Tales From The Red Seats

Posted on August 4, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 2 August 2015.

What is the old saying?

“Familiarity breeds contempt.”

For the Football Association’s season opener this certainly seems to be the case. Long gone are the days when a trip to Wembley Stadium elicited a warm glow for myself and thousands like me. We are, as another old saying goes, a victim of our success. This would be Chelsea’s ninth such game – Charity Shield, then Community Shield – since 1997, and our eleventh in total. The 1955 game (beating Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge in front of just 12,802) is hardly ever spoken about. The 1970 game (losing to Everton at home, with a gate of 43,547, and Stamford Bridge never looking more sun-kissed) is on the outer reaches of modern Chelsea fans’ awareness. From 1997 though, our appearance in this game – first as F.A. Cup winners and then, get used to it world, as league champions – has been a regular event.

However, as of 2015, it is the one game every season that is starting to pall.

With the summer trip to the United States behind me, and with the league opener against Swansea City not far away, I was trying my hardest to get “up” for our Community Shield game against Arsenal. Of course it would be great to see a few Chelsea mates for the first time of the summer, but as for the game itself, I was struggling. There seemed to be a common understanding among fellow fans that a game against local rivals would add a little excitement to the game. There was talk of a “mark” being set for the season. There was also to be the strange sight of Petr Cech in Arsenal colours. Despite all of this, I was still having difficulties.

It was almost as if I was travelling to Wembley under some sort of strange sense of duty, which sounds rather pompous and silly. But, by the same token, there was no chance of me ever missing it.

“You’ve got me Chelsea, you’ve got me.”

I collected His Lordship at 9.30am. The domestic season was up and running.

On the drive to London, I chatted to Parky about the summer tour, which was over way too quickly, but left me with many lovely memories. Funnily enough, despite the joy of meeting up with a host of old and new Chelsea friends and the three games themselves, I think that the resounding memory for me is the time that I spent on The Great American Road. In my twelve days away, I covered 1,962 miles in my hire car, and the vast majority came in that massive “V” which I cut into the heart of America, travelling from New York City down to Charlotte in one trip and then from Charlotte back up to Washington DC the next. There were journey times of eleven hours and of eight hours respectively, with memories from each to last until the cold winter months and beyond. There was even one song – “Uma Thurman” by Fall Out Boy – which will forever be synonymous with my US trip of 2015, since I could not escape it, no matter what radio station I found. The summer tour also had other totems. The tour beers were “Shock Top”, “Rolling Rock”, “Blue Moon”, “Yuengling” and “Corona.”

From a football perspective, the theme was “penalties.”

And Bobby Tambling.

Good times, good times.

As we rose steadily on the elevated section of the M4, I glanced north and spotted the Wembley arch, clearly visible and with the late morning sun picking it out perfectly against the blue North London sky. We were soon parked at Barons Court. At about 12.30pm we met up with Alan, Gary, John and Dave at The Tyburn near Marble Arch. The last time that I was in this pub, and my last visit to Wembley in March, I was in my own little world of sadness.

As I sipped on a pint of San Miguel, I genuinely felt that a new season would help me move on from the grief which took over the closing months of 2014-2015.

Alan and Gary left for the game at about 1.45pm. Dave, Parky and myself stayed on for – you have guessed it – “one last beer.” We then had to hotfoot it to Marylebone to catch the 2.28pm train. It would be a fight to make kick-off. We never learn, do we? We bumped into the rumbustious crew from Trowbridge and Westbury on the fifteen minute train journey – “Parky!” – and it was great to see them again. To be honest, they would be the only familiar faces that we would see all afternoon. Maybe others were finding it hard to get “up” for this game too.

Inside the stadium concourse, I spotted Alan and Gary behind me.

“Got waylaid, son.”

We reached our seats just as the game kicked-off.

Phew.

We had super seats; row four of the upper tier, on the Royal Box side, midway inside the “Chelsea half.”

With people still lining up for beers in the area outside, the stadium was not remotely full at the start. However, after ten minutes, things were looking better and seats were filling up. It was obvious, though, that there were more empty red seats in our western end than in the Arsenal end. It was also noticeable that the Arsenal supporters in the lower tier were standing, whereas Chelsea were sitting. As an indicator of which set of fans were more “up” for the game, Chelsea were coming in a poor second.

I sighed.

The team contained few surprises, but we guessed that Costa was being protected in light of his recent injury scare in Maryland. Loic Remy deputised

It was immediately disconcerting to see Petr Cech in the monstrosity of an Arsenal kit.

Wembley Stadium was bathed in sunlight, with its huge and cumbersome roof supports causing strong shadows. It is a huge stadium, but I am still finding it a difficult stadium to admire. I still can’t believe that such a complex array of under structure does not support a sliding roof. It is a little ironic that the designing and building process for the new stadium – which took seven long years to be completed – was headed from 1997 to 2001 by none other than Ken Bates. That Chelsea Football Club might be moving in to Wembley for three years while Bates’ “Chelsea Village” is razed to the ground is doubly ironic.

There were few Chelsea banners on show.

One Arsenal banner caught my eye. The standard “Believe” had a yellow ribbon tied around the “I” which alludes to their bespoke F.A. Cup Final song. Quite clever.

I thought Chelsea began reasonably well, but then played second fiddle to a more energised and incisive Arsenal team for most of the first-half. I looked over at the Arsenal team which flashed up on the scoreboard. I must have reached that part of my Chelsea Life-Cycle which results in me being increasingly indifferent to players on opposing teams. In an identity parade, I would be hard-pressed to name Monreal, Bellerin and Coquelin.

It’s all about Chowlsea these days.

As I watched play develop before me, with Walcott finding Oxlade-Chamberlain, there was a clear moment when Dave saw enough of the ball to make a clearing tackle. That crucial moment passed and the Arsenal player struck an unstoppable riser past Courtois into the net. The Arsenal thousands roared, while we sat silently.

Until that point, it had been a relatively quiet affair of the pitch. While Arsenal made some noise, Chelsea retorted :

“Stand Up For The Champions.”

We did our best to get the singing going, but our section was unsurprisingly docile.

It was typical that while we clapped and applauded Petr Cech – though not ridiculously so – Cesc Fabregas was booed by his former Arsenal family every time he touched the ball.

Pathetic, really.

We found it difficult to get our game going in the first-half. To be fair, Willian was our main threat, moving well and more inclined to attack directly than in the past. I lost count of the times Ivanovic failed to deliver a cross by hitting the outstretched leg of his full back.

Two chances fell to Ramires. A shot went narrowly wide, but then a more glaring error. With the goal at his mercy, he headed over from a Remy cross. To be truthful, the ball was slightly too high for him. Or maybe he jumped too soon. It was a clear chance though. Elsewhere we struggled. A goal-line clearance from Ivanovic, with archetypal Goon Mertesacker breathing down his neck, stopped a second goal.

We hoped for a masterful Mourinho tongue-lashing at the break. He replaced Loic Remy with Radamel Falcao. We hoped for good things. Oscar soon replaced Ramires, and I immediately noted a bigger desire from him to attack the defensive lines. On a couple of occasions, he drifted inside and past his markers with ease. More of the same this season please.

On the hour, a second glaring miss of the match. Fabregas played in Eden Hazard, our player of the moment, and we fully expected him to rifle a shot low past Cech. Instead, his shot immediately rose high and flew over the crossbar. Such a rare piece of shoddy finishing from Eden shocked us all.

Fackinell.

A free-kick from Oscar – one of many which we were awarded in the final quarter – forced a save from Cech in the Arsenal goal. It probably looked more difficult than it was. The Arsenal thousands roared.

Kurt Zouma replaced Dave at left-back. That surprised me. On the other flank, Ivanovic was continuing to flounder.

As the game progressed, we never really looked like equalising. The atmosphere was deadening, though few Chelsea fans had decided to leave, which was a good sign.

Victor Moses replaced Terry, and Mourinho re-jigged things. Moses’ pace was not utilised and the equaliser proved elusive. Falcao had chased a few scraps, but his service was not great.

In the closing minutes, Arsenal had a couple of chances to increase their lead.

To be truthful, it hadn’t been a very entertaining match. We had looked a little sluggish, with our key players unable to match the creativity in key areas shown by Arsenal. At the final whistle, the Arsenal fans feverishly waved their red and white flags as if they had won a cup final.

Yes, I know, I sound bitter don’t I?

I was well aware that this reaction would be typical of the Chelsea supporters.

A win, and an important marker for the season ahead in a vital showcase game.

A loss, and an irrelevant result in little more than a friendly.

At the queue for the train back to Marylebone, there was a little chat among a few of us about the possibility of Chelsea using Wembley as a temporary home for several seasons should our planning application for the complete overhaul of our stadium be accepted. For some, Wembley would be a preferred option. For me, coming to London from the south-west, I think I would prefer to use Twickenham. Wembley, in my opinion, should not be used for club games, though you can be very sure that the Football Association would readily accept Roman’s millions for three seasons. It would also, perhaps forever, take away what remaining buzz of excitement that I get from visiting Wembley with Chelsea, if we were to play eighty games there in three years. There are also logistical problems getting in and out of central London. It would extend my day by an extra hour at least. The atmosphere isn’t great at Wembley. How would it cope with 50,000 Chelsea fans? I am not sure. Would we be able to get it jumping? It would be tough.

