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Tales From Bar 68

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Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2011.

What a game. What a crazy game.

With my head still spinning with continued talk of boycotts and the rumbling aftermath of the morgue-like atmosphere at the game on Tuesday, I faced a long journey up to Manchester. I left my home village at around 9.30am. With the nascent development of Andre Villas-Boas’ team still in its opening sequence, I couldn’t help but think that the game with the old adversaries was just a few weeks too soon. There is no doubt that this would be a stern test for the team and supporters alike. There had been a sense of foreboding in the earlier part of the week, but my attitude had changed a little on Friday and Saturday. What was the reason for this upturn in my optimism? The manager himself. He has impressed me in almost all the things he has said and done since being at the helm of our club. He seems placid, yet passionate. He is calm, yet calculating. He seems to fit the bill, alright. We have to trust him.

Of course, part of my excitement about this match was centered upon which team he would select. Thousands of words have been uttered and written since Tuesday on this very subject.

We waited with baited breath.

Unfortunately, the weather which greeted me as I drove the short distance to collect Lord Parky was overcast and gray. I also had developed a slight headache – not through pondering Villas-Boas’ game plan I hasten to add – but I knew that this would be remedied after we stopped to collect a McBreakfast and a McCoffee at McMelksham on the long drive north.

We endured a variety of weather as I pounded the familiar tract north. Talk was of the next batch of games, the plans, the travel arrangements, the tickets, the itineraries.

This would be my sixteenth trip up to Old Trafford with Chelsea and, although we had a superb record from the ‘sixties through to the ‘eighties, our recent record hasn’t been too great. Of the fifteen previous visits, I had witnessed just four Chelsea victories. But – in all honesty – four of the greatest domestic away games ever. A Kerry Dixon brace and a double Tony Godden penalty save in two different games in 1986. A gorgeous 3-1 win after we won the championship in 2005 and Old Trafford as quiet as it has ever been. And then the goals from Joe and Didier giving us a seismic triumph on the way to our championship in 2010. Away victories simply do not get any better than these four.

We hit some slow-moving traffic between Stafford and Stoke and so I veered off through my former college town. We raced past the Britannia Stadium – only five weeks since our opening-day visit – and I was soon back on the M6 and the motorway was relatively clear.

I had hoped to have been parked-up by 2pm, but the delay around Stafford meant that I was running thirty minutes late. This was my third visit to Old Trafford in only six months and the approach on the Chester Road is very familiar now. I drove past the McDonalds where Gumby and I had a pre-match bite in 2006 and then past a few familiar landmarks including a sadly disused art deco-fronted cinema which welcomed me on the slow drive towards Old Trafford. I make a point of mentioning this as the sculptured frontage is a bright sky blue. A statement from its former owner, a proud Manchester City fan, perhaps?

“This may be United territory, but this is our city.”

I’m not so sure about this clichéd view to be honest. Although I always hear accents from all four corners of the UK and Ireland – not to mention many foreign accents – in and around Old Trafford on match days, I’m always surprised how many local “Manchest-oh” accents I hear, too. I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed it, but there seems to be more and more local Manchester banners on show at United games. It’s as if their fans have made a conscious effort to re-dress the balance of this perceived notion that there are more Blues than Reds in the city. A few years back, you would see banners which said “Exeter Reds”, “Devon Reds”, “Dublin Reds” and “Malta Reds” at away games. Today, it seems that you are now more likely to see “Urmston Reds”, “Salford Reds”, Sale Reds and “Clayton Reds.” It’s as if they are reclaiming Mancunia as their own. There always used to be a certain amount of “niggle” amongst local United fans and their fans from elsewhere in the UK. This is certainly true of Liverpool, too. There is a notion that out-of-town United fans are the glory hunters, forever besmirching the name of Manchester United. It was United who invented the derogatory nickname “daytrippers” which described the out-of-towners arriving en masse at Old Trafford, buying United paraphernalia and not really “getting” what United is about.

To be honest, Chelsea have always embraced supporters from all over the UK and I’m proud of this. In my youth, when I was alone in The Shed, Londoners would always welcome my presence at Chelsea.

“Where you from, mate? Somerset? Wow.”

However, the shifting sands of support in the UK at the moment has resulted in a greater resentment of “tourists” and probably no more so than in London. I lose count of the number of times I hear the terms “JCLs” and “tourists” being banded during discussions about the atmosphere at The Bridge getting worse and worse with each season. This is a lop-sided view though. Not all tourists or new fans lack passion. The problem that Chelsea has is that a large proportion of tourists who go to The Bridge just happen to be in London and are not really Chelsea fans. They attend our games because The Bridge is convenient. I’m not convinced that United have this exact problem. I have the distinct feeling that United’s fans – and there are 330 million of them Worldwide – are enticed to Manchester solely to watch United. This might not be correct, but this is my view.

In some respects, the loyal fans of United and Chelsea – plus all of the big clubs in the Premier League – are experiencing these self-same notions of being disenfranchised, being priced out, being taken advantage of. It’s just the scale and timings which differ. Fully expect Manchester City’s long-suffering legions to be complaining about their club’s new fans next.

Locals were attempting to usher me in to a variety of match day parking lots – ₤5 a car – but I ignored them and parked outside the same house as I did for the fated league game in May. The only change to the immediate locale was the appearance of two new floodlight masts at the nearby Old Trafford cricket stadium.

Parky and I donned our jackets and made the twenty minute walk to the stadium. It dawned on me during the week that I have never ever had a beer in a pub outside Old Trafford. The over-riding reason for this is the paucity of options and – hence – the fact that all the pubs are for home fans only. There was the usual singing emanating from The Bishop Blaize and the usual mobs of red-clad United fans by the chip shops. As I turned and walked down Sir Matt Busby Way, I spotted more grafters selling their wares; the infamous half-and-half scarves.

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At just past 3pm, I joined Alan and Gary inside the stadium, at the Chelsea only bar – Bar 68, named after Wembley 1968, the European Cup Final and all that – in the South Stand. A bottle of Singha for ₤3.10. On the TV screen above the bar, Tottenham were thrashing Liverpool, but we were ambivalent. Gary had been to the Surrey versus Somerset cricket final at Lords on Saturday and it was no surprise that his county beat mine.

The Chelsea team was flashed up on the screen and I approved. It was the team that I would have chosen. It elicited a few moments of discussion with Alan about the manager’s game plan.

“To be honest, it could work in our favour to be under pressure if Torres sits on the last defender and we break at pace and hit him early. Important that the wide men up front, Mata and Sturridge, drop back and cover United’s wide players. We need Bosingwa’s pace. Ashley will be OK.”

