His name is Osama.”

Inside the mini-bus, you could have heard a pin drop.

“Fackinell.”

Ossi : “I will not join you. I will go back to the Western Wall to pray for your safe return.”

He turned to us and smiled. He was likable chap, in his ‘seventies, with a splendid comb-over which resembled a skull-cap, but on this occasion he was laughing alone. We fidgeted a little, then set eyes on the thirty foot security wall which wended its way for quite a considerable way in to the distance.

Gulp.

Ossi pointed us towards a metal fence and we passed through a series of walkways before walking across an expanse of concreted open land. In to the next set of gates, then down a narrow path, to be greeted by a smiling Osama. The ten of us quickly darted into two waiting vehicles, which then drove us – rather quickly – through the narrow streets of Bethlehem. There was a vastly different vibe here. Osama, who was only the driver and not the guide, pointed out two young boys in front of us.

“These Palestinian boys are bad. They throw stones at Israeli police cars.”

We were met by a fantastic guide called George – a Palestinian Christian – who guided us through the various chambers and rooms of the Church of the Nativity, which is a conglomeration of three churches on the very spot, allegedly, where Jesus Christ was born. There was no stable, only caves. We were way underground and mired in Christianity; up to our eyes in the most famous story of them all. To be frank, George was a more compelling and believable guide than Ossi and he listed a whole host of – possible, only possible – pieces of evidence which backed up the notion of a holy birth on that exact spot over two thousand years ago.

Again, my religious side was battling my rational side and I wasn’t sure which would come out on top.

After the visit was over, we darted into a souvenir shop, then sped back towards the security fence. Bethlehem is ridiculously hilly and the buildings perch precariously on the hill tops. Osama walked us up to the gates and pointed us onward. As we crossed “no man’s land”, many Palestinian migrant workers were heading back after a day’s toil in Jerusalem. What happened next, was pure farce.

We found ourselves in a hall, maybe a holding area, and were met with some unmanned turnstiles. There was no way to get through. We spotted a large sliding door, and after a little deliberation, pulled it back, not quite expecting what would greet us. It was another holding area. And more unmanned turnstiles. One chap decided to push his way through, but there seemed to be no way through. And he was stuck. We were all stuck. We had no idea what to do. Go back? What would greet us? After about three or four minutes, at last a voice called out and we piled through the last turnstile, putting our cameras and wallets through a security scanner. More migrant workers walked past. I avoided eye contact, just for safety sake. At last, we spotted Ossi.

We scrambled into the waiting van, and headed back in to Jerusalem.

“Out of my comfort zone there, boys. Don’t mind admitting it. Away games at Tottenham and West Ham will be easy compared to that.”

We were back to the relative comforts of Tel Aviv by 5.45pm.

“Tell you what, Tel Aviv looks bloody normal compared to what we have seen today.”

Back at our hotel, the three of us met up with Tony – now living in my home town of Frome – and we set off for a meal and some beers. Who should spot us but Suk, and we aimed for “Mike’s Place.” We enjoyed a great meal and chatted about Chelsea, Israel and all sorts. I had forgotten, but Suk reminded us that “Mike’s Place” was attacked by a suicide bomber – from Britain – in 2003, and three unfortunate souls were killed. We moved on to another bar, with the laughter flying around, before calling it a night at around midnight.

Alan and Kev were off to the airport in the morning and so, after another fine breakfast, I had some time to kill. I changed into some shorts and headed down to the beach. It was just after 10am, but the sun was already warm. I swam in the Mediterranean Sea and relaxed on the beach. Never before had there been a Chelsea trip quite like this one. The water was lapping at the sandy beach behind me as I remembered all of the family holidays that I had enjoyed with my parents in various Italian resorts, and the sound of the water slowly rolling over the sand brought back a host of memories.

A light lunch was followed by a relaxing time back at the hotel as I waited patiently for four other friends – Pauline, Digger, Fiona, Ronnie – to return. Together, we took two cabs to the local train station before heading back to the airport. Before I knew it, I was looking down on the lights of Tel Aviv, and they slowly disappeared from view as we headed west over the Mediterranean.

The football had only taken up a small part of my three days in The Holy Land. However, I was just so thankful that the football – no, Chelsea – had taken me to see such a scintillating part of our world.

Thank you Israel.

Shalom!

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Tales From The Winter Chill

Posted on November 22, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Norwich City : 21 November 2015.

After a break of two weeks of no football, the boys were back in town. On a bitterly cold morning, Glenn, Parky and I had travelled up from the West of England once more and that simple treat of a Chelsea game, at home, at three o’clock on a winter afternoon, was keeping us warm.

We were inside the pub at just before 11.15am and the first round of beers were purchased.

Although we were playing Norwich City in the league, most of my thoughts – if not everybody else’s – were centred on our away game in Tel Aviv on Tuesday. Many a moment was spent discussing the imminent trip and, it goes without saying, the degree of risk involved. I spoke with several fellow fans who are headed over to Israel to watch our game against Maccabi Tel Aviv on Tuesday. There were detectable words of concern in our chat. This is hardly surprising, bearing in mind the current state of affairs at present.

A Chelsea game being played a hundred or so miles from the Syrian border.

What could possibly go wrong?

I leave for Tel Aviv early on Tuesday morning – just in time to catch a coach up to Haifa for the game, which does not begin until 9.45 pm – and was originally thinking of taking the train to Jerusalem on the Wednesday. After realising that this was not the wisest of ideas, my plans were changed and I aimed at just staying put in Tel Aviv on the Wednesday and Thursday. However, while chatting in The Goose, Alan quickly talked me in to joining him on a coach trip on the Wednesday to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. I suddenly experienced that wonderful buzz of adrenalin that thoughts of foreign travel provides.

Tel Aviv, Haifa, Jerusalem, Bethlehem.

Just typing these four cities, I am getting excited all over again.

We were joined by Bob and Michelle, from Nashville Tennessee, who were in London for a week or so. It was Michelle’s first visit to England, to London, to Chelsea. I first met Bob on tour with Chelsea in Chicago in 2006, and the three of us were all together for the game in Charlotte in July. I had managed to obtain tickets for them, together, in the MHU. They were very appreciative. It was lovely to see them again.

I chatted to Tim, Julia, Bryan and Kev – the Bristol Four – about the trip to Israel out in the bracing chill of the beer garden. It seemed that none of us were completely worry-free. However, I mentioned a conversation that Alan and I had recently had.

“It’s a bit like going into the eye of the storm.”

“Yeah, but they often say that is calmest of all there.”

What a great metaphor for our trip to Israel.

However, back at the bar, talking with Andy from Nuneaton, I was still struggling to answer his simple question.

“Why are you going?”

I couldn’t conveniently answer it.

The buzz? Foreign lands? A new destination? New experiences? All of these reasons seemed to be too easy, too clichéd.

Maybe on Tuesday, all will become clear.

Due to the heightened security induced by the horrific and cowardly attacks in Paris the previous week, we made sure that we had left The Goose earlier than usual. There were extra stewards inside the West Stand forecourt and again by the turnstiles, but we breezed through. I have to say that I never once felt threatened – or under siege, or however else one might decide to describe it – the entire day.

Bob and Michelle stood with me in our little part of Stamford Bridge – I have often called it The Sleepy Hollow for obvious reasons – and we had a last little natter before they disappeared off to their seats in Block 12, further along to my left and nearer the goal.