There is also the painful sight of Chelsea playing home games in a stadium of 90,000 red seats.

Ken – could you not have chosen a more neutral colour?

Royal blue, maybe?

To be fair, despite my moans about added travel time, we were back at Barons Court by 6.30pm.

On the way home, I glanced north once more. The Wembley arch was only just visible now, barely distinguishable against the early evening cloud.

Tales From The North Bank Of The River

Posted on April 28, 2015 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 26 April 2015.

Sometimes it often feels to me that the inhabitants of Planet Football have mindfully chosen to perpetually live as if they were children stuck in a particularly spiteful schoolyard where jagged and mean-spirited barbs are continually aimed at each of the other children’s football teams. I’m sure that football is not the only sport where this happens. On “Facebook” I often become privy to some occasionally nasty and rude conversations that take place between some US acquaintances as they discuss the merits of various college football teams, NFL teams or baseball teams. You can be sure it happens in Australian cricket, French rugby, Brazilian football and virtually all major sports currently being played too. Very often the debate is not about the abilities on show in the sport in question, but the personality disorders of players of hated rivals, sexual proclivities of other coaches and managers, to say nothing of the real or perceived differences between rival fan bases.

The reasons for this are many, but I suppose that the driving force for all this constant noise of abuse and antagonism is the desire to prove that your team, or club, is superior and aims to meet its goals in the correct way.

In football, it can get out of hand pretty easily.

There is a song which occasionally gets aired in and around football stadia, and elsewhere, about a certain Arsenal manager and a certain packet of sweets and a certain cheeky smile. To be honest, when we first heard this around twenty years ago it raised a smile, but as an example of how nasty a football song can be, there are few equals. I stopped singing it years ago. I can well remember being squashed inside a tube train en route to an Arsenal versus Chelsea game around ten years ago when the whole carriage seemed to be joining in. In the carriage were a few, only a few but a few nonetheless, young children. A good friend and I both rolled our eyes and admitted to ourselves that this was not a particularly edifying moment in our lives.

Sometimes Planet Football can be a cruel and painful place.

As the Arsenal vs. Chelsea game loomed on the horizon, the relative merits of both clubs came in to focus and the “banter” and dialogue on social media intensified. Out came the barbs once more. At times, I was back in the school yard. And I wondered to myself where I personally stood in this whole “us and them” thing. Of course, I’ve never liked Arsenal, why would I? In truth, I dislike Tottenham more. And yet there is something about Arsenal which annoys me intensely. It is their essential “Arsenalness.”

It is down to two things.

For the vast majority of their existence they have produced a rather humdrum and tedious brand of football, which even the doyen of all things Arsenal Nick Hornby has acknowledged. Yet since the arrival of Arsene Wenger, this “1-0 to the Arsenal” modus operandi has been airbrushed from the record books, with everyone inside and outside the media seemingly brainwashed into thinking that entertaining football has always been the Arsenal way. What nonsense. The memory of George Graham’s defensively strong Arsenal team of twenty-five years ago still lingers.

And then we need to talk about Arsenal supporters. For a sport which has traditionally drawn its support from the working classes, I never fail to be amazed with how painfully middle class the Arsenal support appears to be; they spend their entire life chattering, complaining, bickering, but never realising how lucky they are. This sense of entitlement, which I sadly see creeping in to certain sections of our support, really annoys me. What right have do Arsenal fans think they have to silverware? When Chelsea went without a single piece of silver for twenty-six years, did we wail and moan? No. We simply fucking got on with supporting our club, through hell and high water. Just imagine if Arsenal were to be relegated. The screams of torture emanating from North London would keep inhabitants of Australia awake at night.

And, of course – of course! – the Arsenal fans of 2015 are never shy in singing the two favourites, much beloved in school yards everywhere :

“Where were you when you were shit?”

“Shit club, no history.”

Again, there is this insistence within Arsenal’s support – and other teams too – that our success of late is unwarranted due to our perceived lack of historical clout. I need to readdress this view.

Back in around 2002 or so, before anyone knew who Roman Abramovich was, I stumbled across a discussion on a Chelsea fans forum, which totally changed the way that I felt about my club. Back in 2002, even I was beginning to believe the media’s view that we were a mid-sized club. True, I knew that Stamford Bridge had hosted huge crowds, but I also knew that our support had dwindled from the late ‘seventies to the mid ‘nineties. Crucially, it was this era – the most recent – that fans of other teams had referenced in discussing our small support base. Of course, most other teams’ support had dropped in this period too, yet it seemed that it was only Chelsea that was ever mentioned.

In this forum, average attendances were being discussed, and – salvation – somebody posted a link to a Newcastle United forum which, for a lover of statistics like myself, I found to be utterly fascinating.

Here, was a complete list, ranked in order, of every Football League club’s average home attendance, taken from their first season to the most recent. My heart skipped a beat when I realised that “little old Chelsea”, far from being a mid-ranked team, was the fifth-best supported club in England and Wales.

So, as of 2002 (though I think this list might well date from a year or two later when it was updated slightly), the numbers do not lie :

Manchester United – 36,165
Liverpool – 33,591
Tottenham Hotspur – 33,386
Arsenal – 31,692
Chelsea – 31,113
Everton – 30,917
Newcastle United – 30,675
Manchester City – 28,403
Aston Villa – 27, 806
Leeds United – 25,689

Of course, all sorts of things jump in to my mind here, but one key point needs to be addressed. Whereas in 2002 all of the clubs above us in this table had accumulated many more trophies than us, our support throughout almost one hundred years had stayed remarkably buoyant. Yes, Arsenal – for example – had won twelve or thirteen league championships in their storied history, but their average home gate was a mere 578 more than that of Chelsea, who had accumulated just one league championship to that point.

So, rather than the old notion of Chelsea’s support being poor, I would strongly suggest that our support has been historically the most unappreciated and arguably the most loyal of all.

I just wish that this little gem of statistical fact could easily be relayed into a witty terrace chant.

That would shut the bastards up.

My football weekend had encompassed a nervous ninety minutes watching my local team, Frome Town, eke out a 1-1 draw with St. Neots Town on the Saturday. The draw ensured survival for the fourth straight year at our highest ever level in the football pyramid, though this was due in part to the disappearance of former Football League club Hereford United around Christmas; thankfully, only three teams were relegated, not four.

On the Sunday, Parky and I decided to do something a little different. Everyone else seemed to be meeting in a Chelsea stronghold – The Shakespeare’s Head – at Holborn, which is where I have tended to assemble for Arsenal away games for ages, but I parked by the Fullers Brewery at Chiswick and we went on a really excellent pub crawl along the River Thames. We spent a few hours in four different pubs – The Old Ship, The Dove, The Rutland Arms, The Blue Anchor – before catching the Piccadilly Line east and then north at Hammersmith. This part of London is not specifically Chelsea territory – it is closer to Fulham’s ground – and I am sure that hardly any Chelsea match-going fans drink this far out on match days, but it is a pub crawl that we definitely want to repeat. Each pub was different, each had its own charms and each had lovely views of the river. There were blue plaques everywhere. The pubs are on the course of the University Boat Race. There was history and charm aplenty. Quirky and magnificent, it was a part of London that I had not yet witnessed until then. We’ll do it again.

Our meandering walk on the north bank of the river reminded me of the peculiar nature, in some respects, of our support. Yes, Chelsea is on the north side of the Thames, yet we have an SW6 postcode, and our traditional working class support was based not only in Fulham and Hammersmith but south of the river in Chelsea strongholds such as Battersea, Wandsworth and further south into Mitcham, Tooting and beyond. Arsenal, by contrast, eked out an existence south. That meandering Thames in its last twenty miles heading through the nation’s capital city has helped define and confuse the sense of geography of two of its teams.

Chelsea – north in location only, southern in spirit.

Arsenal – roots in the south, now in the north.

As soon as we entered “The Shakespeare’s Head” – packed with familiar faces and hardly any Arsenal – a new Chelsea song entered my consciousness. For a good ten minutes or more, it was non-stop. I quickly tried to work out the words. Within a few minutes, I was joining in.

“Fabrgegas is magic, he wears a magic hat.

He could have signed for Arsenal, but he said “no, fuck that.”

He passes with is left foot, he passes with his right.

And when we win the league again, we’ll sing this song all night.”

For the current climate, in current circumstances, this was a rather light ditty, without any associated malice. The cruel school yard seemed distant. I texted the words to a couple of friends, but word had got out. The Chelsea section of the World Wide Web was heating up with references to – gasp – a new song.

Lovely stuff.

The team news came through; “no striker.” Ah, the game…I hadn’t thought too much about it. A draw would be fine from my perspective. It seemed that Jose Mourinho agreed. A draw would knock Arsenal and their 578 extra fans out of the title hunt. I geared myself up for a dour defensive battle. Mourinho doing a George Graham, but with tons more charisma.