“All sorted. I hope the manager is listening.”

Before the game, Mickey Thomas – all suited and booted – was interviewed on the pitch and he made a few comments about the game. A former Chelsea legend, it still grates to hear him refer to United as “we.” He spoke of United’s fine start to the season and he used a phrase that I have used recently –

“United have hit the ground running.”

At least Mickey said that he thought we would represent United’s biggest threat, not those mischievous fellows across the city.

Old Trafford seemed to take ages to fill up. Long gone are the days of the ’eighties when most of a 40,000 crowd would be inside with half-an-hour to go, chanting and trading insults with each other. The build-up to the kick-off used to be great in those days, the noise levels increasing minute by minute. My seat was along the side, slightly beyond the goal line. I like how the pitch is raised on a bed – like a stage – at Old Trafford, with a steep decline down to the terraces. In the immediate ten minutes before the game’s commencement, we were in great voice and United weren’t singing at all.

We had the first chance of the game as the effervescent Ramires troubled the shaky de Gea but the United ‘keeper thwarted the effort with his feet. Soon after, Anderson lost possession to Fernando Torres, who quickly advanced but fluffed his shot wide. Sturridge was looking lively down below me. I had spoken to Alan about the absolute need not to concede an early goal – certainly not a repeat of the opening goal within the first minute back in May. Well, those plans went up in flames.

We weren’t sure about the foul which resulted in the Nani free-kick and the powerful leap from Chris Smalling. But the former Fulham player appeared to have an unhindered leap. The United support roared for the first time.

After twenty minutes, a lovely flowing move found Torres but he again shot wide.

Soon after, a gorgeous through ball by Mata allowed Torres to beat the offside trap as he raced past the United back line. He was through on goal but decided not to shoot. My immediate thoughts were of Tuesday night when his unselfish play aided others. He squared the ball to Sturridge and we held our breath. In the end, the firm strike was well saved.

We had a little conference amongst ourselves and I said that if Studge had scored, we would all have been saying what a great ball it was from Torres. To be honest, it was a great ball and Studge should have scored.

All three thousand Chelsea were standing and bellowing our support. The United legions, basking in the September sun, appeared to be very docile in comparison.

Sturridge picked out Torres again, but his overhead kick whistled wide.

Then a rasping drive from Sturridge, from an angle, well saved by de Gea.

We were playing well and the two wide men were tracking back and adding numbers to our midfield. We seemed to be well on top when our world caved in. We allowed Nani time and space to shot and his perfect shot rattled into Cech’s top corner. The United fans momentarily roared, but there was not a reverberating depth of noise which was present, for example, at the Champions League game last season. However, we did not let up. We chased every ball and pressed with determination. Nice movement upfront. We were still in it.

The third goal was a joke. The ball just fell for Wayne Rooney – otherwise quiet – and he swept the ball into the net.

How on earth were we 3-0 down? It seemed that everything was falling into United’s path. What a farce.

The United fans were enquiring “are you Arsenal in disguise?” and we stood silent. We had no answer.

The half-time interval, looking back, was a bit of a blur. We stood around, quite shell-shocked, but there were plentiful smiles and laughter amongst the away fans. We knew that we had played well, with Mata looking very lively in that roving role. Everything seemed to come through him. However, I did quietly say to Alan –

“I hope no more goals are scored in this game” and he grimaced as if to say “I’m with you.”

There was a very bold move at the break when Villas-Boas replaced the under-performing Frank Lampard with Nicolas Anelka. I can’t honestly say that I was aware of the slight change to the formation as my viewpoint was not great; our attacking was taking place in the other half after all.

As the second period began, we were singing “we’re gonna win 4-3” and everyone was smiling.

Losing, but smiling. What a strange game.

Within a minute, Anelka had played in Torres and his delicate flick past the onrushing de Gea found its way into the net. I was stood right in front of CFCUK’s Dave Johnstone and I just turned around, grabbed his arm and screamed. It was a lovely finish, right in front of a silent Stretford End.

Nani’s thunderbolt then rattled the bar with Cech well beaten. In the onrushing scramble – it was all a blur – Bosingwa fouled Nani and Phil Dowd pointed to the spot.

Oh hell. So much for the Chelsea recovery.

I focussed on Petr Cech with my camera and hoped for a wonderful save being captured on film. In the corner of my eye, I saw Rooney approach and then slip outrageously on the damp turf.

Oh, how we howled with laughter. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who thought of Moscow.

Still the chances came. A wonderful dribble from Torres was well saved by de Gea, but Torres blazed the rebound over.

United hit the post.

Then, the moment of the match. Torres gracefully shimmied into the box and used his pace to push the ball past a floundering de Gea. With an open goal gaping, Torres flashed the ball wide with his left foot and we stood in horror. Hero one minute, villain the next. I felt for him. The United fans were wailing and the poor chap looked distraught. What next in the chequered Chelsea career of Fernando Torres?

In a passage of play eerily similar to the profligacy of Torres in the first-half, Rooney broke free but chose to pass to Berbatov rather than shoot himself. Doctor Death’s strong shot was cleared away by a scrambling Ashley Cole.

The minutes passed by and we kept singing. I know it is a cliché to bemoan United’s home support, but they really were quiet. I could tell that they were nervy and, with a little more luck, we could so easily have secured all three points.

From pre-match worry to post game buoyancy. What a transformation. To celebrate the team’s new-found confidence and swagger, we rounded off a great show of vocal support by a deafening “we’re gonna win the league” and I hoped and prayed that the viewers at home realised that it was the bubbling away support shouting those words.

I waited for Parky outside and we couldn’t contain our glee. This was a mighty strange feeling, though; a game we had lost, but we were not bothered at all. Of all the Chelsea games I have witnessed, never have I been as content with our performance following a defeat.

We must be mellowing with age, eh?

We were held in traffic for ages and it wasn’t until 7.45pm (almost two hours after the game had finished) that we reached the southbound carriageway of the M6 – and with it, that great big sludge of United traffic heading back to the southern counties of England, and possibly beyond.

We had enjoyed ourselves. Our throats were hurting from all of the singing, but we weren’t complaining. As I drove south, time for some music. Parky and I are going to see the old punk band Sham 69 on the evening of the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game in late October and so Parky brought along their 1978 album “That’s Life.” Sham’s first album “Tell Us The Truth” was edgier but this second album contains a few gems. In fact, it is probably punk’s first concept album, in that the album tells the story of a day in the life of a London teenager through songs interspersed with dialogue.

Despite the sore throats, we were singing along as we headed south.