The fourth row of Block 9 is where my season ticket seat is located, and I have enjoyed many fond memories with Alan and Glenn in our three seats since we “moved in” during the autumn of 1997. Our neighbours have changed over the years, but two elderly gentlemen had been with us all along; Joe, latterly with both of his sons Gary and Alan, and Tom, who habitually sits right next to Glenn. Sadly, this season, neither Joe nor Tom have been well enough to attend any of our games. Joe, now eighty-eight years old, has been taken ill and is in a care home. Tom, in his mid-‘seventies, with his health worsening rapidly, has sadly recently been admitted to hospital. Right after the game, Alan had plans to call in to see Tom at the hospital in Tooting on his way home. Glenn and I recorded a little video message into Alan’s phone for Alan to play back in the hospital. Joe’s two sons contributed too. It was a nice touch by Alan, who has been fantastic over the past few years, taking time to natter away to Tom on the phone, talking Chelsea of course, and escorting Tom to and from his seat back down to either the tube station or a waiting car outside. Tom’s sad deterioration has been tough for the three of us, but Alan especially.

In all honesty – this is where this gets difficult to write – none of us are sure how many days, or weeks at most, Tom has left with us. The three of us had clinked our glasses together in The Goose before the game – “Tom” – with memories flickering through my mind of the times he sat with us at Wembley Cup Finals, in addition to the hundreds of home games at Stamford Bridge.

The empty seat alongside Glenn will take some filling once the sad inevitability happens.

2015 has been the toughest of years.

Kick-off was approaching fast and I noted that the blue, white and red flag of France was starting to be raised above the heads of the supporters down below in the Lower Tier. Paris came back in to my thoughts once again. We live in awful times at the present. It seems so unfair that the beautiful city on the banks of the River Seine should be targeted twice in the same year by cowardly terrorists. However, the opinion of most of my friends in the pub beforehand was that although the singing of “La Marseillaise” before the England vs. France match at Wembley on Tuesday evening was exactly the correct thing to do, the decision by the FA to play it again at all games on this Saturday seemed to dilute the impact of Tuesday’s message.

There was just something that seemed a little odd, off kilter, about it. Goodness knows we are all standing alongside the people of France at this particularly difficult time for them, but this just struck me as “overdoing it” a bit. Years ago, I do not remember many silences at football games at all. I am very pleased that we have the minute of silence at the game nearest Remembrance Day, but it seems to me, and possibly many more, that these silences – or actually minute’s applause these days – happen with increasing regularity each season and, because of this, lessen the impact each time.

The teams strode across the pitch. There were the usual handshakes in front of the West Stand, but then – with the French flag being held tightly down below – the players marched back to the centre-circle and, mirroring the message from Wembley, stood together in a line.

The French national anthem was played. Although the words were displayed on the screen, everybody just applauded. It is difficult enough to get English people to order a beer and a sandwich in French let alone expecting us to get our tongues wrapped around some difficult French words in song.

It has to be said, though, it is a magnificent, stirring anthem.

I could not resist singing along to the last few words.

“Marchons, marchons.
Qu’un sang impur.
Abreuve nos sillons.”

With the winter chill continuing to bite at my skin, my ridiculously warm scarf was wrapped tightly around my face, and the game began. I suppose that the main talking point was that there was no place for the supremely consistent Cesar Azpilicueta. Instead, Jose Mourinho chose Branislav Ivanovic at right back and Kenedy, starting a league game for the first time, at left-back.

The Norwich team was largely unknown to me I am ashamed to say.

Their goalkeeper John Ruddy was wearing pink socks.

I have no words.

The young Brazilian, the kid from Fluminense, quickly impressed with his energy. I think that I will begin calling him “Five Minutes To Go” since he always seems to play with the intensity that you would normally expect of a substitute joining the fray with eighty-five minutes on the clock and us losing an important cup tie.

As the game ebbed and flowed – well, it mainly flowed, there wasn’t too much ebbing from Norwich – I couldn’t help but notice many empty seats around the stadium, in little knots in the East Lower especially.

The electronic advertising boards flickered with the words “Liberté, égalité, fraternité.”

Chelsea Football Club’s at times tempestuous love affair with the city of Paris in 2015 was continuing.

The first-half was very one-sided, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding for a change. Norwich City, backed by three thousand and wearing a Newton Heath colour scheme, rarely threatened. We had a few chances. From a corner, none other than John Terry attempted a Zola-esque flick, but the ball flew in to the Matthew Harding Lower rather than the net. In all of his years, our captain is yet to score a jaw-dropper. I await that moment. I know it is coming.

We were playing some nice stuff at times with Eden Hazard a little more involved. A wonderful move found Diego Costa, but he fired over. Hazard fired a ball in but nobody – Diego, we are talking about you – had gambled to attack the six yard box.

I thought that Willian was particularly lucky not to have conceded a silly penalty on thirty minutes when he seemed to run in to the back of an advancing Norwich attacker. The referee appeared unsighted and waved play on. A few in The Sleepy Hollow pulled “we got off lightly there” faces. Soon after at the other end, Costa seemed to fall easily inside the box but the consensus among The Sleepy Hollow was that he should have stayed on his feet.

Another fine move found Diego Costa, but possibly taking one touch too many, we groaned as his low shot was deflected wide.

Only on the odd occasion did the crowd make much noise. The cold still stung. Maybe we were all too frozen to think about song.

Into the second half, young Kurt Zouma – who had been pictured on the front cover of the match programme, with a subtle “Tricolour” behind – connected well from a corner but the ball narrowly flew over.

Norwich again defended deeply and were additionally keen on time-wasting and rough-shod tackles on our attacking players. They had no attacking will. It was all Chelsea. They kept their shape, though, and proved difficult to break down. As the time ticked by, nerves appeared to fray inside Stamford Bridge.

Another ball flew in to the six yard box, but nobody – Diego Costa we are talking about you once more – was close.

“Gamble, you fcuker.”

I again found it odd that against a team with hardly any desire to attack, we were playing with two holding midfielders and yet only one attacker.

Thankfully, just after the half hour mark, Fabregas – or Fibreglass, as Alan called him – quickly took a free-kick. Diego Costa collected, advanced, steadied himself, checked the direction of the wind, the acidity of the soil and the moisture content in the air, and calmly slotted past Ruddy’s pink socks.

Get Fucking In.

Zouma almost doubled our lead soon after when he ghosted in to volley a Willian free-kick against the bar.

Norwich City made a triple substitution involving a couple of players that I had heard of.

A fine run from Nemanja Matic, in that almost stumbling way of his, resulted in an effort which deserved a goal, but Ruddy again saved. The Norwich ‘keeper had been the main reason why we had not scored more. By now, Mourinho had made three substitutions of his own, and despite the gnawing feeling that we might just concede a freak equaliser, we grimly held on.

Phew.

Up to fifteenth.

Arsenal had lost at West Brom, and a couple of mates were doing the “Boing Boing” down the MH stairs.

Outside, underneath the Peter Osgood statue, I met up again with our visitors from Tennessee. They had loved it. I was so glad that the crowd had rallied a little once we had scored and had provided a noisy memory for Michelle, especially, to take away from her first ever visit to SW6.