The stations at Holloway Road and Arsenal were closed (at the latter, there was the sulphurous odour of a smoke flare, Chelsea at work no doubt) so we had to alight at Finsbury Park. This resulted in a delay; I missed the kick-off by ten minutes. There is no doubt, for all the negativity about the lack of atmosphere inside, Arsenal’s stadium is striking.

Chelsea, in all blue, were attacking the other end.

Courtois, Azpilicueta, Terry, Cahill, Ivanovic, Matic, Ramires, Oscar, Fabregas, Willian, Hazard.

My pre-match expectation of a dour defensive battle was not too wide of the mark. As the game progressed, I commented to Gary that Arsenal never really looked like threatening us.

“We can soak all this up all day long, Gal.”

The first-half provided me with more good opportunities to observe how well our defence plays as a unit. Only on a few occasions did the Arsenal players find space. In a first-half of few chances, a shot from Ramires was saved by Ospina after good work by Willian. Penalty shouts came and went; Ospina clattered Oscar and Fabregas was booked for simulation.

Our support was in good voice, with the Willian song and the new “Magic Hat” song providing the highlights. One thought kept filtering in to my mind though –

“How can 57,000 people make such little noise?”

It was not difficult to judge the mood of the home fans though. They seemed to be resigned to the fact that even a win against us would not be enough. I can hardly remember a rousing Arsenal song the entire game. There was only a rise in the volume from the home areas when Arsenal attacked. There was no solid backing throughout the game.

Jose replaced Oscar with Didier Drogba at the break. I hoped for a little more attacking verve, but there was little. Courtois dominated the box time and time again, forever seeming to thwart high ball after hall ball. I thought that Dave had yet another fine game of football, but the star of our team was John Terry, who was simply magnificent. Walcott and Welbeck entered the fray late on for Arsenal, but we kept them at bay. I noted that a considerable amount of home fans applauded Cesc as he was replaced by Zouma.

The point was well won, and the away fans roared. After the final whistle, the screams of pure delight from John Terry were captured by me on camera.

Inside, if I am honest, I felt a little flat. Yes, I would have taken a draw before the game, but this particular game of football will not live too long in my memory. I felt a little empty. I wondered if it was only me experiencing these feelings. Sigh.

Outside, a little army of away fans had congregated outside the turnstiles and were baiting the home fans in the lounge and bar areas above. One song dominated.

It was magic.

We made our way south, back to Hammersmith, then repeated our footsteps back to the waiting car. As the evening sky was reflected in a resting River Thames, thoughts turned to Leicester City on Wednesday evening. Another win there and we will almost be home.

Tales From The Butcher’s Hook

Posted on October 6, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 5 October 2014.

After an enjoyable European Away, there often seems to be a sense of anti-climax leading up to the next game. In London parlance this is often termed “after the Lord Mayor’s Show.” Not so on this occasion. A home derby against our oldest London rivals Arsenal, with memories still fresh in our minds of the 6-0 drubbing we gave them last spring, was enough to get the pulses racing.

I travelled up to West London with Lord Parky and Bournemouth Steve. Before the match, I needed to do some scurrying around to meet up with a few transatlantic supporters in a couple of pubs. For once, I would not make it to my usual base camp, The Goose. Parky joined me for a quick pint with some good friends from Southern California – some of the infamous OC Hooligans – at the Prince of Wales at West Brompton. John, Tom, Matt and Phil are “hooligans” in name only; they are some of the nicest bunch of supporters that the US has to offer. It’s always a pleasure to meet up with them. I collected a spare ticket and bade them a fond farewell. I then needed to head off down to the stadium, and my route took me past three pubs which we have frequented in the past; “The Atlas”, “The Harwood” and “The Lazy Fox” aka “The Fulham Dray.” I made a bee-line for “The Butcher’s Hook” and pushed through the crowded front bar.

Towards the rear of the pub, I met up with Leigh-Anne from Toronto, her boyfriend John and his brother Kevin. I had briefly met Leigh-Anne and John in NYC in 2012. I was able to assist in getting tickets for two of the three, while another of their acquaintances procured the third. They were suitably buzzing. Leigh-Anne and John had been in Barcelona during the week, and Kevin had been visiting a mate from Croatia in Milan. We live in a golden age of travel for sure. We’re lucky buggers.

It was lovely to be back in “The Butcher’s Hook” before a game. In addition to being the very location where our club was formed in 1905 – in the room above – it also brought back a lovely memory from 2004-2005. For our game against Birmingham City, my friend Glenn and I attended the match with two very special people; his grandmother and my mother. Before the match, we had enjoyed a lovely pre-match meal in “The Butcher’s Hook” and I was reminded of that very special day. It was wonderful that my mother, aged 75, was able to see Chelsea play in person during our first championship campaign in fifty years. We had all met Peter Osgood in the megastore too. It was a cracking day out.

I guzzled down another pint amidst rapid-fire conversation with the three Canadians about all things Chelsea. Before we knew it, kick-off was approaching fast. I warned Leigh-Anne, John and Kevin to finish off their drinks. It would be a shame to miss the start. Outside the weather was splendid; the gentle autumn sun meant that most were in shirt-sleeves.

At the turnstiles for the MHU, there was a large queue to enter. While we were in line, the stadium PA announced that due to “an incident” the game would be delayed for fifteen minutes. What luck for the three Canadians. I sent them a text; there was no need to rush.

“Start delayed 15 minutes due to an incident. Parky bought a round.”

There were a few rumours about flares being let off outside, but nobody was sure. So, possibly our first and only 2.20pm kick-off.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. For some reason, I was reminded of the famous oil painting by Charles Cundall of the stadium for the Chelsea vs. Arsenal Division One match in 1935, a game which happened to host our largest ever “official” attendance of 82,905. The club constructed a special platform for the artist above the vast terracing above the north-west corner flag and the panorama depicted – or at least the view and the angle of the pitch – was quite similar to my particular view in 2014.

I have waxed lyrical about the charms of the old ellipsoid Stamford Bridge in the past. For all of its idiosyncratic awkwardness, with odd stands and crazy angles, I still miss it badly. The current Stamford Bridge, housing almost exactly half of the 82,905 of 1935, is obviously a fine stadium. There is something quite Chelseaesque about its four misaligned stands. Chelsea has never been about conformance. There had always been an edgy dimension to us, even our stadium.

Ah, our stadium.

It has warmed me immensely to hear that the board of Chelsea Football Club, in addition to testing the waters of the local populace, businesses and council of Hammersmith & Fulham with regard to possible expansion of Stamford Bridge, have allegedly contacted the RFU with a tentative request to use Twickenham while The Bridge undergoes possible improvement.

This is very pleasing to hear. Stamford Bridge is our spiritual home; it makes us who we are in my honest opinion. It defines us. I am heartened that the board has acknowledged this. I wish them every success in redeveloping Stamford Bridge. Let the unpleasantness of the “CPO Autumn” of 2011 be a distant memory.

Who knows, maybe those plans for a 60,000 Stamford Bridge, first mooted by a smiling Brian Mears in 1972, might eventually come to fruition. And, intriguingly, maybe that 82,905 attendance record might just be eclipsed at the home of rugby union. Twickenham currently holds 82,000. Interesting times ahead, let’s hope.

At last the teams appeared. The nine “league ever-presents” were supplemented by Schurrle and Oscar. Arsenal, wearing a very light red, chose to attack the Matthew Harding and for a few seconds, my mind played tricks on me. It seemed like it was the second-half already. Arsenal were supported by three thousand away fans and, although I am unsure, I thought I heard chants from them suggesting that Cesc Fabregas should go away and fornicate.

Classy stuff.

No doubt about it, Arsenal dominated the first quarter of the game. They looked steady and composed in possession, while we struggled to put more than three passes together. We looked edgy and nervous. After a quarter of an hour, however, there were no shots on goal from either side. The memory of last season’s rout was suddenly fading. Arsenal looked a lot more at ease. The first real chance fell to Alexis Sanchez, but a brave Courtois block quelled any danger. Arsenal maintained the advantage. Then, slightly delayed, Courtois fell and sought medical attention. The Chelsea medical team attended our young keeper, while Chelsea fans in Nerdistan fell in love with Eva Carneiro all over again. After a few minutes of concern, Courtois was replaced by Petr Cech.

He received a magnificent reception.

I took a “comfort break” just as the heated exchange between the two managers took place on the touchline. I’m sure everyone enjoyed that, though.

…er, the pitchside scuffle, rather than the thought of me turning my bike ‘round.

On twenty six minutes, Eden Hazard set off on a mazy run which Alberto Tomba would have been proud. He slalomed his way into the box and a wild stab by Laurent Koscielny sent him tumbling. It was an obvious penalty.

Eden Hazard took his time and stroked the ball past Wojzciecjzh Szczszcesesncy.

1-0, get in.

I’ll be honest, the goal was slightly against the run of play, but we cared not. The Bridge roared with approval. Jack Wilshere tested Petr Cech with a run on goal but lost control just as our ‘keeper raced out to smother the ball.

There had been few clear chances in the first forty-five minutes. We were obviously content with a lead, but hoped for more Chelsea chances after the break.