It wasn’t a normal day in the life of the main character. He got sacked from his job, won a fortune on the dogs, got drunk with a mate, pulled a girl at a disco, got into a fight and crashed a stolen car.

It soon dawned on me that the game we had just witnessed at Old Trafford had been equally manic.

We stopped off for a coffee at Stafford services and I eventually dropped His Lordship off at just before 11pm. I reached home shortly after, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for ages. My head was still buzzing and I needed my body to steadily tire before I closed my eyes.

Did I have nightmares about Fernando Torres’ miss?

No, but I suspect he might have done.

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Tales From The Sun And The Rain

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Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 20 August 2011.

The late kick-off at Chelsea meant that I didn’t need to leave for London until 11am. On the ten minute drive in to Frome to collect Glenn, my match-going companion at Chelsea for 28 seasons, I managed to contact Texas Wes and sell him a spare ticket. Well, two spare tickets to be precise. A few phone calls and everybody was happy.

Over to Trowbridge, where I used to work from 1992 to 2003 for two separate companies, and I collected Claire and Kris. Claire is Parky’s step daughter, Kris her fiancé. And then, at about 11.45am, we collected His Lordship, Lord Parky of Parky Towers, Parkyshire. He was resplendent in a new blue Aquascutum polo and mid blue Fred Perry tracksuit top. Glenn commented that his crutches matched the bright blues of his new clothes.

Blue clearly is the colour.

On the drive up towards London, the weather went from benignly overcast to annoyingly rainy. Kris hadn’t packed a jacket and was moaning. I was trying to fend off an irritating headache as I drove east and, as the precipitation increased, I had to concentrate further. While Parky and the rest chatted away, I remained quiet. To be honest, my lack of enthusiasm for yet another Chelsea season was playing on my mind. I guess there are myriad reasons for this, but I was hoping that as the day unfolded I would begin to lose this disturbing feeling. I drove past Windsor Castle, just a few miles to the south and was reminded of my return flight from Asia just three weeks previously. On our approach into Heathrow, our plane flew right over Windsor Castle and it was a lovely sight. In fact, that final thirty minutes of the twelve hour flight from Bangkok was magnificent; we approached Blighty from Holland, headed in over Essex and I was able to spot Southend’s mile long pier, the Thames Barrier, then the new Olympic Stadium and then the “London grounds tick list” included West Ham United, Orient, Tottenham, Arsenal, Chelsea, QPR, Fulham and Brentford.

That oh-so familiar approach into Chelsea Town and I felt a little better. My melancholic fog was lifting. Past the Lucozade sign, past the Ark, down off the Chiswick flyover and south at the lights. As we drove past “The Famous Three Kings” we spotted a Liverpool replikid heading in to watch his team’s game at Arsenal and he became the un-knowing recipient of a torrent of abuse from Parky, Glenn and I. The swearing tumbled towards him like waves breaking on a beach and it was a stunning performance.

“Good work boys.”

Glenn darted off to get a breakfast (I had dined at home – a rare pre-match treat these days) and we joined the massed ranks of the Chelsea faithful in the sweaty confines of The Goose. We stayed out in the beer garden from 1.30pm to 5pm. Unfortunately, the rain had followed us up the M4 and so we sheltered under the awning until the rain eventually stopped at about 3.30pm. Stuck under the awning, sipping at a lager, the mood was a little depressing. All the familiar faces eventually showed up throughout the afternoon. I handed out a few of the Chelsea Thailand plastic cups to a few friends and these were well received. Gary had a nice little tale from the summer. He is a French polisher and part of his work over the past few months has been working on the interior of the corporate boxes in the West stand at Chelsea. He also tipped me off about a new feature inside The Bridge, but more of that later.

Thankfully, the rain dispersed and the sun eventually came out. The clouds disappeared, it got warmer. I limited myself to three lagers and the vibe improved. Daryl arrived with a few family members and The Bing were now fully represented. The laughter and chat increased and I was feeling much more enthusiastic. My most insightful moment of the pre-match came in a little chat I had with Daryl’s Mum; “Do we change our players to fit AVB’s preferred formation, or do we fit the formation to suit the players?” But generally, talk was of other stuff, not of the game and the season ahead.

Texas Wes and his friend Chrissy arrived bang on 4pm, just in time for drinks at the bar. However, with the landlord away on holiday, the service in The Goose was awful. I must’ve waited 20 minutes for my round of ten drinks. The prices are still great though – ten drinks for £24. I guess that is why we keep returning.

We quickly dashed down to The Wellington in order for Wes to collect his ticket from Burger, who was drinking with Mark, Lee, Cathy, Dog and Beckie. We were running a bit late and so I had to rush on through the meandering supporters to get myself down to the ground. I bought the newest copy of “CFCUK” and headed on down the Fulham Road.

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I bought the programme – still £3, Fernando Torres on the cover – and skipped past “The Chelsea Wall”, now bedecked anew with images from our history. Part of the wall is devoted to advertising the new Chelsea Museum, located behind the Matthew Harding, but the centre segment seems to be an extended Adidas advertisement, under the odd tagline “All Adidas.” I felt like adding “Chelsea Kits Are Crap.” I joined the long queue at the steps of the MHU. It was 5.20pm and I doubted I would be inside in order to see the kick-off. This annoyed me, but I only had myself to blame. I got up at 7am and here I was, ten and a half hours later, struggling to get in to see the kick-off.

However, by some miracle only known to the Footballing Gods, I was inside at 5.28pm and in my seat at 5.29pm.

And there it was – the new feature, as described to me by Gary.

Over on the Shed Stand wall, looking over the lower tier of the West Stand Lower, a lovely lovely sight. Over the summer, the beige bricks had been painted blue and the three words “Chelsea Football Club” had been painted. However, history buffs amongst the Chelsea support (you know who you are), surely recognised that the words – their design and layout – effectively mirrored those which were visible on the old Leitch East Stand from the early years of our existence to the early seventies.

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There was also the modern Chelsea badge and the additional “The Shed End” added and I – for one – appreciated this new feature.

Good work, Chelsea.

At kick-off, the sky was cloudless and the sun beat down. We had heard that Liverpool had won at Arsenal, but the rest of the day’s results were not known. I had to keep reminding myself this was a late game. There were no new supporters’ flags on show on the various balconies. Gary has swapped his season ticket seat from the East Upper to just eight seats away from us in the MHU Wraparound. Nobody seemed to know if Juan Mata was soon to join us or not.

The team had just one change from the previous Sunday; Anelka in for Malouda. I was surprised that Kalou had got the nod over Malouda to be honest.