The walk back to the car was the quickest of the season.

Once inside, I defrosted myself and set off for home.

It was a quiet drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset. There was not too much introspection. A few more goals would have better reflected our dominance. A narrow win was just enough, though.

After I had dropped off both Parky and Glenn, I received a text from Alan. He had indeed called in to see Tom, and I was pleased to hear that the video messages that we had recorded had raised a smile.

Bless you, Tom.

Tales From The Terrace

Posted on November 11, 2015 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 7 November 2015.

The day had begun in fine fashion, with Parky and myself stopping off for a mammoth breakfast apiece in the local town of Bradford-on-Avon, thus replicating the start of our trip to The Hawthorns in August. Blimey, after that game against West Brom, we thought that our season-opening blip had ended and that, surely, by the start of November our league campaign would be back on track.

Little did we know, eh?

Straight after our galvanising breakfast, I headed back to the car, while His Lordship powdered his nose. I have a new car – a black Volkswagen – and I quickly rushed over to it, tapped the unlock function on the key fob, and let myself in, thus avoiding a few drops of rain. I settled down in the seat. I took a look around.

Sandwich wrappers and parking tickets.

What?

There was silence.

It wasn’t my car.

I had let myself in to an identical black Polo and my head was spinning. I quickly exited, locked the doors, and spotted my car three cars down. Rather sheepishly, I sat inside and waited for Parky to arrive. He had a good old look in the first car just to check if I was inside. Once he realised that my car was a few yards away, he joined me.

“You ain’t gonna believe what I just did.”

In the minute that it took me to explain what had just – bizarrely – transpired, the other car had disappeared, with its driver presumably none the wiser.

“Bloody hell Parky, if the inside of his car wasn’t so full of rubbish, I’d be driving up to Stoke in the wrong bloody car.”

We laughed. I knew that this would be a story that a few of the lads would love to hear later in the day. We wondered if, inexplicably, I had been given a VW master key. We laughed again.

“Next time I’m over your house Chris, you’ll have a fleet of black Volkswagens.”

“One for every day of the week.”

“And two for Sundays.”

“Nah, one for Aston Villa away, one for Leicester City away, one for Stoke away, one for Stoke away in the cup…”

We laughed again.

Despite the ‘orrible grey weather and miserable rain, I made good time on my drive north. It seemed odd to be heading back up the M5 and M6 for a second consecutive away game at Stoke City. In my forty-five years of following the team, I’d never attended two consecutive away games at the same stadium, though in the days of extended FA Cup replays, I am sure there have been precedents.

Wrexham in 1982 springs to mind.

At just after midday, I slowed outside Stoke-on-Trent railway station. Waiting to join us was Dave, newly-arrived on a regular service train from London. There were over five hours until our match would kick-off at 5.30pm. It was time to kick back and enjoy the familiar surroundings – stop sniggering in the cheap seats – of my old college town.

We headed over to the neighbouring town of Newcastle-under-Lyme, a distinct entity to the city of Stoke-on-Trent, but not before I had given Dave a little tour past the site of the old Victoria Ground where Stoke played from 1878 to 1997. It is always galling to see an empty space, overgrown with weeds, where Sir Stanley Matthews once shimmied and swayed.

From 1985 to 1987, I lived no more than fifty yards from its away end.

There was an unsurprising dart in to a favourite menswear shop of yore, still selling casual gear of a high standard to this very day. I told the story of how I bought a “Best Company” T-shirt in the same shop in 1986 for the then astronomical price of £25 and how I felt like the dog’s doodahs when I saw the very same label being worn by Italians on holiday later that summer.

Good times.

If only I had kept it, I am sure it would be worth a mint today.

We enjoyed a pint in “The Golden Lion” while the Huddersfield Town versus Leeds United game was being shown on TV. It is hard to believe that there are new Chelsea fans that have never experienced a Chelsea against Leeds league game. Though out of sight, Leeds are never really too far out of mind. They are a massive club, and it feels very odd not playing them every season. They were, of course, League Champions in 1992 and are a good example of how successful clubs sometimes implode. Whisper it, but after narrowly edging the other United to the League title in 1992, they finished in lowly seventeenth place the following May. I can well remember that they didn’t even win a single away game in 1992-1993.

At least we have West Brom this season.

Gallows humour? You bet.

On their last visit to Stamford Bridge in 2004, before disappearing from view in a massive meltdown, their fans goaded us with this little ditty :

“If it wasn’t for the Russian, you’d be us.”

One supposes that there may well have been a grain of truth in those words.

Anyway. Leeds United. There you are. Hopefully the only time that they feature in these match reports for a few years.

We popped next door into “The Kiln.” By this time I had spilled the beans to Dave about my worrying escapade involving the two Volkswagen. This kept us chortling for a while, but there was also serious talk about the chances of us filling Wembley if we end up in exile from Stamford Bridge for three or four years.

On the walk back to the car, the boys sampled the delights from the nearby “Wrights Pies” shop. I know this sounds silly, but the three of us were having a cracking pre-match.

On getting back to the car park, Dave tee’d me up nicely.

“Which one is your car, Chris?”

“Bollocks, the nearest one.”

I pointed out where Alan Hudson, still heavily revered in The Potteries, used to own a wine bar in the ‘eighties, then aimed my car over the hill and down in to Stoke once again. I parked up outside a no-frills boozer called “The Terrace” which was just across the road from my old college, in an area called Shelton, and, specifically, its playing fields. This pub, though to the north of the station whereas the Britannia is to the south, was where the Chelsea fans were basing themselves. We were over two miles away from the stadium.

There was a police van parked outside, no surprises there. I passed over a spare ticket to a mate, and said a few “hellos” to a few familiar faces. I never used to drink in “The Terrace” back in my student days – I was more “Kings Arms”, “Roebuck”, “Station”, “Corner Cupboard”– but I must have visited “The Terrace” at some stage in those drinking years of around thirty years ago.

The clouds were subtly changing colour overhead – now tinged with the embers of a dying sun – and it was noticeably colder. I stood with my pint of lager and was lost in thought as I looked over the road at my former college. Right opposite from where I was standing, I had played in many games of football on the college playing fields. It felt strange. The memories of a spectacular volley which narrowly whizzed over the bar from my right boot some thirty yards out, a couple of goals here, a tackle there. Memories of friends.

The class of ’87 – with “The Terrace” fifty yards out of shot to the left.

Mike, Dave, Bob, Adam, Rick, Ian, Richie.

Chris, Sean, Trev, Nige, Steve.

Five of these lads – Bob, Ian, Richie, Nigel and Trevor – have stood and sat alongside me at Stamford Bridge for more than a few games over the years, bless them all.

“Friendship and Football.”

It was quite surreal to be back.

However, it was even more surreal back in early July this year when around fifty – a nifty fifty rather than a naughty forty – met up for a college reunion. We had a magnificent time. Of the lads pictured in the team photo, six were there. I had not seen Rick and Sean since graduation in 1987, nor Steve since 1995. We took over the old Student Union, now modernised and plush, and loved every minute of it. At times, 1987 seemed like last year. I know it is a most hackneyed saying, but where does the time go?

There is, somewhere, in the darker and grimier parts of the internet, a short video of a few of us dancing to “What Difference Does It Make?”