In the interval, Bobby Tambling received his usual magnificent reception from one and all, apart from the 3,000 Arsenal fans, who serenaded him with “you were here when you were shit.”

Classy stuff.

Just after the break, Cazorla drilled a low shot just past Cech’s left post. I momentarily held me head in my hands.

Phew.

Chances were still at a premium. On the hour, Eden Hazard advanced and sent a low cross towards goal, only for Flamini to stab at it and deflect it on to the near post. Chelsea continued to close down space, pester the Arsenal player on the ball, and stifle their passing game. There was special praise for Oscar, not always the flavour of the month, who put in a tireless display. His relentless running, tackling – “nibbling” – and blocking set the tone for the rest of the team.

As the last quarter approached, the manager replaced Schurrle – again, off the pace – with the steadying influence of Jon Obi Mikel. Next, Diego Costa set off on an invigorating run which resulted in a crisp pass to Hazard, who had supported the marauding centre-forward, but whose shot flew over the bar. For all of Arsenal’s possession, they very rarely tested Cech.

The atmosphere was not brilliant, though there were times when the home faithful did their job. The “ole, ole, ole, ole” and the “Jose Mourinho” chants seemed to galvanise the support. With just over ten minutes remaining, Fabregas took control in the middle of the pitch and lofted a high ball over the sleeping Arsenal backline. Who else but Diego Costa darted free and just…just!…reached the ball before the Arsenal ‘keeper could clear. He chested it down and in one movement delicately lofted it over the beaten Szsczszceseszsncy.

Stamford Bridge went into orbit.

GET IN, 2-0.

I snapped away as he jumped and screamed in pleasure down in Parkyville. I hope that the North Americans were able to snap a few too.

Superb.

It was Diego’s ninth goal in seven league games.

And it was game over.

Ah, the absolute joy of being able to sing “One Team In London” without fear of being incorrect.

There was even disbelief and then sudden merriment as Diego da Silva Costa blazed over from six yards after a fine move down the right; the linesman thankfully, in the circumstances, ruled him offside.

At the end of the game, I met outside the Peter Osgood statue in order to sort out yet more tickets for other friends. By doing so, I had unwittingly missed a few scuffles down at Fulham Broadway which had resulted in a few punches being thrown between a few Arsenal and Chelsea followers.

So, let’s re-cap.

Seven games played.

Five points clear.

And…the international break.

Damn you.

Tales From A Day Of Chelsea Smiles

Posted on March 25, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 22 March 2014.

In many ways this Chelsea Saturday was similar to so many other Chelsea Saturdays that I have been detailing over the past five or six seasons in this series of match reports. As the words tumble out of my head and onto my laptop and then eventually onto the internet, it is quite likely that veteran readers will spot familiar themes and possibly even repeated sentences that I have aired before. This, I suppose, is the result of my Saturday routine being relatively constant; it is also the result, thankfully, of supporting a hugely successful football club.

I was up early. The crisp morning air was so refreshing and it stirred me. After waking at the ridiculous time of 6am and having walked out to my car to deposit my match day essentials – coat, camera, coffee cup – within it, there was a noticeable spring in my step.

I felt like “Spring-heeled Jim” – or something similar.

It was a gorgeous sunny morning, we were playing Arsenal and London was calling to the faraway towns. This was going to be a good one.

Lord Parky was collected bang on 7.30am and even this simple act brought me a ripple of pleasure. It was lovely to see his smiling face; he too, was excited about the day ahead. The usual routine was followed; a breakfast en route, strong coffees, the M4 east, the Wiltshire countryside racing by, New Order’s “Technique” album on the CD player, Parky’s voice booming, talk of Palace next Saturday, then Paris soon after.

A Chelsea Saturday.

Mile, mile, mile, smile, smile, smile, zoom, zoom, zoom.

After only two hours since I collected His Lordship, we were parked up. There was a cold wind blowing down the North End Road, but the brilliant blue sky suggested warm weather as the day unravelled. Not for the first time I had made arrangements to meet up with a first-time visitor from the US for this game.

While I waited for Natalie and her mother Sandy to arrive outside the megastore, Parky chatted to a steward that he knows from The Shed. She mentioned that Chelsea received a pat on the back from UEFA because no pyrotechnics were spotted within the ranks of the Galatasaray fans at last Tuesday’s game. I presumed that some Turkish fans had tried to smuggle some flares in to the game, but had lost this battle with the stewards during the usual search of coats, pockets and bags. Ironically, I had my own personal battle with a steward in the MHU last Tuesday. As most people are surely aware, I take many photographs on a typical match day. Officially, cameras are not allowed in football stadia because they breach copyright laws; officially, that is. As everyone knows, thousands of photographs are taken at every game by fans these days, using a variety of cameras and phones. A blind eye is usually turned. However, one of my lenses literally “sticks out a mile” and so – despite using it at games for the past few years – a steward has recently spotted me and a battle of wits has ensued. On Tuesday came another warning.

What disappointed me most on Tuesday was the way that the steward spoke to me. I am a season ticket holder of some seventeen years, yet was rudely warned of a letter from the club and even the confiscation of my season ticket. It left me annoyed and dismayed to be honest. Only at football are customers treated so poorly. However, I am no fool; for the next few games I am going to lie low and only use my normal wide-angle during games. It is a small price to pay.

Outside the busy megastore, I looked up and spotted a familiar face from far away. I first met Jon, an ex-pat who now lives in Boca Raton in Florida, out in Chicago in 2006 and again in New York in 2012. He was here with his wife and two boys and his father. This was a nice surprise for both of us; it was the first time we had bumped into each other at Stamford Bridge. This was a big day for him; his youngest son Kyle was one of the two mascots. I always remember first meeting Jon outside the Chelsea hotel in Chicago. I had been tipped-off by a friend that Chelsea were staying close to where I was lodging, just off the Magnificent Mile. Jon, who is a travel agent, had a more unique way of working it out. He picked out the three most expensive hotels in downtown Chicago and decided to call each in turn. He phoned the first one – I think it was the Grand Hyatt – and gambled. He asked to speak to Mr. Frank Lampard. To his pleasure, he was put straight through.

Frank : “Hello?”

Click…

Ten minutes later, Jon was outside on the pavement, chatting to me.

Good times. Of all my visits to the US following the club, Chicago was one of the best.

Natalie and her mother Sandy soon arrived and we quickly departed up into the hotel bar. Unfortunately we had just missed meeting a couple of former players, but we still enjoyed the pre-game routine. There was the usual toast –

“Friendship And Football.”

Natalie had already seen three Chelsea games – New York 2012, St. Louis 2013 and Miami 2013 – but this would be her Stamford Bridge debut. Natalie used to play football – a striker – but suffered the same injuries as our own Fernando Torres. She said that she felt a bond with him; he is her favourite player. I was keen to find out what Natalie had made of her first week in London; it was all positive. There was talk of the game ahead, mutual friends, rivalries, the NFL in London, the dreaded 39^th game, London itself, friendship scarves, hooliganism, past players, college basketball; no stone was left unturned. While I escorted Natalie out as kick-off time approached, Parky guided Sandy out into “Frankie’s” where she would watch the ensuing game; I had, unfortunately, been unlucky in my search for a second ticket. There was a longer-than-usual wait at the turnstiles of the Matthew Harding and I felt annoyed with myself. Not only would Natalie miss a little of the immediate pre-match routine, but I would miss out on getting some photos of Kyle for Jon. However, I joked that this indeed was turning out to be a normal Chelsea match day; it is typical Chelsea to stay in the pub for “one last pint” and only reach our seats with seconds to spare.

“Proper Chelsea.”

I wished the troublesome steward a courteous “good afternoon” and we took our seats alongside Alan.

We were in.

I quickly scanned the team and saw that David Luiz was partnering Nemanja Matic at the base of the midfield, with Andre Schurrle alongside Oscar and Eden Hazard. Sadly for Natalie, Mourinho went with Samuel Eto’o and not Fernando Torres. I cared not who was playing for Arsenal. Natalie was impressed with the view; she had been on the stadium tour during the week, but this was the real thing.

A packed house, sunny blue skies, a London derby.

Let’s go.

Arsenal – ironically in the circumstances – created the game’s first chance when Giroud broke into the box and shot low to Petr Cech’s left. Thankfully, our tall goalkeeper was able to drop quickly and touch it away; it was a fine save.

Our response was immediate and dramatic. We broke at speed with Schurrle playing in Samuel Eto’o on the right. Just like against Galatasaray on Tuesday, Eto’o advanced into the inside-right channel and aimed. On this occasion he chose his left foot rather than his right. He curled a delightful shot past Scizieszcznnsy into the far portion of the Arsenal goal. I was right behind the path of the ball and was yelling my approval as it hit the back of the net.

YEEEEEESSSSSSSS!

I turned to Natalie; joy unbounded.

I turned to Alan.

In an unemotional, impassive voice –

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

In a dull voice, Arsenalesque –

“Come on my little diamonds.”

What a start. Just like Tuesday, an early opener from our number twenty-nine. Noticeably, I celebrated this one ten times as much as the one in the Champions League. The Matthew Harding roared –

“Samuel Eto’o – Samuel Eto’o – Hello’o – Hello’o.”