As I surveyed the scene, checking the friends and faces around and about, I was sadly reminded that one face was missing. I first met Kevin Barney, along with his friend Ally, in a bar in Vienna in 1994. I was over there by myself and was a little wary of certain sections of our support at the time, so it was with great relief that the three of us were able to sip lagers and discuss our love for Chelsea in a foreign city. We shared the same views, the same passion, the same outlook on Chelsea. It was one of those lovely times on only my second foreign trip to see the boys play. Since then, we would always say “hi” though I can’t say we were mates. Just a face I often saw at home and away – he sat only ten places away from me, behind me in the Wraparound. We would always shake hands and he would always say…

“Alright son?”

It was with sadness that I found out from Big John, who sits close by too, that “Barney” had passed away on 16th. June. I didn’t know him well, but I will miss him. He was a loyal Chelsea fan and I noted that there was a fine obituary for him in the current “CFCUK.”

West Brom were wearing a red / white / red kit and it reminded me that this most common of kits is not present as a first choice kit in this year’s top division.

A moment of shocking defending after just four minutes allowed Shane Long to evade the lunging Alex to calmly slot past Hilario in the Chelsea goal. Although West Brom had only sold around 50% of their 1,500 allocation, all we could hear was the guttural celebrations from the SE corner.

The rest of the first-half was pretty depressing, despite the occasional twists and runs from a rejuvenated Fernando Torres. After 13 minutes, a fine run from Salomon Kalou allowed him to shoot at Ben Foster in the WBA goal, but his effort was high, drawing the usual mumbles and grumbles from the whiners. We were struggling to escape from the mind-set of the previous season, with a lack of movement and a very slow approach. West Brom, defending deep of course, played a succession of fine balls out of their half which continually breached our back line. To be honest, they could easily have been 2-0 up. The Stamford Bridge crowed were quiet, too. So much for the 5.30pm start and all the extra intoxication resulting in a noisy atmosphere.

After 35 minutes, shades of Mourinho and a bold substitution. Well, not so much bold, as surprising. Villas-Boas hauled off Kalou and replaced him with Malouda. Good to see that AVB was on the front foot with game-changing substitutions. I liked Carlo, but one of his problems was late substitutions. I look forward to more positive changes in the new regime.

With every Torres tackle or run, he was applauded. It seems like we, as fans, are doing utmost to encourage him and to continue his improvement in form. That surely has to be our role for the whole team, too.

Our chances were few and far between. Shots from Torres and Ashley Cole, a low free-kick from Alex. Foster remained untroubled. A nice run along the goal-line, right in front of Parkyville, from Torres and he played the ball back to Bosingwa. His cross was headed down by Anelka and another easy save from the ‘keeper.

The half-time whistle and a mixed response from the spectators. Some clapped, some did nothing, some booed. The boos came as no surprise. To be honest, the volume wasn’t massive, but it was noted.

This is where we are everyone, this is what we have become, this is what we are up against.

I spoke to Gary at half-time and we agreed that it would be – at least – interesting to see how AVB would react and change things. And how the players would react. A big half-time talk. I returned to my seat and glanced at the match programme. Again, it hasn’t really changed too much over the past few seasons. The same design and typeset, the same articles. It’s not a bad read at all. I enjoyed the photo spread of the entire staff of the club from the fateful 1974-1975 season; players with ridiculous hair (step forward Walker, Britton and Dempsey) and some famous faces from behind the scenes (Ron Suart, George Anstiss, Eddie Heath and Ken Shellito). TV presenter Johnny Vaughan has taken over from Tim Lovejoy and has a column inside the back cover. My mates and I all remember seeing him in Stockholm in 1998, singing “WTFAMU?” outside “The Dubliners.” His view on AVB?

“I like the appointment because it came out of nowhere. It meant that the bloke down the pub (you know the one!) didn’t really have an opinion on him.”

We began the second period with a little more urgency. After a ludicrous dive from Frank Lampard, the ball fell to Anelka out on the right wing. He shimmied and approached the goal, before shooting low at goal. The ball took a slight deflection and I was able to follow the path of the ball into the goal, off the far post.

An almighty “phew.”

West Brom were not unbowed, though. They had a free header from beneath the bar, but the ball flew over. A shot from Florent Malouda was blocked at the other end. I noted that the first really noisy (I hate to use the word old school) chant came as late as around the hour mark. This is clearly not good enough. In the sleepy hollow, only Alan and myself bothered to rouse the troops.

Didier Drogba replaced Fernando Torres and I was a little sad. He had tried his best all day. Elsewhere, we were starting to test the Baggies’ defence. However, Tchoyi unleashed a curling shot at the Shed End goal, but Hilario sprang and twisted, palming the ball wide with his trailing hand. It was a fine save. Hilario gets a bad press, but he’s no mug.

Soon after, Mikel played the ball to a surging Bosingwa but his hard cross just evaded the lunge of a sprawling Drogba. Ivanovic replaced Alex with a good half hour still to play. All three substitutions made early; very Mourinho.

On 81 minutes, Ben Foster had a rush of blood to the head and was lucky not to be embarrassed as Anelka’s shot from 40 yards flew past his advance but narrowly missed the near post.

Well, what a fantastic piece of play from the much-maligned Bosingwa. He danced between two defenders and sent in an absolutely inch perfect low cross into the danger area. It almost appeared to travel too far, but Malouda arrived on cue to turn the ball in from an acute angle.

Perfect cross. Perfect finish. The Bridge awoke.

Alan – rather subdued, but no doubt relieved: “They’ll Have To Come At Us Now.”

Chris – rather subdued, but no doubt relieved; “Come On My Little Diamonds.”

Malouda raced over to our corner and leapt high. Big relief and big celebrations.

At the final whistle…”phew.”

I grabbed my camera and bag and said my goodbyes to the lads. It had been a painful afternoon and – if I am honest – there are tons of questions hanging over our 2011-2012 season. But, a win is a win is a win. “Blue Is The Colour” rang around the stadium and I smiled. This direct link to my childlike fanaticism of the early ‘seventies reminded me that although the players and seasons change, my love for the club will go on regardless. I’ll be OK this season. I’m not so sure about the players, though.

We made our way back to the car and, while we were waiting for the troops to arrive, Glenn and I spoke to a few out-of-town Chelsea fans, heading back to their cars. Everyone was of the same opinion; we are too set in our ways. We need flesh blood. We need to add pace and urgency. These are not new themes and the song remains the same.

I headed west and the game was discussed amongst the cramped confines of my car. But that can only last so long. The music CD took our minds of the football and Parky’s early-‘eighties compilation got us all singing along…music from Kirsty McColl, the Go Gos, David Sylvian, The Cure and the song of the night “Number One Song In Heaven” by Sparks (Giorgio Moroder at his finest, way ahead of his time.)