At around 4.15pm, we needed to get moving. I said my goodbyes to the class of ’15 and drove south to the area of the city that the locals pronounce “Siddaway, duck.”

On the walk towards the Britannia Stadium, there is a section of footpath which cuts alongside the Cauldon Canal. For the past few seasons, a canal boat has been moored, and that distinctive Potteries delicacy the oatcake has been sold. I was in too much of a rush to indulge at the League Cup game, but on this occasion, I was able to stop and sample one. I treated Dave and Parky too.

“Three bacon and cheese oatcakes please, duck.”

They went down a storm. My two match day companions were duly impressed.

As we turned the corner at the top of the path, just before the bridge over the canal, a Stoke City supporter was selling the club’s fanzine, “The Oatcake.” Time for a culinary diversion methinks. Similar in appearance to a pancake, these cherished snacks are made without eggs but with oats and flour. They were the staple diet of a few fellow students while at college.

The boys were getting the complete Stoke experience. “Wright’s Pies” in ‘Castle, a couple of pints in Shelton, and now oatcakes in Sideway.

I was soon inside the away end at The Britannia once again, a mere eleven days after the last visit. This time, the four of us – Al, Gal, Parky, myself – were in the lower tier, but right behind the goal. The time soon passed. There was a raucous air of defiance within the Chelsea ranks. I was lifted by our performance against Kiev, and was adamant that we would win this one. The team line-up showed a few noticeable changes.

Begovic – Azpilicueta, Terry, Zouma, Baba – Matic, Ramires – Pedro, Hazard, Willian – Costa.

One familiar face was missing.

Jose Mourinho, locked away in the Fenton Travelodge along with his tea and coffee making facilities, trouser press and free wi-fi, was nowhere to be seen. We presumed that he would be in constant contact with the makeshift management team of Rui Faria and Steve Holland.

“Reception, hello…what is the wifi password? I need to send a PowerPoint presentation. Yes, yes, the pillows are very soft, but I need the password. Now. Puta.”

For a while before the teams appeared, the stadium resounded to applause for the various strands of the armed forces – from army cadets through to those serving today to veterans – as they walked the perimeter of the pitch. The two captains, Shawcross and Terry, lead their players out. There were servicemen and women to the left and to the right. After the handshakes, the teams reassembled in the centre circle.

There was a little applause, but thankfully this soon evaporated.

Arms were linked.

Silence, save for a perfect rendition of The Last Post.

“We Will Remember Them.”

The game began well for Chelsea, and I was very pleased to see Eden Hazard, especially, taking the ball towards the Stoke defence time and time again. He seemed to be heading back towards a more confident place. The Chelsea fans around me seemed to be cheered. The noise was fine.

“Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho.”

We came close with efforts zipping across the Stoke six yard area. Pedro and Hazard seemed to be on form, and we were pretty much on top. However, as the half progressed, Xherdan Shaqiri – so short that his arse rubbed out his footprints – kept getting the better of an increasingly nervy Baba at left-back. Sadly, rather than yells of support for our defender, there were groans of annoyance. He ended up having a torrid time.

Charlie Adam, one of my most disliked players of this and any year, continued his personal vendetta on all things blue and chipped away at Pedro.

A fine move found Diego Costa, wide right, but his shot was poor. Despite Chelsea having most of the ball, Stoke were edging back in to the game.

As Dave joined us in our row ahead of the second-half, I confided : “this has 0-0 written all over it.”

Sadly, soon in to the second period – and with Jose Mourinho pacing around room 14 of the Fenton Travelodge, nibbling on a Harvest Crunch biscuit – our game plan was hit with a body blow.

A cross from the Stoke right, indecision in our ranks, and a swivel in mid-air from Arnautovic at the far post.

One-nil to Stoke.

“Here we bloody go again.”

With that, the home supporters sung – very very loudly – their theme tune “Delilah” and I have to admit it was pretty impressive.

Ugh.

I sighed.

And Jose Mourinho punched a hole through to room 15.

The Chelsea support rallied straightaway, but easily fell into the silly trap of “You Never Won Fcuk All”, ignoring the simple fact that Stoke City beat Chelsea Football Club at Wembley in 1972.

Another “ugh.”

The rest of the game, regardless of individuals involved, seemed to follow the same pattern.

Chelsea in possession, Stoke with a blanket defence. Chelsea keeping the ball, Stoke tackling hard. Chelsea running wide, Stoke keeping their shape. Chelsea unable to break through, Stoke standing firm. Chelsea nil, Stoke one.

Willian’s free kicks for once, were poor.

Hazard seemed the one to unlock the defence, but he seemed increasingly forlorn.

“Costa, get in the fackin’ box.”

The Stoke challenges, of course, bordered on the grotesque.

The Chelsea supporters grew frustrated but we still tried our best to help entice a goal from somewhere. Our support only waned slightly.

So much for winning, this was a game we now needed to draw.

What a season.

At the other end, thankfully all of Stoke’s rare attempts on goal were wayward.

Then, hope. A fine move involving Matic and then Hazard set up Pedro, who opened up his body and aimed a curler at the far post.

I could not resist.

“Goal.”

The ball hit the base of Butland’s right post and bounced away to safety.

I turned around and screamed.

“Fuck.”

Mourinho knocked a hole in to room 13.

Fabregas and Oscar came on in place of Baba and Pedro, but in all honesty offered little.

Pass, pass, pass, block, block, block.

We rarely got behind Stoke, we rarely put Butland under pressure.

The home fans, realising that they were close to a memorable double over the reigning champions grew louder.

“C’mon Stoke. C’mon Stoke. C’mon Stoke.”

Remy replaced Ramires.

We played three at the back. John Terry moved forward to support the attack on more than one occasion, with Matic dropping back. To be fair, Remy seemed to inject a little more directness in to our play. The Chelsea support seemed to be rapidly losing patience with Costa now.

With time running out, Remy was set free inside the box. The ball was just ahead of him, but we sensed a real chance. In the flash of an eye, Butland came out to block, Remy hurdled him, but lost his footing, with the ball running wide. He slipped, and the shot was shanked high.

Without the benefit of an action replay, I stood dazed, trying to evaluate what I had seen.

On another day, Remy would not have been so quick to react – nor as honest – and Butland would have given away a penalty.

A few half-hearted chances were created, but there was a mood of gloomy pessimism inside the away end now. There would be no last gasp goal at Stoke City on this visit. We clapped the boys off at the end, but I was so disappointed. Chelsea had played well in fits and starts – the fight was there, but not the know-how – and this was another tough loss.

If only the Stoke defence was as easy to unlock as that black Volkswagen in Bradford-on-Avon.

As Parky and I walked back to the waiting car, amid the clipped and familiar accents of the locals, I could not help but think this :

“Seven defeats in twelve league games.”

And, how hateful, another international break – two long interminably long weeks – for us to stew in our own juices.

Football.

Sometimes I hate you.

Tales From Under The European Lights

Posted on November 6, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Dynamo Kiev : 4 November 2015

The scene was set.

Stamford Bridge looked resplendent as the floodlights lit up the undersides of the towering East and West Stand roofs. How dramatic everything looks under lights at a midweek football game. There was an ethereal, electric glow in the air. The contrasts between night and light, outside and in, is always so marked at night games. The sense of drama seems to increase tenfold. And no more so for a European game such as this one.