More followed, immediately. Matic won a ball and played in the raiding Schurrle. He quickly dispatched the ball into the same far corner. Only six minutes were on the clock. I lost my footing and fell into the row in front. Half of me wanted to scream in pain – ow, my bloody shin – and half of me wanted to scream in pleasure.

Natalie was in blue heaven.

The stadium erupted in mocking song –

“Are You Tottenham In Disguise?”

Sadly, Samuel Eto’o was substituted after a knock, but Natalie was more than excited to see her man Nando replace him.

Another goal was soon on its way…

A move down our left found Torres, who neatly tee’d up Eden Hazard to shoot. To our eyes in the Matthew Harding, the ball fizzed past the far post and I exclaimed in pain. However – and this came as a complete surprise to me – the referee not only gave a penalty to us, but brandished a red card to an Arsenal player. The reasons were unclear to all of us. Gibbs was creating merry hell, but took my advice – “get off, you prick.”

Eden Hazard steadied himself and slotted the ball in.

After just sixteen minutes : Chelsea 3 Arsenal 0.

I had to run through my memory bank of previous Chelsea-Arsenal games. Have I ever enjoyed such a score line at Stamford Bridge?

The Chelsea crowd were now in party mode.

“Arsene Wenger – We Want You To Stay.”

“Specialists In Failure – You Know What You Are.”

“Arsene Wenger – A Thousand More Games.”

Just grand.

Then, miracle of miracles, the often derided Arsenal support – search for “Arsenal Away Boyz” on “You Tube “if anyone doubts me – engaged in a little bit of humorous banter.

Chelsea : “Robin van Persie – he left ‘cus you’re shit.”

Arsenal : “Michael Duberry – he left ‘cus you’re shit.”

We enjoyed more possession and Arsenal were nowhere. Just before the break, Fernando Torres advanced into the box and picked out Oscar, who prodded the low ball in at close range.

Chelsea 4 Arsenal 0.

Ho ho ho ho.

There was an air of joyous disbelief at the break. Natalie, quietly taking it all in, was lost for words. Elsewhere, others were more effusive. This was just lovely stuff from us and the second-half lay ahead…just lovely.

At the break, former defender – and one time goalkeeper – and manager David Webb, wearing a garish raincoat, walked with Neil Barnett around the Bridge. He was warmly applauded. We don’t see much of him at Chelsea, which is a shame. You get the feeling he is a “one-off”, a unique character, his own man, a maverick. You rarely see him at Chelsea functions. For me, seeing him was bittersweet; it reminded me of the dark days of 1993, when Webby took charge of the club for a couple of months, steering us clear of relegation, but it was a time when I lost my father too.

In the programme, there was an article by Rick Glanville about the “82,905” game, with previously unseen photographs. Splendid stuff.

So, the second-half. While every single one of us wanted more goals, I think most knew that it is very rare for a team to keep scoring at such a rate over the complete ninety minutes. I kept looking over towards the away support to see if many had decided to leave

To be fair, only a few had left at half-time.

The game, typically, died a little after the break. There were moments of inactivity. We prayed for at least one more goal. Torres set up Oscar whose rasping shot was tipped over. Just after the hour, out of nothing really, the ball was played to Oscar on the edge of the box. With that lovely movement of his – neat, minimal effort, so natural, so efficient – he moved the ball onto his right foot and shot at Szcizciesncny. The effort was hardly powerful, so imagine my surprise when the ball kicked up and flew past his pathetic dive.

Chelsea 5 Arsenal 0.

Ho ho ho ho ho.

Mohamed Salah – the forgotten man of late – then replaced Oscar. After only a few minutes, the strong and determined Matic guided a great ball through the haphazard Arsenal defence and Salah was through on goal. He steadied himself. We waited.

“Go on my son.”

Chelsea 6 Arsenal 0.

Ho ho ho ho ho ho.

Now it was time for the Arsenal supporters to head home. The replica-shirted Goons soon left. They came to Stamford Bridge to celebrate Arsene Wenger’s 1,000^th game in charge of their team, but endured Arsenal’s worst ever defeat at the hands of Chelsea in 107 years.

Natalie – you certainly picked a good one for your Stamford Bridge debut.

Arsenal are a bloody strange club. Let’s be honest; they are run on sound financial lines, but the club seems to be headed to eternal mediocrity due to their reluctance to gamble and to invest in the right areas. Occasionally it pays to dream. Wenger seems incapable of changing though. In many ways, the Arsenal club is still in love with him because of his ground-breaking training methods and his style of football which once charmed North London – so used to pragmatic and boring football over the years – in 1998, but now seems to be too rigid, too easy to counter, too predictable.

As if I care.

After the game, I was able – at last – to get a photograph of Natalie and Sandy with Mr. Chelsea himself, Ron Harris, back in the crowded hotel. Then, we slowly walked past a few Chelsea pubs to the familiar area outside The Lillee Langtry, where we met up with a few of the usual suspects. Natalie had loved her Chelsea day. It had been perfect. There was already talk of her next visit.

On a day of goals, the only negative – apart from the shower of hail stones which accompanied our walk back to the car – were the big wins for both Manchester City and Liverpool. They aren’t going away are they?

Crystal Palace – my first visit to Selhurst Park in almost eleven years – next.

See you there.

Tales From The Hunger Game

Posted on December 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 December 2013.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Scots have a word for it; dreich.

I have a word for it; shite.

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

“Merry Christmas, mate.”

“And you, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A young Terry versus an old Terry?

A young Lampard versus an old Lampard?

Carvalho versus Luiz?

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

Gallas versus Cahill?

Duff versus Willian?

An unfettered Robben versus a raw Schurrle?

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

Makelele versus Mikel?

A young and erratic Drogba versus a troubled Torres?

Petr Cech.

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

I guess this is the nature of the beast.

I guess that we need to re-learn patience.

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

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

One more word.

Hunger.

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

I’ll drink to that.

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

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

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

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

“This could be anywhere.”

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

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

Replica shirt : check.

Red and white scarf : check.

“Arsenal, Arsenal, ra ra ra.”

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t clear.

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

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

“Come on midfield, close’em down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re in this lads.”

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

The rain still fell.

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

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

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

Andre Schurrle for Eden Hazard, then Oscar for Willian.

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

Another chance for Giroud, but Cech foiled him.

We were sternly hanging on.

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

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

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

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

A moral victory to the boys in blue?

You bet.

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

I dropped Parky off at around 1.30am.

From there, things soon descended into farce.

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

“All this for football?”

See you all at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day.

Tales From Gillespie Road

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs.Chelsea : 29 September 2012.

There was no doubt at all – in the vernacular of the British football fan – that I was “up” for this one. Chelsea versus Arsenal at The Emirates. This game would surely prove to be our first real test of the domestic league season. It was potentially a tough game, for sure. Would this be a case of the new Chelsea versus the same old Arsenal? Would there be a convergence of styles now that we have changed our modus operandi? With Didier, Arsenal’s tormentor for so many seasons, no longer in the Chelsea blue, would Arsenal now fancy their chances? Would they punish us? Would Chelsea’s position at the top of the table prove to be a false dawn? There were many questions to be answered.

I couldn’t wait.

Wagons roll.

I left the rural delights of east Somerset at 8.15am; with no Lord Parky alongside, this was another solo-run to the capital. Again, I headed up and over Salisbury Plain. It was a beautiful autumn morning. There was no need for a musical accompaniment. I was just happy to be alone with my thoughts, letting my mind wander and letting it pick out aspects of the up-coming game.

There is a passage in Nick Hornby’s book “Fever Pitch” in which he describes how football is never far away from thought. A vacant mind will soon become occupied at the merest hint of a football memory and then us football fans will then become dreamy with thoughts of Teddy Maybank scoring at Bristol Rovers in 1975, a Pat Nevin shimmy in 1984, a song at Anfield in 1985 or a depressing trip back from Villa Park in 1994.

My mind underwent the same process as I drove past Stonehenge. Above, there were no clouds in the sky; it was a perfect morning. I noticed that a battalion of soldiers were lining up, with the stones in the background, and I guessed that a photograph was being planned. There are army camps dotted all over Salisbury Plain; it is one of the training centres of the British Army. There are barracks in the garrison town of Warminster and Tidworth Camp is nearby. I presumed that the hundred or so soldiers, in battle fatigues, were lining up for a ceremonial photograph. I hoped that it was in recognition of their safe return from Afghanistan.

And then, in one split second, I made the connection between the young soldiers in a line on a field in Wiltshire in 2012 and the origins of Arsenal Football Club, formed in 1886 as Dial Square by some workers at the Woolwich Arsenal, the main armament factory of the British army.

As I edged onto the A303, I was deep in thought about Arsenal and Chelsea. How odd that Arsenal were once a team from south London – Woolwich is just south of the Thames, not far from Charlton Athletic’s home territory – but are now firmly based in North London, where most of their London fans are based. Chelsea, however, are geographically a team from north of the River Thames, but whose supporters have traditionally been based to the south of the river.