I reached home at 10.30pm and watched the highlights from our game. The most telling comment – and one that I hope didn’t go unnoticed by the booers and whiners – was from the manager commenting on the anxiety amongst the home support finding its way onto the pitch, resulting in anxiety from the team.

“Well said, AVB.”

Let us create a positive environment for the team to perform to their potential. Let’s cheer, let’s sing, let’s support. If we see a piece of poor play from our players, let’s not wail like children not being allowed to have sweets. Let’s cheer them. Show our love. Give a little. It ain’t all about us wanting to be pleasured. It’s all about us giving to the team.

…but, deep down, I have a feeling that there will be more childish wailing ahead.

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Tales From 1981 And 2011

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Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 14 August 2011.

It had been a strange week. The riots which began in Tottenham and then swept through various locations in the nation’s capital, and beyond, threatened to put the 2011-2012 season on hold. Thankfully, the decision to “Carry On And Keep Playing Footy” came through on Thursday.

Good. Let’s try and get back to normal. There’s nothing like a trip to football to help put the grim realities of life to one side.

But it got me thinking…riots, summertime, football. It got me focussing on 1981, the last time that similar riots ripped through our green and pleasant land.

For some reason, I have been thinking quite a lot about 1981 during the last few weeks…perhaps it was just due to the simple 30th. anniversary of my sixteenth summer but I can’t really put a finger on why this should be. I’ve noticed, though, that I have been wistfully remembering extracts from my youth more and more often of late and the clichéd fears of a “mid-life crisis” are never too far from my thoughts. During that summer, inner city riots sprang up throughout England and it was certainly a summer of discontent, even though the Royal Wedding diverted our attention at the end of July. From a footballing perspective, 1981 was a pretty nondescript year for Chelsea Football Club. We were mired in the old Second Division and were going nowhere. However, the first game of the 1981-1982 was a pretty momentous event for me, though. For the very first time, I traveled up to London without my parents for a Chelsea game. I caught a Crown Tours coach up to the capital along with my two mates Kev and Fran. They were off sightseeing, but I was headed for Stamford Bridge. Before the game, I remember being in the old Chelsea Supporters Club shop at 547 Fulham Road (opposite the current tube station entrance) and listening in as an infamous Chelsea skinhead called Lester spoke to a few friends about his involvement in the Toxteth riots in Liverpool that summer.

I took a gulp and thought to myself “blimey, welcome to Chelsea.”

I stood on The Shed for the first ever time for that game with Bolton Wanderers some thirty years ago. Chelsea won 2-0 and we wore that shimmering Le Coq Sportif kit for the first time in a league game. It represented my support for Chelsea going up a notch, moving away from trips with my parents, being more independent, moving on. I would watch Chelsea three more times in that 1981-1982 season. The football wasn’t great, but I enjoyed every second of every minute of the Chelsea experience in that momentous year. And by the end of it, I was wearing that Le Coq Sportif shirt on my first ever date with my first ever girlfriend.

Ah, 1981-1982.

I set off at 9am and as I drove over to collect Parky, I struggled to come to terms with the fact that I would be watching Chelsea again within a few hours. I was happy to be back on the treadmill once again, but I was also well aware that my enthusiasm of previous years was just not there. I guess this can be put down to the passing of time. I also knew that, come September, with the league season well underway, there would be a moment when I would think “OK. This Is The Moment. I’m Ready.” To be honest, for someone who prides themselves on being pretty clued-up on all things Chelsea, I have felt more and more adrift of all of the rumours and hoopla which has surrounded the club over the summer. There seems to be an infinite array of papers, magazines, websites, chat rooms, phone-ins and the like these days. It’s simply too much. Information overload. I can’t keep up. I have an image of myself as a cartoon character desperately attempting to hang on to the side of a ship, but gallantly failing, nails clawing against the steel, that horrible high-pitched screech. I felt myself plunge into the deep, unable to keep up with a Modric transfer rumour or the latest tweet from cyberspace.

As I slowly approached Parky’s house, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid a black cat.

I wondered if some good luck was on the cards.

With Parky collected, we drove north on the familiar route up to my former college city of Stoke-On-Trent.

This would only be Chelsea’s eleventh away game in those thirty opening games since that 1981-1982 season. It certainly felt strange to be heading to an away fixture. An opening day usually meant a sweltering time in The Goose and a sun-drenched afternoon at The Bridge. And usually a win. Our last opening day defeat was way back in 1998 when we lost at Coventry. Marcel Desailly still has nightmares from that day. Our last away game opener was in 2005 when Crespo scored that winner in the last minute…and we never looked back on our march to our back-to-back championship. Happy memories. Was it really six years ago? Where does the time go?

An away game at Stoke would not be easy. However, our last league defeat in The Potteries was way back in the mid-‘seventies, in the days when prawn cocktail, gammon and chips and arctic rolls were considered the height of culinary sophistication in suburban England.

We were parked-up outside the Britannia Stadium at 12.15pm and we were soon walking up the hill towards the shiny new stands. There were immediate thoughts of our visit only a few months earlier, when we had sadly heard that United had come back from 2-0 to win 4-2 at Blackburn on that same walk to the Stoke stadium.

With every season, the memories overlap and intertwine.

Handshakes with Alan and Gary who were waiting for us to arrive.

“Alright, boys?”

We were soon inside the stadium, through the turnstiles – click, click, click – and into the melee of a Chelsea pre-match at Stoke City. We gulped down a lager and stood in a corner, catching up with each other, talk of the summer, of Kuala Lumpur, of Bangkok, of Glasgow. A few friends called by. It didn’t take long for it to start.

“One Man Went To Mow”.

The bar area underneath the terraces started to reverberate to the sound of 300 Chelsea fans singing and clapping, clapping and singing. And it didn’t take long for the beer to start to be thrown. Luckily, we were well clear, but the spray was visible to our right. It’s a bit of a tradition at Stoke – the pre-match Chelsea beer party. A few other songs were aired…”Carefree” and “The Bouncy.” And then, the asinine “Chelsea – Hooligans, Chelsea – Hooligans” chant. Alan and I rolled our eyes and grumbled. Of all the Chelsea match day chants, this surely has to be the most pathetic.

We made our way into the seats at about 1.20pm and I soon realised that I hadn’t yet heard the team announced. We had nice seats, a third of the way up, just above the disabled section, behind a wall. I was able to lean on it throughout the match.