Chelsea vs. Dynamo Kiev.

Blue, blue, white versus white, white, blue.

A night of contrasts indeed.

Over in the far corner were around one thousand four hundred away supporters. There were a couple of yellow and blue Ukraine flags. I didn’t see any protesting banners aimed at our Russian owner. As the teams had entered the pitch, many of the Ukrainians had held their phones aloft, with the lights switched on. I noticed a few similar lights being shone in the East Upper too. It was obvious that the fans of Kiev were not limited to the south-east corner.

The players had walked across the pitch to take position in front of the West Stand and then there was the ritual of the Champions League anthem – noticeably booed for the first time at Stamford Bridge – and the waving of the iconic black and white flag in the centre circle.

What drama would unfold beneath me on this tense night in deepest London?

I had spoken to a few respected friends in “The Goose” before the walk to the stadium. I could not remember a – so to speak – “run of the mill” Champions League group phase game that had made me feel quite so tense, yet energised, eager, yet anxious. This was a game that was simply, pardon the horrible cliché, a “must win” game.

In the pub, we spoke earnestly about the state of the nation. We spoke about the current health of Chelsea Football Club. We had a good old chat. I admitted to Daryl and Andy – the three of us met for the first time in Wenceslas Square in Prague in 1994 after our first European game since 1971 – that I have looked at our current situation from so many different angles, from so many different viewpoints, that I had almost confused myself.

I summed things up.

“Stick with Mourinho, though, no question. Let’s win tonight, go on a little run, get rid of all this negative noise. Let’s still be here in February, in March, Mourinho in charge, climbing the table, enjoying ourselves. In it for the long haul.”

We were, undoubtedly, the number one news story in British sport going in to this first week of November. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw that our particular ailments had possessed the BBC to air an article about our club on their main evening news, from 6pm to 6.30pm, on Tuesday. And it was not during the sport section at the end. It was the fifth or sixth story in, even one ahead of the much more newsworthy topic of Michelin making seven hundred workers redundant in Belfast.

“Bloody hell Andy, we were on the “6 O’Clock News” because we have lost six league games. Bloody hell, if this was the ‘eighties, we would be on there every night.”

As is so often the case, the team news had broken while we were in the pub. I suppose the biggest story was that Eden Hazard was on the bench.

Begovic – Azpilicueta, Terry, Zouma, Rahman – Ramires, Matic – Oscar, Fabregas, Willian – Diego Costa.

As someone in the pub had exclaimed :

“Bloody hell, a right back at right back and a left back at left back.”

As the game began, I was instantly enthused; our play seemed to be a lot more aggressive. With Oscar hugging the far touch line and Willian offering width, as impressive as ever, out on the right side, we threatened to get behind them on several occasions. Nemanja Matic, often a disappointment this season, seemed to be back to his best, snuffing out attacks with well-timed tackles and blocks, then moving the ball on. Yes, there were occasions when we tried to be too dainty, looking for intricate balls through to Diego – or as I said to Alan “too much up our own arse” – but generally speaking the play was far better than in previous games.

It was so noticeable that the crowd were warmed by this positive start.

“Jose Mourinho” was chanted and our manager quickly waved an appreciative hand.

On two occasions we had shots on goal which were sadly aimed straight at the Kiev goalkeeper. We were keeping the away team penned inside their half. They hardly threatened. This was all one-way traffic.

Alan and I mulled over the sight and sound of the away fans. They had charged us just £3.50 for a ticket in the away end in the Ukrainian capital. Tonight’s game was £35. I sincerely hope that the Dynamo club had subsidised their tickets. I wouldn’t fancy paying the equivalent of £350 for a match ticket. Alan had been out in Kiev. He spoke about how dull and dismal it was.

“Their songbook is pretty limited.”

And so it proved, with just two chants aired all night.

“Dy-na-mo.”

“Ki-ev.”

Tremendous.

With that, Alan excused himself for a Gypsy’s Kiss and commented “we’ll score now, you see.”

Soon after, Willian ran deep inside the Dynamo box and whipped the ball in, towards a waiting Diego Costa. Dragovic attempted to block but could only divert the ball past Shovkovshovskiykovshovkovskiy.

Phew. Get in. I punched the air and awaited Alan’s joyous return.

The noise, which had been steady and appreciative, rather than constantly loud, increased.

In the closing moments of the first forty-five, Diego Costa was sent through but seemed to delay a little too long. He went down, and the cry went up for a penalty, but the referee was having none of it. The home crowd were baying, but at half-time I overheard someone say that it had been a Diego Dive. Pathetic. An early shot would have been so much better, Diego, mate.

At the break, Bobby Tambling was on the pitch reminiscing about a certain night in Munich.

Meanwhile, in that very same city, Arsenal were getting pummeled.

In the match programme I spotted a complete list of our opponents in our UEFA history. Covering 26 countries and 76 clubs it was quite a list. Unsurprisingly, Italy, Spain and Germany lead the way with seven clubs apiece. The oddest entry of all involves our neighbours to the north. Our sole tie against Scottish opposition?

Greenock Morton.

Soon in to the second-half, it was plainly obvious that we had lost the momentum gathered in the first period. Our visitors – the first to bear the name Dynamo since the visits of Moscow Dynamo for friendlies in 1945 and again in 1978 – had begun well. A quick break by Kravets in the inside-left channel caused us all to tense up. Thankfully, a magnificent sliding tackle from behind by King Kurt – impeccable really, one of the highlights of the season – saved us. It was quite magnificent.

We were getting increasingly sloppy and our visitors were making headway. It was quite a turnaround to be honest. I had been impressed with their number ten, Yarmalenko, in the first game and my eyes were on him throughout the game. A couple of chances were exchanged.

From a deep, in-swinging free-kick from Willian, Kurt Zouma stretched, but his effort whistled past the far post.

Kiev kept coming at us though.

We – the team and crowd alike – were getting nervy. I have to say that Cesc Fabregas was again rather poor and his play in the second period deteriorated further.

“I can see them scoring, Al.”

A draw in such circumstances would be unbearable. This really was a “must win” game.

With just twelve minutes remaining, a defensive jumble allowed Dragovic to drill home at the far post.

Stamford Bridge let out a collective groan.

The Kiev fans celebrated wildly. It was the loudest that they had been all night by some considerable margin. They had been, for their reputation as avid and raucous fans, surprisingly mild all night. I suspect that their numbers in SW6 consisted of ex-pat Ukrainians now living in London with work rather than the rather more working class, and noisier, ultras, left at home to watch in bars in their home city.

Jose Mourinho immediately brought on Hazard and Pedro.

Five minutes later, with the home crowd buoyed by an upturn in our form, we were rewarded with a free-kick about twenty-five yards out. There was only one man who would be taking this one.

This was Willian Territory.

But first, a Chelsea superstition. On many European nights, Alan brings a pack of “Maynards” wine gums. On this night, we had shared a few. I have mentioned the wine gums before. They rarely let us down, Moscow being a rare example.

“Time for a wine gum, Al.”

The ball was placed behind a semi-circular flash of shaving foam.

The referee spent a while pacing out ten yards.

Another flash of foam.

The wall retreated.

We waited.

Willian waited.

I had my camera poised. I kept focusing and re-focusing.

“Concentrate you bastard, concentrate.”