Of course, the seismic shift of Arsenal from Woolwich to Highbury in 1913 is one of the main reasons why supporters of Tottenham despise them so much. North London was Tottenham’s alone, but the arrival of Arsenal ate into their support base and things have been feisty, to say the least, ever since. I have read that the 12 miles which Arsenal moved just under one hundred years ago is comparable to the movement to Milton Keynes of the Wimbledon team in 2004, in terms of travel time between the two locations; 90 minutes by bus, tram and foot in 1913 and 90 minutes by tube and train in 2004.

Maybe Arsenal was the original “Franchise F.C.” after all.

And then I thought about Fulham’s relationship with us. Fulham was all theirs until we appeared on the scene, kicking and screaming, in 1905.

I can hear the disparaging call of a Fulham supporter from 1905 even now –

“And they have the damned audacity to call themselves Chelsea, but they want to play in our borough!”

Ah, the inter-borough rivalries of the nation’s capital are certainly intriguing.

As I approached Chiswick – presumably Fulham’s heartland, cough, cough – I was listening to the entertaining Danny Baker (Millwall, not too far from Woolwich) on Five Live. The musicians Midge Ure and Chris Cross, from Ultravox, were his studio guests and they were talking about the various musical backgrounds of the members of the band. The keyboard player Billy Currie was from a classical background. Chris Cross was explaining that Currie had a tendency to over play.

“At the start, Billy had to strip his style down. There were too many notes.”

Midge Ure laughed and said “yeah, there was a good tune in there somewhere. But there were just too many notes.”

“Too many notes.”

The phrase hit home. My mind leapt back to football again. Surely Arsenal played with too many notes. If they were a band, they would be either an interminably self-indulgent prog rock band or a jazz quartet, with each member trying to out-do each other. They would have had no number one hits, but a sweaty troop of obsessive fans.

And here is the real problem for Arsenal fans. The team is over-elaborate in its approach play. There are too many lilies being gilded. There are too many passes for the man who wears glasses. Chelsea’s play over the past ten years has been more pragmatic.

And more successful.

I can’t deny that – whisper it – Arsenal are a very well run club; they have a firm financial base and do not overspend. In many ways, they are the blueprint of how clubs should be run. And yet, the stubborn nature of Wegner must be so infuriating for their fans. He will not bend from his vision of the way Arsenal play.

And us Chelsea fans just love it. Seven years and counting.

Of course, we went twenty-six years with no trophies, but our expectations throughout that fallow, but fun, period were way different from the pompous expectations of the Arsenal hordes.

We never really expected to win much. It allowed us to be ourselves.

Put it this way, if Arsenal were to go a further nineteen years without silverware, I doubt it very much that they will have as much fun as we did between 1971 and 1997.

I parked up at 10.30am and walked past Brompton Cemetery to Earl’s Court. I caught the Piccadilly Line straight through to Arsenal tube station. The journey took just thirty minutes. Three generations of Arsenal fans – Turks, I think – sat opposite me. They each had the same bulbous nose. The grandfather and father were wearing Arsenal scarves but the young girl was wearing an Arsenal shirt and Arsenal shorts and a big “Number One Fan” foam hand. Lots more Arsenal fans were wearing scarves. They love their scarves, the Gooners.

As the train stopped at Holloway Road, I spotted around five or six Chelsea fans alighting. Funnily enough, I didn’t know any of them by name, but recognised their faces. Were they from Bristol Rovers in 1975, Anfield in 1985 or Villa Park in 1994? I don’t know. They just looked familiar.

Faces in the crowd.

I got off at Arsenal. For the first time, I spotted that the original tube station name of Gillespie Road was written in small mosaic tiles on the platform wall. I stopped to take a photograph. Herbert Chapman, the pioneering Arsenal manager who steered the club to a trio of back-to-back-to-back titles in the ‘thirties, negotiated with the tube authorities to successfully change it to Arsenal.

One can only imagine what the supporters of Tottenham thought of this.

Every time I alight at Arsenal, I am taken back to that sunny Saturday morning in 1984 when I and thousands more Chelsea fans welcomed our boys back to the First Division. That 20,000 army of Chelsea fans, packed like sardines, in the Clock End remains the one moment of my life that perfectly sums up what being a Chelsea supporter was all about.

Loyal, noisy, strong, humorous, unbridled, passionate.

Back in the big time.

Fcuk Them All.

I bumped into a couple of acquaintances on the short walk from the art deco frontage of the tube station to the grand new structure of The Emirates. We agreed that the match would be a test, alright. I circumnavigated the stadium for the first time; I was surprised how close it was to the main railway line from Kings Cross to the north of England. Ex-Arsenal defender Nigel Winterburn walked past. I took a few photographs. The Emirates is a very photogenic stadium.

For a change, I had arranged to watch the game alongside Gill. I arrived inside the plush and roomy seats of the away corner with a good thirty minutes to spare. Usually, my arrival at Arsenal is a lot more rushed. The Chelsea team went through their pre-match drill and, for once, I was able to observe. I was surprised how empty the seats remained until around ten minutes before kick-off. All of those red seats. Ugh.

The team was announced and I was surprised, though pleased, that Oscar had retained his place within the “three tenors” of the midfield. Frank was on the bench again.

There were blue skies overhead. The stadium was bathed in September sun. Most Chelsea fans were wearing jackets, though; there was a chill in the air.

We were in all blue and enjoyed the majority of the ball in the first opening minutes; this was a good sign. We didn’t appear to be fazed by the occasion. We moved the ball around intelligently, with the midfielders soon on top and playing the ball out to the flanks where we always seemed to have the extra man. John Terry, and Ashley Cole, were systematically booed throughout the first part of the game, though the Arsenal fans soon became bored of that.

As I was watching from the very front row, I found it hard to judge if the away contingent were making much noise. Gill and I had already reiterated how we prefer the fervour at away games to the morgue-like atmosphere at home these days. A steward was sat right in front of me and so I was unwilling to constantly use my main camera. The pub camera was used for a few shots.

The Chelsea choir erupted with a couple of beauties –

“Robin van Persie – he left ‘cus you’re s**t.”

“Seven years – you’ve won f**k all.”

Although we looked pleasing going forward, Arsenal had the first few attacks on goal, but Cech was untroubled.

On twenty minutes, Fernando Torres was fouled just outside the Arsenal box. I quickly lifted the main camera up to my eyes and snapped just as Juan Mata lofted the ball towards the far post. I just saw a group of players rise as one and then saw the net rustle.

Yes! Get in!

I was unsure who had scored. I was unsure how we had scored. The away support soon told me.

“Fernando Torres – he scores when he wants.”

Even better. Seventeen goals for us now. Lovely.

Gill turned to me and said –

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

Ah, that made me laugh…”come on my little diamonds.”

We were in good form, on and off the pitch, now. The Chelsea supporters behind me wasted no time in reminding the Arsenal fans about the events of Saturday 19 May.

“We know what we are. We know what we are. Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

Torres then robbed the ball from Koscielny and advanced alone, with just the ‘keeper to beat. We waited with intense anticipation. Two goals would kill them off. Sadly, Torres stumbled just as he was about to strike the ball goal wards. “One step forward, one step back” seems to be Torres’ mantra at Chelsea. We all want him to go one step beyond.

Oscar was rightly booked for a couple of silly fouls, but his overall play was excellent. We continued to attack down Arsenal’s flanks and our play was neat and tidy. The midfield were playing as a unit, passing the ball intelligently. I said to Gill that Arsenal seemed content for us to keep the ball. How they miss a Viera.

Sadly, with the first-half closing, a fine Arsenal move caught us out and Gervinho was able to spin and thump the ball past Petr Cech. We were then treated by the most naïve chant of the entire game. The Arsenal fans alongside us in the Clock End, exultant and jubilant, boisterously enquired of us –

“Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?”

Hardly a nano-second had passed before we belligerently and joyfully replied –

“We know what we are. We know what we are. Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

There was silence in the Arsenal section.

At half-time, there were no complaints. It was an open game with some nice stuff being played. There was no doubt we could go on to win this.

David Luiz was booked, in my eyes, for a pitiful attempt at getting a penalty. He then decided to berate the referee further. Now that was just stupid. Soon after, Torres was released but Vermaulen clipped his heels. I steadied my camera again and snapped just as Juan Mata whipped the ball into the box. Again, it was headed towards the far post. By the time I had brought the camera down to my side, Gill was shouting in my ear and the ball had nestled inside the goal.

Again – how the hell did that happen?

The Chelsea section was again in full voice. We sang a couple of new songs in praise of John and Ashley.

“One England captain – pause – fcuk the FA.”

“Ashley Cole’s won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup.”

We had to thank Petr Cech, though, soon after our second goal was scored. The quiet Podolkski looped a header goal wards, but our great goalkeeper arched his back as he flew through the air to his left and spectacularly clawed the ball away. It was a magnificent piece of ballet, let alone football.

Tu-tu, not 2-2.

Cech again beat out the ball, this time from Giroud effort which deflected off Luiz. Arsenal seemed to be in the ascendency in the last quarter and I lost count of the balls which were zipped and whipped across our box. A rogue deflection here, a prod there and we would be very likely to concede. In the end, shoddy finishing from Arsenal was the decisive factor. Giroud, again, sliced the ball into the side netting when it seemed easier to score.