Big shock – we were soon to learn that Fernando Torres had got the nod ahead of Didier Drogba. This surprised us all. A few hellos to some friends. Behind me was a chap from Scunthorpe who I last saw in Kuala Lumpur.

The wait was over. The teams entered the pitch.

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In the opening ten minutes, the crowd was lively with the usual exchanges of witty – and other – banter. The home fans really made a bee line for John Terry, Ashley Cole and Frank Lampard. The usual songs deriding our three England Lions. The exact reasoning behind Stoke fans targeting our three English internationals could be the subject of a dissertation all by itself. In addition to stealing the famous Southampton song “Oh When The Reds (Saints) Go Marching In”, the local Stokies also nicked the Manchester United ode to Ryan Giggs –

“Stoke. Stoke Will Tear You Apart, Again.”

The riots were the subject of an (almost) humorous ditty from the home fans, aimed at the travelling three thousand –

“Town full of looters. You’re just a town full of looters.”

It was a frustrating time for us all in that opening period. Stoke did what Stoke do. Balls were launched into the Chelsea penalty time and time again, with Delap’s throw-ins causing us problems. Jones and Walters, scorer of the goal against us last spring, looked in fine form. However, Petr Cech was able to fling himself around with reckless abandon to ensure our goal remained intact. Alex was magnificent in the first half, heading away threat after threat. Torres looked busy and interested, with a shot flying wide early on and an excellent wriggle and shot just before the break. It seemed that all our eyes were on him; we still plead with him to be a success at our club. Ramires, too, had a superb run at the Stoke defence from deep, but his cross-shot drifted well away from the goal. We all thought that John Terry had handled under pressure, but thankfully Mark Halsey waved the penalty claims away. Stoke were always a threat in the first period. Chelsea were much the same as the previous campaign. It seems churlish to expect a massive change in style with the same personnel as last season, but our play was still laboured and slow. I texted a few mates –

“Same old, same old.”

Mikel was holding things together well, though, and he produced the pass of the day with a beautifully weighted cross field pass to the left wing. More of the same please.

The atmosphere was pretty subdued really. These 1.30pm kick-offs are horrible in that respect with not enough time to oil the vocal chords.

At half-time, a chance to reflect. Kalou was poor and Lampard quiet. The Chelsea crowd were not getting on anyone’s back, but there was no over-riding feeling of us turning the corner. Andre Villas-Boas, now wearing the club suit and looking more the manager than when he simply wore an Adidas tracksuit, was animated on the touchline and I admired his passion. The Chelsea choir were still working on that first AVB chant. I am sure it will come eventually. Alan, Gary and I had a quick chat with Mark at half-time and there was talk of gigs in October to see Stiff Little Fingers and Sham 69 within the space of a few days.

Ah, chasing my youth again.

We began the second period far more brightly and a lovely shimmy and run from Ramires set the scene for the next forty-five minutes. I got out of my seat for the first time to applaud a lovely move which involved Bosingwa winning a tackle, playing a ball to Torres and then on to Florent Malouda. The counter attack used to be our killer move, but this one soon broke down in the final third. As the half progressed, we all got more and more animated with every Chelsea attack…and every poor refereeing decision. The trip on Lampard brought torrents of heated abuse raining down on Mark Halsey and even the Stoke fans turned on him after a few decisions went our way. The dislike of the referee acted as a catalyst for a noisy period in the stands.

Begovic flicked a dipping effort from Mikel over the bar and the atmosphere grew more intense. While Delap was receiving treatment, the Stoke and Chelsea fans enacted a battle royal of club songs.

Delilah versus Carefree and the place was rocking.

I was chatting on and off to a bloke to my right, who was watching with his young daughter. We spoke, in pained tones, about Lampard’s quiet performance and I grimaced when I said “to be honest, his legs have gone and I think his demise could be quite sudden, if he can’t change his game.” Frank often just plays the simple ball these days and his bursts from deep are getting more and more infrequent.

Nicolas Anelka came on as a substitute for Malouda and his trademark dribbles and turns were causing the Stoke defence to cover new angles. A delightful chip was magnificently flicked on to the bar by Begovic and we groaned three thousand groans. Torres was still looking busy and keen and his perfect cross fell to Kalou, but his week header was easy for the Stoke ‘keeper. If only Drogba had been there. Soon after – but too late! – Drogba replaced the lacklustre Kalou and the away end erupted with pleasure. For a while, our attack consisted of Drogba, Anelka and Torres and I bet Jose Mourinho was thinking –

“Villas-Boas…what are you doing?”

However, apart from two identical free-kicks from Didier, our threat diminished. Benayoun replaced Torres with five minutes to go and then struggled to get in the game. A couple of Stoke half-chances came to nothing and the final whistle was met with polite applause. There were differing views around me as I made my way to the exits. It was always going to be a tough game. The players looked frustrated and as I took a few photographs of the boys, I noted that the manager headed straight towards the tunnel, his head full of thoughts and ideas. We didn’t sing his name – still working out that song – and he didn’t clap us. So be it…so be it.

His time – and our time – will come.

As we blended in with the home fans on the slow traipse back to the car, a Stokie addressed a lone Chelsea fan and his comment made me chuckle –

“Cheer up, duck. I think you’ll stay up.”

It took me less than three minutes to race from my parking place on the grass verge to the M6. Stoke is now officially the easiest place to park for a game. On the drive south, we avoided listening to the United game (we drove within a mile of their game at The Hawthorns) and listened to some music from our youth once more.

The song of the trip home was Patti Smith’s “Because The Night” and it was a typical return trip home from a game, full of junk food, beer for Parky, coffees for me, memories of past Chelsea games and plans for the next one. We listened to “606” for a while, but having to listen to Joey Barton talk to Robbie Savage seemed to be particularly brutal. We soon switched it off and went back to the music. I was soon back at Parky’s village. It had been a fine day out in The Potteries, but we were both rueful of the fact that it was simply a case of “drive-game-home.” We were glad that not every away game would be the same. We both enjoy sampling the delights of all the away cities we visit and Stoke 2011 didn’t have the depth of memories as previous visits. I didn’t even get to buy a “Wrights Pie” FFS!

“See you on Saturday, mate.”

It was only after I had dropped Parky off that I put the radio on and discovered that United had won.

Oh well. They will be the team to beat again this season.

I watched the highlights on “Match Of The Day 2” and was invigorated when I saw the praise being heaped on Fernando Torres. Let’s hope that he continues to improve and that we get off to a good start in our home opener against The Baggies.

6-0 last season, wasn’t it?

Let’s do it again.

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Tales From Celery World

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Portsmouth vs. Chelsea : 16 July 2011.