I clicked as Willian struck. I looked up to follow the beautiful flight of the ball as it was whipped up and over the redundant wall and watched – these wonderful moments – as it flew into the waiting goal.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

The Bridge burst.

The noise was immense.

As Willian reeled away down below me, I kept my cool.

As he slid, I clicked.

He was soon joined by all nine of his outfield team mates in a lovely scrum right down below me. The photographs continued. It was all over in ten seconds, but I had captured a little bit of Chelsea, and Mourinho, history.

Photographs taken, I bounced over to celebrate with Alan.

Wine Gums 2 Dynamo Kiev 1.

“Come on my little fackin’ diamonds.”

What a feeling, to be so close to dropped points, but to battle back with another late European goal. Although Willian was the man of the moment, quite deservedly, the Stamford Bridge crowd turned our attention to the slight figure on the far touchline.

“Stand Up For The Special One, Stand Up For The Special One, Stand Up For The Special One, Stand Up For The Special One.”

A wave of the hand.

Then, quite by surprise, quite spontaneous, a sustained round of applause which seemed to go on for longer than I – or anyone – could have expected.

One club, together.

He might be a bit of a pain at times, but Mourinho is one of us.

This simple yet profound show of support for our beleaguered manager would surely touch Roman Abramovich, wherever he was watching the game unfold, as our owner – possibly – toyed with thoughts of the future.

Eden Hazard, seemingly keen to keep himself in the picture, danced away down below me in the final few minutes and attempted to increase the score.

This was Willian’s night – and Mourinho’s too – though.

This was a hard-fought win. I didn’t like the way that our form dipped in the second-half, but this was a game we just had to win.

And win it we bloody well did.

Whisper it, but a corner might well have been turned.

Tales From The Highest High And The Lowest Low

Posted on November 1, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 31 October 2015.

While lining up at the crowded turnstiles underneath the Matthew Harding Stand, it was clear that many fans had miss-judged the weather. Here we were, on the very last day of October and the weather was gorgeous. Thankfully I had left my jacket in the car – I made do with just a long-sleeved shirt and pullover – but the sun was causing me a little discomfort. There were surely no complaints from the three visitors from Southern California that had joined us in The Goose ahead of the game. One of the three, John, had presented me with a lovely tee-shirt from the main Chelsea pub in Los Angeles – The Olde Ship in Santa Ana – and I was well aware that there would be a few keen Chelsea supporters assembling at around 4.45am on a Californian morning in this pub which, along with Legends in New York City, is the most famous Chelsea pub in the United States, to watch our game against Liverpool. John’s mate Andy had been alongside me at West Ham the previous weekend; this time it was the turn of John, Janset and Rich. We had also enjoyed the company of four of the New York chapter in the pub too; Mike, Frank, Eugene and Tim.

I remember saying to somebody, I do not remember who exactly, when questioned about the outcome of our lunchtime game, that I was convinced we would not lose. There had been positive signs – if you looked hard enough for them, baby steps and all that malarkey – in our two most recent games, and I was hopeful that the team would rebound after some poor performances this season with a key win.

Of course, the rumour mongers were out in force, and some sections of the media and the Chelsea support were talking about the game against Liverpool as the pivotal moment in Jose Mourinho’s future as manager. I found this odd, in the extreme. There would be, after all, an equally important match at home to Dynamo Kiev on the following Wednesday.

The team that Mourinho had selected had been met with a general degree of pleasure in the sunny beer garden. It was now time to get behind them.

I made it inside with around five minutes to spare. The match programme featured a photograph of a stern John Terry on the cover, red poppy woven in to his shirt. Down below me in the Matthew Harding Lower, the “Chelsea Remembers” flag – featuring club crest flanked by poppies – was being held aloft centrally. The players entered the pitch.

The sun beat down, causing small and defined areas of bright sunlight on the pitch.

I was supremely hopeful that this would be a Chelsea day to remember.

Soon in to the game, the ball was played down into an area of intermittent light and shade in front of the Liverpool fans. We had encountered a small section of the away support at Heston Services; with their jagged accents and penchant for tracksuit bottoms (not shell suits please, nobody wears them anymore, not even scallies) they were easily spotted. They love their trackie bottoms, the Scousers. For the club that kicked-off the casual subculture in 1977/1978, their standards have certainly dropped over recent years.

Trackie bottoms and YNWA scarves.

Tut tut.

We held on to the ball for quite a few moments and the ball was played purposefully between several Chelsea players. One moment – iconic, to be honest – immediately came back to me. In our history-defining game against Liverpool in May 2003, with a place in the Champions League at stake, and with a young and successful Russian billionaire ready to pounce, Gianfranco Zola entered the fray as a late substitute. His magical dribble in that far corner, beating off challenges from what seemed like the entire Liverpool defence, was a sublime last memory of the little magician. It would be his last ever appearance in our colours; ironically it was the first game in which we wore our 2003/2004 and 2004/2005 “Fly Emirates” shirt from “Umbro.” How odd that his last appearance for us would be in a shirt that we would eventually wear on that fateful day in Bolton in 2005. If only he had been with us on that day.

Anyway, I digress.

The ball was passed to Cesar Azpilicueta, deep in an area that I sometimes call “Zola Land”, and our solid defender picked out the run from Ramires perfectly. His diving header sent the ball low past Mignolet in to the Liverpool goal. I was right behind the flight of the ball.

It was a superb goal.

Needless to say the packed stands of Stamford Bridge roared. I jumped up, yelling, screaming face to face with those next to me.

A fantastic start. I was hoping for further goals.

It was 12.49pm.

I stood, arms outstretched, and joined in the deafening wall of wild sound engulfing the stadium.

At 12.51pm, my ‘phone rang. It was from my friend Ian, whose young son had attended the Southampton home game four weeks previously. My initial thought was that he was calling me to say that young Ben was happy that we had begun the game so well. Then, my second thought brought a different reaction and a sense of foreboding. Ian’s mother has been suffering with cancer for the best part of twelve months. I steadied myself.

I blocked out the noise of the crowd with my right palm, and answered.

I was saddened to hear that Ian’s mother had passed away just two hours earlier.

I was unable to fully hear, so I dashed out and spoke to Ian from the quieter concourse. Supporters were still arriving as I spoke to Ian for a few moments. I can’t remember what we said to be honest. It was all a blur. I passed on my condolences, no doubt, but there were tears from Ian and I felt numb.

I re-entered the seats and I was in a horrible daze.

My mother was taken from us in February and now Ian – my best friend – has lost his dear mother, who I last saw on Ian’s wedding day in 2006, on the last day of October.

2015 I hate you.

I didn’t speak for many minutes, the game continued on down below me, but I could not concentrate. I sat in solitude among over forty thousand, and sent a few texts to a few of Ian’s friends. My mind was elsewhere.

To be so high at 12.49pm and so low at 12.51pm was such an awful feeling.

Ugh.

As I began to look up and take a little interest in the match, it seemed that Liverpool were enjoying more of the ball, but each and every one of their attempts on our goal were – thankfully – right down Asmir Begovic’ throat. Right on half-time, a lack of pressing meant that the ball found Coutinho in space. As he shaped to shoot, I sensed a goal.

1-1.

All was quiet at the break. My head was still elsewhere.