Despite four minutes of extra time, we held on and the Chelsea fans, with several grey inflatable CL trophies playing prominent roles, were bouncing once more.

I walked back to Highbury & Islington tube with Gill, two Chelsea faces smiling away, amidst a sea of red despondency. This had been a massive statement of intent by Chelsea.

We had hit all the right notes.

It had been a fine day.

Tales From Victoria

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 21 April 2012.

Throughout the build-up to the game with Arsenal, my thoughts had been full of past games. Should we prove to be triumphant at The Emirates, I’d wager that the trio of wins within seven days would represent our greatest ever week. The only other week that was comparable – and one that sticks in my mind for some reason – was from April 2000. On April Fool’s Day 2000, Chelsea won 1-0 at Leeds United when Leeds were a top four team. On the following Wednesday, Barcelona were humbled 3-1 in the Quarter Finals of the Champions League. On the following Sunday, Chelsea beat Newcastle United 2-1 in a great F.A. Cup Semi-Final. Three massive wins, one massive week. Following our momentous double of Tottenham and Barcelona, could we surpass these three wins from 2000? It was the main train of thought in my mind as I collected Parky at 8am.

Well, I’m lying.

My head was full of the second-leg at Camp Nou. I don’t apologise for this – I am sure I am not the only one prioritising the return leg on Tuesday. Images of 95,000 crammed into the multi-tiered layers of the Catalan edifice, with 3,000 Chelsea fans clinging on for dear life in the very top corner. Images of a Chelsea team in Real Madrid white taking on FCB in red and blue. Images of a Barcelona team, riddled with feelings of revenge, putting us to the sword. The occasional image – flickering, out of focus – of us nabbing an improbable draw…or win. Images of pure joy in the lofty heights of Camp Nou. Images of quite easily the best away game ever. Images of a mad scramble for flights to Germany – Munich, Stuttgart, Berlin, anywhere.

But first – Arsenal.

We’d surely field a team of players who would, generally, not feature in Catalonia. Parky and I may have mentioned a few of di Matteo’s options as we drove to London, but the Depeche Mode CD soon quashed much talk of football. I made great time and I was parked up at Barons Court – for a change – at 10am. As we approached the station, I noted that a young lad who sits in front of me at Chelsea – Dane from Bracknell – had just arrived at the station, too. We exchanged “hello mates” and then Parky and I set off for a pre-match meet at Victoria.

At 10.30am, Parky and I strode into The Shakespeare Tavern and ordered two pints of “Becks Vier.” It made a really pleasant change for us to have a change of scene on a match-day in London. This was a first-time visit for me, but I was well aware of its role in Chelsea lore. This pub, just outside Victoria train station, was the anointed meeting place for the Chelsea firm back in the ‘eighties, when it was known by the typically ‘eighties moniker “Shakes.” I’d imagine that Chelsea fans regard Victoria as base camp on match days; it is the station where vast swathes of our support head for, before going off on a pub-crawl down the Kings Road, or catching tubes into Earls Court, West Brompton, Fulham Broadway or Parsons Green, the four tube stops which services Stamford Bridge on match days.

Victoria, Pimlico, Kensington and Chelsea – our heartland.

We had arranged to meet a little posse of Chelsea fans. Steve Neat, from Staten Island, was the anointed leader but he came with four others. Andrew used to live in NYC but now lives in Kent. Paul and his son Jeff are from the US (though, if I am honest, I am not sure where) and a new face – Orlin – is from San Francisco. Andrew reminisced about a lot of the old pubs at Chelsea which have gone by the way-side since the ‘eighties. I’ve never really spent much time on The Kings Road on match days, but it always used to house the de-facto Chelsea Pub Crawl, from the Chelsea Potter down to The Worlds End and further south to the Hand and Flower. This was Parky’s old stomping ground of course.

I really enjoyed chatting to Orlin, who remembers me from a few “Zigger Zaggers” at the Club America game at Palo Alto in 2007. We spoke about the San Francisco pub “Mad Dog In The Fog” which I know sometimes houses the SF Chelsea fans. Orlin’s story fascinated me. He is originally from Bulgaria and was a boyhood Levski Sofia supporter. He told me that Chelsea is well-supported in Bulgaria and I wondered if it was linked to Chelsea’s games against Levski’s arch-rivals CSKA in the 1971 ECWC campaign. It seems that a lot of Levski’s fans aligned themselves with Chelsea. Levski also play in blue. Of course, we played Levski Sofia on two occasions over the past ten years. He told me how drawn he was when his two teams competed against each other; he realised he was referring to Levski as “we” and that was his brutal awakening to who he feels closest to.I understand that, no worries. I referred to him as “Mr. 49%” for the rest of the chat. He comes over to England 5 or 6 times each season and was at the Leverkusen away game. I loved to hear his emotional story of how he missed the 2008 Champions League Cup Final in Moscow because his daughter Victoria (if only, eh?) was born the day before. Her birthday is the day after this year’s final in Munich and he owes himself a CL Final trip. Watch this space.

Jesus, sporting a beard which is getting more prominent each game, arrived at 11.30am, fresh from picking up his Barcelona away ticket. I reckon Jesus isn’t shaving until we win the CL Final in Munich. So there we have it, in a corner of a pub in Victoria, Chelsea fans from all over the world, gathered together.

Parky, Andrew and Chris – England.
Steve, Paul and Jeff – USA via England.
Orlin – USA via Bulgaria.
Jesus – England via Mexico.

We sped off to catch the tube up to Arsenal. I noted that Jesus was wearing a little Chelsea pin-badge on his shirt, the only sign of allegiance to Chelsea, thus mirroring the dress code of Parky and myself.

We cut it fine, but reached Arsenal tube, just a hundred yards from the old Highbury stadium – one of my favourites – at 12.25pm. Every time I slowly walk up the steep incline at Arsenal tube, I am always reminded without fail of my first ever visit in August 1984. It was one of our most famous ever away games – and one of my most cherished memories. It was such a seminal game that Mark Worrall wrote a whole book about it.

This was Steve’s first visit to Arsenal’s new pad and he was suitably impressed. It is, of course – putting club loyalty to one side – a magnificent stadium. I must admit that I wish it was called Arsenal Stadium – like the signs on the art deco East Stand at Highbury – since I know Emirates will one day withdraw their funds. I also like the large images of current and former players adorning the high walls of the stadium, arms linked; Tony Adams, Cliff Bastin, Thierry Henry, George Armstrong.

Quite effective.

I reached the away segment in the south-east corner at 12.44pm; perfect timing. I was stood next to Alan and Gary, but it soon became apparent that the group of four Japanese tourists behind me were very annoyed that everyone was standing. At one stage, the mother – sitting right behind me – sat still, with her eyes closed. I guess she would rather be at Harrods or the Hard Rock. I wondered how they got ticket; one of life’s great mysteries. They left with five minutes to go; no surprise there.

The game was something of nothing. The Chelsea team was essentially a “B” team, with only Petr Cech, Gary Cahill and The Captain likely to start on Tuesday in Barcelona. It was, of course, lovely to see Oriel Romeu back on the pitch after his extended absence. The sky was a brilliant blue, the stadium large and almost full. I noted more Arsenal banners than on previous visits; they have obviously taken a leaf out of our book. As the teams came onto the pitch, a large flage was hanging over the north stand – I don’t suppose it is referred to as the North Bank – which said –

London Our City.

With 13 league championships, 10 F.A. Cups and 2 European trophies, I guess they have a point. They are a large club and it would be foolish to think otherwise. However, I’ve always regarded their fans to me the most pompous and boring of all London’s clubs. Arsenal fans could never sing anything as beautifully obscure as “If she don’t come, I’ll tickle her bum…”

I spotted one banner was ridiculously infantile –

“We Don’t Need Batman – We’ve Got Robin.”

Of course, all of this boasting by Arsenal will account for nothing if we become the first London club to bring home the European Cup on Saturday 19th. May.

The game was a stinker to be honest and neither team deserved three points. Arsenal themselves seemed decidedly out-of-sorts and I expected more from them. I know it is a well-worn cliché, but how 57,000 fans can make so little noise is a mystery of the modern era. Our woodwork saved us on two separate occasions in the first-half, but Arsenal rarely got behind us. Those three goals against from last December were never likely to be repeated.

The Chelsea fans seemed subdued, too and the noise only really got going occasionally. The three favourite songs of the day were –

“She said no, Robin, she said no.”

“Seven years – you’ve won fcuk all.”

“We won 5-1, Wembley.”

I had no complaints with the back-line of Bertrand, Cahill, Terry and Bosingwa. I have nothing but praise for Gary Cahill; he has adapted to life in SW6 so well. A bright future in blue beckons. Ryan Bertrand looks like he has an equally secure place in our hearts, too. The midfield two of Essien and Romeu were steady, but it was the forward four of Malouda, Kalou, Sturridge and Torres which caused most anxiety. Of the four, Torres’ hold up play was the only bright spot. The other three were at times quite woeful. Sturridge worries me; his choices are usually the wrong ones. I guess he is suffering with a lack of games. Confidence can’t be switched on and off like a tap.