Eight weeks.

Just eight weeks have passed since the last Chelsea game: that dour, depressing and unrewarding performance at Goodison Park which was immediately followed by the hurtful sacking of Carlo Ancelotti, just hours after the final whistle. It was a sad end to a frustrating season for us and the treatment of Carlo by the club certainly left a sour taste in my mouth for some time after.

Since then, I have been on a self-titled “Chelsea Detox.” I have been laying low, keeping still and quiet, calming myself, re-energising for the trials and tribulations for the highs and lows of the new season ahead. If it is at all possible, I’ve been trying not to think too much about football and Chelsea in particular.

This way of life so devours me during the season itself that I really do need this two month break from it all. Of course, the internet – the damn internet – does not help. Various sites have been full of various scurrilous and wayward rumours about certain players with whom Chelsea are allegedly linked. Over the summer, I realised that I have grown tired of all this. The last time I was genuinely elated about a Chelsea signing was in the Gullit, Vialli and Zola years. Since then, without sounding too blasé, I’ve seen them come and I’ve seen them go.

The managers too. Hoddle, Gullit, Vialli, Ranieri, Mourinho, Grant, Scolari, Hiddink, Ancelotti…and now the new guy Andre Villas-Boas. Seen ‘em come. Seen ‘em go.

Welcome to the club Andre. I wish you well.

I remember my good friend Rob (who, like me, is not so keen on the “Chels” epithet) commenting one day in The Goose :

“I don’t really care…this player, that player. I’m at the stage now where I’m not too bothered. It doesn’t make much difference to me. This is Chelsea – drinking with your mates, looking after each other, the away trips, the banter. The players come and go. This is what matters.”

This is a mantra I have been preaching too. As the years pass, the football almost becomes irrelevant. I have even said that my Chelsea goes from pre-match drinking session to the next, rather than game to game. The games in between the sessions give us something to talk about, but the drinking and socialising is the crux of all this. When the football wasn’t so great (let’s say 1991-1992 for example, though there have been others…), the pre-match meet-ups were what kept me coming back to Chelsea season after season.

…and you will hear variations of this ethos throughout my many various match reports during the coming year ahead. I guess you all had best get used to it. Wink.

The constant drone of 24/7 football overkill with salacious rumours and gossip seem to be the norm these days, but I remember times when the summer was a more restful time. When I was younger, my family and I used to get daily newspapers and there used to be a reduction in football news from the end of May through to the start of July. The sporting sections of papers would be full of Test Match cricket, Wimbledon and golf and, at times, football might only warrant a few scant paragraphs.

Those days seem a lifetime away to me now.

I remember the summer of 1983 in particular. I remember being in Frome on a Friday afternoon, the day before I was due to travel up by train for the league opener with Derby County at The Bridge. In those days, virtually the only football magazines that were on offer were the ones aimed at early teens…”Shoot” and “Match Weekly.” I had been getting “Shoot” since I was seven and I was now eighteen. And I was probably embarrassed to buy it, but it was always good for mail order products like football programmes and replica kits. Anyway, on this particular afternoon, I remember buying a “Match Weekly” and not only seeing our new Le Coq Sportif shirt for the first time, but also reading, with increasing disbelief, that we had recently purchased Kerry Dixon, Pat Nevin, Joe McLaughlin, Nigel Spackman, Eddie Niedzwiecki, John Hollins and Alan Hudson. Not only was I excited and amazed, but I was also dumbfounded that these signings had passed me by. I can only surmise that we had stopped getting daily ‘papers that summer as we sometimes couldn’t afford them, if the truth be known. Living in the south-west, without access to the London TV and national press, I guess I was out of the loop. Also, Chelsea were a struggling Second Division Two team at the time. Maybe we just weren’t newsworthy enough for these signings to reach me in deepest Somerset.

So – imagine that. A Chelsea fanatic like myself not knowing we had bought “The Magnificent Seven” during the summer of 1983. It’s hard to fathom, isn’t it?

How the times have changed.

I set off for Fratton Park at 11.30am and Parky, my travelling companion for 75% of my Chelsea trips, was alongside me once again. I haven’t seen too much of him in that eight week period, so we spent quite a while updating each other on all of the gossip. A sizeable segment of the first hour was spent running through my travel plans for the Asia tour and how I wish Parky and a few more friends could accompany me. I’m such a lucky so-and-so to be off on my travels once again. Other topics were discussed and news of mutual friends exchanged. The tickets for the game at Portsmouth were just £15 and we wondered how many tickets were sold. I guess we expected a full Chelsea allocation of around 3,000 in an attendance of around 15,000. I went to a pre-season game at Fratton once before, in 2002, and sat in the rickety old Leitch stand above the half-way line. It was a great view to be fair. Everyone knows how much I love my stadia architecture and I have a definite soft-spot for raggedy-arsed Fratton. I get quite depressed when fellow Chelsea fans lambast it. I for one will miss it when it is redeveloped or bulldozed and Pompey play in a sterile bowl on the city boundaries.

The traffic was horrendous as we passed through the quaint Wiltshire city of Salisbury and this held us up. The weather forecast was for rain, rain and more rain. At least there is a roof on the away terrace at Fratton these days. Eventually, we left the cathedral city of Salisbury behind and ploughed on, eventually parking up outside the Good Companion pub at 2pm.

Inside, it didn’t take us long to meet up with our closest Chelsea companions; Alan, Gary, Daryl, Rob, Whitey and also Barb, Burger and Julie. How on Earth could it be eight weeks ago that I left Burger and Julie’s house in Stafford after that Everton match? When I said “goodbyes” to them that night, Carlo was still the manager…

Time moves fast in Chelsea World.

I bought His Lordship a pint and a Coke for myself. My alcohol intake over the summer has reduced to just a trickle and I am wondering how I’ll cope once I get on the beers in Kuala Lumpur and Bangok. Things could get a little messy. I had a good old chat with Rob and then Burger and Julie, who had decided to book the night in a city centre hotel. At 2.45pm, we left the now empty pub and walked the short distance to Fratton. This was a first-time visit for Burger and Julie and I acknowledged their gasps of astonishment at the down-at-heel entrance to the away stand.

Good old Fratton.

Ironically, my PFC-supporting mate Rick was visiting his parents in Frome and there is a fair chance that we may have passed each other on the A36.

Parky and myself had tickets in the very back row of section M. We reached our seats just as the teams entered the pitch. We have that “Drinking + Walking + Admission” equation worked out perfectly these days.

Ah, the first game back.

A quick scan around. Paolo the captain, looking more tanned than usual. Torres with his Liverpool-style haircut and Alice band.