Soon in to the second-half, the woeful Eden Hazard was replaced by the fresh legs and zest of the boy from Fluminense Kenedy. He immediately impressed with some one-touch football and a shot on goal. We were enjoying our best spell. Willian, the one current player excused from the negative comments being directed towards our team, continued to be our most determined player. His willingness to close down and enforce errors on Liverpool was commendable. There was a desire within Ramires too.

Lucas, who was seeing a lot of the ball in the middle, had already been booked, and appeared to scythe down Ramires in the centre circle. I am not as strong a believer in conspiracy theories against us as many others, but even I was questioning the marital status of Clattenburg’s parents after that. The Stamford Bridge crowd howled their displeasure.

Mikel, who was doing OK in my book, was withdrawn for Fabregas.

Oscar – having a hot and cold game, nay season – won the ball well with a great tackle and spotted Mignolet off his line. His speculative lob from fifty yards was almost inch perfect, but the Liverpool ‘keeper back-peddled and tipped it over.

With that chance gone, Liverpool heaved a sigh of relief and then dominated as we lost our shape. The introduction of Falcao did not fool anyone.

Two late goals from Coutinho – again – and from substitute Benteke sealed our fate.

Our defending was awful for both goals. We were pulled apart.

On Halloween, here was a horror show of defensive miscreants.

To my utter disdain, more than a handful of Chelsea supporters left after the second goal, with a full twenty minutes of play left. When I mentioned this frankly despicable fact to the chap in front, his reply was spot on.

“Keep walking.”

After the Benteke goal, even more left.

Sigh.

At the end of the game, all was quiet. I slowly walked out on to the Fulham Road, my gaze focussing on the red portions of the half-and-half scarves on show. It turned my stomach.

I am usually in a rush to get back to the car, but I can never remember an occasion when my strides have been so heavy and so slow walking up the North End Road. It truly was a depressing and demoralising old day. The football, though, only counted for a small portion of my sorrow. I met up with Parky at the car. He too, was sad to hear that Ian’s mother had passed away. He had met Ian, just the once, ironically, at my mother’s funeral in March. We were soon on our way home, facing a bright autumnal sun fading fast in the west.

At Twickenham, there was a rugby game taking place.

In Egham, close-by, just around the M25, Frome Town were playing a FA Trophy tie.

We avoided the football on the radio as I drove home after another dispiriting Chelsea performance. We were melancholy. In truth, I was still reeling from the phone call from Ian. There was an attempt to grasp at straws of comfort. Despite the exodus of a couple of thousand fans after both goals, thankfully at the final whistle, Stamford Bridge was not a sea of empty blue seats. Most fans had stayed until the end. There were hardly any boos. I am thankful for that.

We are in this together, and we share the pain together.

See you on Wednesday.

Tales From The East End

Posted on October 25, 2015 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 24 October 2015.

So this was it, then. This was to be Chelsea Football Club’s last ever game at West Ham United’s Boleyn Ground, or Upton Park to give its more commonly used title. Next season, they vacate their century-old stadium within the cramped terraces of E13, and head off a few miles to the west and north to Stratford and the former Olympic Stadium.

The plan was to have one last look around the old place – hardly a personal favourite, in fact far from it – before going inside to join the three thousand royal blue loyalists. I had not ventured much past the main stand on Green Street in past years, not since the away end has flip-flopped from the South Bank to the North Bank in around 1993. That main stand, updated and enlarged in 2001, of course houses a ridiculous frontage consisting of a pair of Lego style towers. I wanted to have one last laugh at that. However, I also wanted to pop down to see the statue featuring West Ham’s 1966 heroes for the very first time before, I presume, it would take residency at their new home. I also wanted to rekindle a few memories – God only knows why – of a couple of visits to the South Bank, both heavy losses, in 1986 and 1988.

As I say, that was the plan.

I had missed the creditable draw in Kiev during the week. It was the first match that I had not seen thus far into the current season. I thought that we performed rather well in the Ukraine, especially in the first-half, and really should have put the game away. We tired in the second period and, in the end, were lucky to escape with a 0-0 draw. The reporting of an ambush by locals on a small group of Chelsea fans sickened me to the core. I was keen to hear from a few friends who had travelled of their experiences.

London was calling me.

I was relishing this one.

I left my home town relatively early at just after 7.30am. A long day lay in wait. Leaving so early meant that the M4 was clear.

It was a relaxing drive.

On the approach in to London, the last forty-five minutes maybe, I drove to the sound of New Order’s excellent new album “Music Complete.” The band from Manchester are back to their best. I can’t wait to see them – unbelievably for the first time – in Brixton in three weeks’ time.

Football and music.

Music and football.

New Order are a band – there are a few – that transcend both.

We were parked up at Barons Court at around 10.30am. PD, Parky and myself headed straight in to town on the District Line, but instead of joining up with one of many Chelsea pre-game rendezvous in various hostelries throughout the city, we had other plans. We alighted at Embankment, slap dash in the middle of the nation’s capital. There was to be no trip on the District Line from the West End to the East End on this occasion. Instead, the three of us caught a river bus from Embankment, just along from Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, to North Greenwich, adjacent to the O2 Arena, formerly the Millennium Dome.

Although the skies were grey, with no hint of sun, and the waters of the River Thames bleak, we thoroughly enjoyed our trip through the very centre of London. Of course, I snapped away like a fool. What did you expect? Oil paintings?

I have only ever taken a boat trip along the Thames once before, and that was with some US friends in 2002, when the trip was at a more leisurely pace and with a guide to hand. This one took around fifty minutes. And it was fantastic.

The Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Bridge, the Royal Festival Hall, the London Eye, Cleopatra’s Needle, the Oxo Building, the Tate Modern, the Millennium Bridge, St. Paul’s Cathedral, London Bridge, the Nat West Tower, The Gherkin, The Shard, The Walkie-Talkie, the GLC Building, The Tower Of London, Tower Bridge.

And then river boat sped around the broad sweep of the Thames, with that odd mixture of geometric architectural shapes appearing at first to our left and then to our right as our perspective changed.

Canary Wharf, and its financial towers, and then the slowly rising curves of the O2 Arena.

At just before midday, we were setting foot on the south side of the river. Twenty minutes later we found ourselves ordering pints of cider and lager in The Pilot public house a few hundred yards to the south east of the O2. In an area of massive urban renewal – huge blocks of concrete everywhere – this lovely pub was at the end of a row of old London terraced houses, allowed to remain amidst change.

We settled down and chatted about all sorts. We tracked others using our phones. Andy from Los Angeles – in town for just three days – was with others a mile or so away in a “proper” pie and mash shop in Poplar.

“We’ll do that next time. Not had pie and mash for years and years.”

There were a few Charlton Athletic fans in the pub – the Valley is around a thirty minute walk away – but, unsurprisingly, no Chelsea or West Ham fans. It was just pleasant to be doing something a little different at an away game.

Team news came through, and it was an unchanged eleven from Tuesday. I approved.

“The plan” went awry unfortunately. We didn’t leave the boozer until gone two o’clock, meaning that my planned walk down to the statue of Moore, Hurst and Peters – and Wilson – would disappear into the ether.

Unfortunately, mirroring the game in March, we were further delayed on the eastbound District Line from West Ham to Upton Park due to – again – “football crowds on the platform.” This was really frustrating. We were all restless as the train stalled for a few minutes at Plaistow. We walked up the shabby steps of Upton Park station for the final time and headed off to the game. We knew that we’d miss kick-off.

The Chelsea mantra of “one last pint” had struck again.

Bollocks.

We were funnelled down a familiar side street and soon entered the away end. We got in with around five minutes on the clock. I was just getting my bearings when Andy – Los Angeles – suddenly appeared next to me. Not only had he enjoyed some pie and mash, he had also visited one of the most infamous boozers in all of London, The Blind Beggar in Whitechapel, scene of gangster Ronnie Kray’s murder of rival gang member George Cornel in 1966.

Seat numbers were ignored by many as the late-comers just shuffled along the rows.

The Boleyn Ground.

Upton Park.

Our final game.

This would be my eleventh visit to the London Borough of Newham to see Chelsea play West Ham United. My first visit should have taken place on New Year’s Day 1986 – with both teams mounting a twin assault on the league title – but sadly I only reached Aldgate East tube station before hearing from fellow fans that the game had been called off due to a heavily frosted pitch.

My first visit was on Saturday 11 October 1986 – just over twenty nine years ago – and some details are remembered to this day.

There was a visit to Nathan’s Pie and Mash Shop on Barking Road, just behind the away end, and I can remember a West Ham supporter trying to illicit a conversation with me about the Hammers’ recent form. I was having none of it. I kept quiet. There was a clear singularity to my actions behind enemy lines that day; “don’t get sussed.” Although the match was “pay on the gate” (as usually they all were in those days, or at least, for the standing areas), we had to show our plastic Chelsea membership cards to be allowed access into the away enclosure, which was a tight and heavily partitioned area, full of metal obstructions and associated ugliness. I remember the away end being packed. I remember the heavy police presence. I remember Chelsea supporters being lugged out for swearing. I remember that bloody awful Chelsea Collection kit. What was Batesy thinking? I remember us going 3-2 ahead, but then letting the game slip away in the last five minutes, eventually losing 5-3.

At the very end of the game, West Ham fans – from outside, to my left I think – threw a couple of flares into our end. The away support was 99% male. I remember being gutted to have lost. The Chelsea fans were given an escort – of some sort or another – because we were sent packing on a train west from Upton Park which did not stop until it reached Victoria. It meant that I had missed a connection to take me back home, but who mentioned anything about football fans being treated “normally” back in the ‘eighties? Certainly not me.

In 2015, although there were more females than in 1986, the Chelsea support was still predominantly male. As in 1986, colours were hardly worn.

With West Ham attacking us in the “Sir Trevor Brooking Stand”, I tried to settle. The Chelsea support was getting behind the team, with one particular favourite getting a good airing.

“Frankie Lampard scored two hundred…”

We probably edged the first portion of the game, but West Ham enjoyed the first real chance, with Begovic leaping high to palm Payet’s free-kick over. Sadly, the resultant corner was not cleared and Zarate’s low strike whipped past our ‘keeper and into the bottom corner.

Here we go again. Bollocks.

We tried to chip away at West Ham, who seemed happy to defend deep. We had a few half-chances. The mood in the away end was of grim resilience. I managed to capture on film – snap! – the moment of impact between ball and Kurt Zouma’s forehead as he rose to meet Fabregas’ corner. He headed down, but the ball was cleared.

Soon after, West Ham should have increased their lead as Lanzini broke, but thankfully his lofted effort just cleared our bar.

A chance at the other end; after good work from the tireless Willian, Fabregas’ fine low shot ploughed into the goal, only for our celebrations to be halted by the sight of the linesman’s yellow flag on the far side.

Just before half-time, Matic – already on a yellow – made a clumsy and needless challenge on Sakho, only a few feet from the right touchline. I sensed danger immediately. Matic walked away but I feared the worst. He was called back to receive a second yellow. In my mind, it was academic.

Matic was nothing but a fool.

Brainless.

In the ensuing melee by the touchline, two yellow cards were further brandished to complaining Chelsea players.

This again was brainless.

Did Diego Costa and Azpilicueta believe that their waling would reverse the referee’s decision?

This was just poor discipline.

The mood was dark at half-time. Down to ten men, a goal down, this was going to be a tough ask in the second period. There was a brief chat with Calvin about the perils of Kiev.

“We walked to the stadium. Tell you what, if it wasn’t for the army escort, we’d have got battered.”

Mourinho replaced Fabregas with Mikel. We didn’t notice it straight away, but the manager did not take his normal position in the technical area or in the dugout. We were not sure why.

Rather than succumb to continued West Ham pressure, we controlled much of the ball as the second half got underway. After ten minutes, Zouma managed to get on the end of Willian’s corner. The ball bobbled inside the area, and the Chelsea support sensed something. The ball fell, not ideally, to Gary Cahill, who managed to adjust slightly and smash the ball in.

Pandemonium in the North Bank. I was pushed forward, and clung on grimly to a few friends, rather than tumble on top of the person in front. Shins were bruised, but I remained on my feet. Sometimes having plastic seats in an area where people are standing all game is asking for trouble. I’m not sure why – maybe it is because of the shallow rake – but away fans’ celebrations at West Ham always look mad on TV.

How did we look?

Our faith restored, we roared the team on. Our players responded so well and continued to boss the game. It was indeed hard to believe that we were one man down. It was heart-warming stuff. The teams exchanged a few chances, but we remained ahead on points. Everyone around me was full of praise for Willian who worked relentlessly. It was sad to see, though, Eden Hazard unwilling to move in to space in that tight final third. Is his play simply due to a dip in confidence or are there other reasons for his collapse in form? Diego Costa seemed to be having an off-day too. Although we were enjoying possession, that final ball in to the danger area was missing.

Zarate was substituted, with Andy Carroll joining the fray.

The away crowd immediately chirped :

“Man or a woman? Are you a man or a woman? Man or a woman?”

As the game continued, we were more and more exposed down the West Ham left. A sliced clearance by JT was played back out to Creswell, who had time to spot Carroll in the middle. His prodigious leap over our defenders was oh-so predictable, as was the slow looping header which dolloped down and in, with Begovic caught in no man’s land. To be honest, it is doubtful if he had stayed on his line he would have saved it.

We slumped.

The home fans roared.

Throughout the game, of particular annoyance was the sound of them singing a ditty in praise of Dimitri Payet to the tune of “Achy Breaky Heart.”

For.

Fuck.

Sake.

Now they were in full voice.

I half expected the Chicken Run to start fucking line dancing.

We brought on Baba Rahman and Radamel Falcao late on, but despite the tireless energy of Willian inspiring the support, an equaliser never really looked likely.

The game was over.

And so was our last ever visit to the Boleyn Ground.

On the walk back to the long line at Upton Park tube, I chatted – I think you can call it a superheated conversation – with Mark from Westbury.

“It’s no good Mourinho blaming every one, and everything. The man needs to take responsibility. And the players too. Everyone. We need to stand up. All this of this blaming others…it probably gives the players the wrong message. He just has to prove that he is the manager that we know he has been and hope he still is.”

It was a long trip back to the familiar streets of West London and then our homes in the West of England.

Five losses out of ten league games.

That’s it. I’m not going to football ever again. I will see some of you at Stoke on Tuesday evening.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: 2015-2016