Chelsea in blue, Pompey in a new black away kit.

I only had the pleasure of seeing our new away kit once during the entire time at Fratton. And, frankly, that was once too many.

It was on a 50-something year old bloke and it looked awful.

I saw a few Chelsea home shirts, but the crowd in that packed Milton End mainly wore that usual eclectic mix of English football threads. Parky and I, overlooking the rear walkway, noted a few nice tops.

“Nice colour Fred Perry there, mate.”

And it was – a subtle yellow with deep orange trim. Good work.

The game quickly began and I snapped away like mad. I wanted to capture a few images from the game and I could then relax. I looked at the players on show and tried to piece together the formation. I soon spotted the new manager over to my left, in white, alongside the much-loved Roberto Di Matteo. It didn’t take long for the boisterous Chelsea crowd to acknowledge our former mid-fielder;

“One Di Matteo, There’s Only One Di Matteo, One Di Matteo.”

It dawned on me that this song was sung so quickly in order to fill the void of where a song for Andre Villas-Boas should be. Still haven’t mastered his name, still haven’t mustered a song…but we are working on it.

Then, a crazy period of football and support, intertwined.

A fan had evidently smuggled in some bags of celery, right down below us, and frantically pelted it everywhere…it was the biggest show of celery at an away game for years and it was a joy to behold. We pelted some stewards and someone managed to hit a female steward, who picked the celery up and threw it back. It was a great piece of comedy. Many pieces of the yellowy-green vegetable had made their way onto the pitch. With that, a young lad did a hearty Zigger Zagger and we all joined in. I had trouble concentrating on the game as the support in our section was boiling over. However, the ball was played out to Fernando Torres out on the Chelsea right. I spotted Studge making a run into the middle, but the ensuing cross was nimbly headed into his own net by a Portsmouth defender.

I’ll be honest – I think Parky was too busy filming the celery and missed it.

Amidst the laughter caused by the celery flying in every direction, now laughter at an own goal. It was a great moment.

We had most of the ball in the first-half and Paolo, especially, found himself wide on the right on a number of occasions. Sturridge looked confident and was full of sweeping runs. One lone Pompey fan, in a white baseball cap and a snide Stone Island jacket, was coming in for bundles of abuse from the Chelsea section nearest the Pompey North stand. An attempt to get his fellow fans to sing fell on deaf ears and we roared –

“On Your Own, On Your Own, On Your Own.”

The sun eventually broke out from behind the clouds and it was becoming a pleasant, though blustery, afternoon. The Chelsea songs continued throughout the first half, even when Pompey had a little spell of possession just after the half-hour mark.

“Don’t Worry…About A Thing…’Cus Ev’ry Little Thing’s…Gonna Be Alright.”

“One Man Went To Mow.”

Just before the break, the much-maligned Pompey fan left his seat and took yet more abuse from the away fans. As he danced up the terrace steps, heading off for a half-time drink but loving the attention, I shouted –

“Milk and two sugars, mate.”

At half-time, the management team decided to hold the half-time preparations on the pitch and out came my camera to record the shuttle runs, the tactical talks and the fans serenading the substitutes – especially JT, Frank, Drogba and Nico. Songs for each of them. It was a lovely period, actually. I wondered if we would see some of the players in a Chelsea shirt ever again in the UK…Anelka must be a favourite to move on, I would guess. Andre Villas-Boas is a slight figure and he quietly spoke to a few players in turn. Di Matteo, however, was in control of a folder which he flicked through with various players. Lots of chat, lots of gestures. The players looked attentive and primed.

With the re-start came wholesale changes from Villas-Boas, but more Chelsea songs to wind up the home fans –

“When John Went Up To Lift The FA Cup, You Went Home, You Went Home.”

The play on the pitch wasn’t fantastic, but what do people expect? We had a lot of the ball, but found it difficult to work openings. A delightful Josh turn here, a lovely Kalou dribble there, a run from Drogba, neat control from Anelka…but not much threat. To be honest, it was Hilario’s half. He scythed down a Pompey attacker, but then threw himself to his left to save the resultant penalty. We then endured two almost identical pieces of horrendous defending caused by Hilario’s poor communication with his defenders. How we never conceded goals on each of those occasions, I will never know. Only a piece of super-human defending from JT on the second instance kept our goal intact.

By this stage, we were urging every player to “Shoot!” but the shots were as rare as polish being used in the Arsenal trophy room. Still the wind ups came –

“Oh When The Saints Go Marching In…”

No more goals ensued and the final whistle was met with a half-hearted cheer from us in the packed Milton End. It hadn’t been a great game, but so what? Today was all about showing up in our thousands – which we did – meeting up with friends – which we did – out singing the home fans – which we did – throwing celery at everyone – which we did – and showing some love to our players – which we did. Anything else, surely, would have been a bonus.

We quickly galloped back to the car and I made great time heading north up the A36. The music kept us buoyant – Joe Jackson, Tom Robinson, The Skids, The Undertones, The Pretenders and The Members – and I dropped Parky off at just before 7pm. With a four week gap now, until the home opener, it will be a while before I see him again.

And here I am.

I’m on the edge of the biggest leap yet in support of my team and my club, with a flight to Kuala Lumpur just 14 hours away.

I think it’s time to reflect for a moment on what Chelsea Football Club has become.

The loveable old under-achievers of my youth, supported by rapscallions and hooligans, celebrities and eccentrics, working class lads from inner London and die-hards all over the UK, have evolved into a 21st Century footballing powerhouse of national and international prominence.

It gives me a moment in time for me to hold a mirror up and comment on what I see. To paraphrase my old geography lecturer at North Staffs Poly : Who is Chelsea? What is Chelsea? Where is Chelsea? Why is Chelsea? And what of it?

This trip out East might aid me in answering these questions.

Apart from the football – see my earlier comments – this trip is going to give me a great opportunity to appreciate how other nationalities perceive us and for me to try to get to grips with what being a member of the Chelsea Family means to the good people of Malaysia and Thailand. I’m particularly anxious to hopefully dispel some myths about our overseas support. There is a growing and tedious trend at Chelsea – or at least amongst the less enlightened members of some chat forums – to think that foreign fans have no right to support Chelsea. That they are all JCLs. That you have to go to 50 Chelsea games a season to be a true fan. Well, I already know from my travels in the USA that this view is way off the mark. So, as is the case with a lot of the games that I have witnessed in America, whereas others will be watching the action on the pitch, I might well be centering my gaze on the supporters and fans off it.

To say I am excited would be a ridiculous understatement.

Now, where did I put that celery?

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