At half-time, I had a quick chat with Beth about the games in the US in July. Jason Cundy was spotted amongst the 3,000 Chelsea fans.

Did we have any real chances? I remember a towering header from John Terry from a Malouda corner in the first period but little in the second-half. By that time, the wayward runs of Sturridge had contrived to frustrate the hell out of all of us. Van Persie was clearly not himself – he was kept at bay by Cahill and Terry – and rarely troubled Cech. A sublime interception by the substitute Mikel was magnificent, just as it looked like Arsenal had eventually breached our rear-guard.

Mata came on but offered little. Cole entered the fray and triggered a noisy reaction from the snoozing Goons.

The game petered out and I – for one – was happy with a draw.

The players slowly walked over as the Chelsea fans showed support.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v…type=2&theater

Three points from the B Team would have been stretching it even for us in this week of weeks.

I met up with Parky and Jesus and we slowly trudged alongside the home fans on the way back to the Highbury & Islington tube station. I had received several texts from friends which said that both of them had been spotted on TV. Jesus, bless him, was amazed that anyone anywhere knew what he looked like.

I spotted small pennants adorning the lampposts on the perimeter of the walls surrounding the stadium. They were of photos of various Arsenal fans, with a brief description of their story. I thought this was another nice touch. I spotted one fan – I think his name was David Smith – who has not missed a home or away game for 50 years. I immediately thought of our Cathy – 35 years of unbeaten support to her name – and raised my eyebrows. And then I felt a tinge of sympathy for Mr. Smith. As his beloved Arsenal have never experienced league football outside the top flight – how boring of them – I realised that he had yet to experience league visits to Shrewsbury, Bristol Rovers, Bournemouth or Rotherham United.

And it is that aspect of Arsenal’s support which so grates; their support has never been tested. They squeal about a lack of trophies but I often wonder if they would simultaneously combust should their club ever suffer the embarrassment of relegation. Manchester United, West Ham United, Leeds United, Tottenham Hotspur, Newcastle United and Chelsea have all been relegated in living memory. Should Arsenal ever suffer the same fate (unlikely, I know), expect suicides off the top tier of The Emirates.

We slowly edged down the Holloway Road, where I once went for an interview at North London Poly in 1983 – what was I thinking? We eventually slipped onto the waiting tube train and we were away.

We serenaded Jesus with a song on the tube south –

“You’re not going home.
You’re not going home.
You’re not going.
You’re not going.
You’re not going home.”

Two QPR fans were on the tube, heading west to see the game versus Tottenham. I wished them all the best. We may dislike QPR, but we hate Tottenham.I was feeling weary by the time we had eventually reached Barons Court tube station. I popped next-door to a lovely little café and ordered a Panini and a double-espresso. Who should enter the café right after me, but Sebastian Coe – or Lord Coe to give him his full title? This is weird because I was only mentioning Seb Coe to two friends at work on Wednesday, when I was re-calling the time I bumped into him along the North End Road after the Barcelona game of 2005. Seb is, of course, a bona-fide Chelsea fan of many years standing. I remember seeing him being introduced to the crowd at the home opener in 1981, a mere 24 hours after breaking yet another world record. He wrote the introduction to the “Chelsea Story” (1982) book which was lovingly written by the recently departed John Moynihan. In that introduction, he used a phrase which I often thought was wonderful –

“Following the club could be as frustrating as chasing spilt mercury across a laboratory table.”

In September 1982, I knew exactly what he meant.

While I waited for my espresso and Seb waited for his two teas, we spoke about the day’s game. He was clutching a match programme. I know it sounds silly, but we chatted away like old friends. We both said we were happy with the draw. We both mentioned the joyous defeat of Spurs on Sunday. Regarding the game we had just witnessed, he commented –

“Arsenal are a bloody miserable bunch, aren’t they?”

If I had met Lord Coe, away from a match day, in an airport or somewhere, I expect I may have been stuck for words, but our Chelsea bond made the conversation flow. Parky asked him if he was running in the London Marathon on the Sunday –

“No, I’m too old.”

I asked him if he was going to Spain on Tuesday –

“No, I’m too busy.”

And in that moment, I felt a tinge of sadness for Sebastian Coe.

We stopped off for a drink at Beckhampton, between the market towns of Marlborough and Devizes – a pint for Parky, another coffee for me – before eventually returning home. QPR had indeed beaten Tottenham – good – but Newcastle had won again – very bad. Our challenge for a fourth place finishes is starting to falter now. However, our thoughts now turn to the Champions league.

There is no time to stop and think now. There is no time to breath. Barcelona awaits and who knows? As I said earlier, it has the potential to be the best away game in 107 years.

Let’s go.

Tales From Chelsea, Pimlico And Brixton

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 29 October 2011.

We had heard that Reg was going to open up The Goose at 10am and so we set off early from the West of England. I picked up Parky just after 8am and headed east. Barely over 48 hours earlier, we had travelled the self-same 100 miles for the CPO meeting, unsure of the outcome and riddled with doubts about the future of the club.

We need not have worried. In a watershed day in the history of the club, a solid message was sent back to the board by the CPO shareholders.

“Don’t tread on us.”

This was going to be a long day for Parks and yours truly. In addition to the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game at 12.45pm, we were staying up in London for the Sham 69 gig in Brixton in the evening. On the drive up to town, we spoke about all sorts. As people have commented, it has been an exhausting and troublesome week for us at Chelsea.

Lots to chat about, no doubt.

However, on this busiest of days, part of my focus was elsewhere. My home town club Frome Town have been enjoying a very enjoyable season in the Evostik Southern League (formerly the Southern League, the League that Chelsea leap-frogged way back in 1905.) This season represents the highest that the Robins have ever played in the non-league pyramid. I have been to three games thus far (a great win, a dull loss and an entertaining draw) and hope to go to a few more as the campaign develops. After the game against Brackley a few weeks ago, I went out in town with Glenn and San Francisco Bob and we ended up watching a Two-Tone tribute band and for a few silly hours, I felt like Frome was the centre of the universe, not Stamford Bridge, as I spent time chatting with old school friends about the town and the team, drinking lagers, reliving some memories and feeling connected. It was a great night. It made me realise a few simple truths about the role of the club within the local community and that feeling will stay with me. I obviously feel a sense of family with Chelsea, but I sometimes let my mind wander and contemplate how lovely it must be to support a “one team town” such as Newcastle United or Portsmouth and to be a local resident of that town. I feel a strong bond to Chelsea Football Club, but not necessarily to London itself. For residents of SW6, I guess that bond to CFC is even stronger.

I saw my first ever Frome game in around 1972, some two years before my first Chelsea game. For many years – 1986 to 2009 – I don’t think I saw a single Frome game, but my interest has been rekindled recently, lured no doubt by recent successes, but I was also keen to contrast my experiences with Chelsea.

Get some perspective. Get another angle on the madness of this obsession with football.

However, not everything was rosy. Part of the deal for Frome’s promotion in May was that a new stand – including seats – has to be built by the end of March or the club, currently in seventh place, would be automatically relegated.

Now is not the time to rail against this ruling, but it does annoy me that Frome’s ground at Badgers Hill is neat and tidy, nicely appointed, safe and secure. It has a stand for around 80 seats, a covered stand holding 200 and the place can easily hold 2,000 I’d imagine. Yet the powers-that-be have enforced this absurd ruling on the club and so £20,000 needs to be raised.

The Fighting Fund currently stands at £4,500 and the pressure is now on to step up the fundraising to reach the target. There has been talk on the unofficial fans’ forum about asking the town’s most famous new resident Johnny Depp for a few thousand, but I’m not sure if that has any mileage.

Step forward my good mate Steve, a real football enthusiast, who has supported Frome Town through thick and thin since his first game in around 1974. While we were heading east to Chelsea by car, he was heading East to Frome by foot, covering the 12 miles from his home in Shepton Mallet by foot on a sponsored walk in order to raise funds. San Francisco Bob, NYB Mike and I had already pledged a substantial sum towards Steve’s walk and my target was to raise additional funds from my mates at Chelsea during the day.

As the day developed, the pledges increased and Steve updated me on his progress –

“Halfway…getting warm now…Chantry…Whatley…three miles to go…sat in the Vine Tree…100 yards to go.”

In London Town, I was parked up at 10.30am and we were soon in the Yadana Café. Breakfasts were ordered and I spoke with CSG’s Pete, Liz and Cliff – and Parky – about the last three weeks, the CPO meeting on Thursday, the way forward, the whole nine yards.

And I left the café with £12 for Steve’s walk – a great start.

Ideally, I set the target at £20 for the day, but I was off to a flyer.

We headed around the corner and entered The Goose, already busy with morning boozers. Here, the chat continued about the CPO meeting – and so did the pledges for Steve.

It was great to spend some nice time chatting with Julie and Burger for the first time since the game against West Brom. We exchanged stories about all sorts. They are now 18 months into their England adventure and the biggest compliment I can pay is that they just feel like locals. I can sense that they are desperate for their first Champions League away game. That is always a seminal moment in the life of any Chelsea fan.

In The Footsteps Of Rene Lacoste.

Burger – black.
Chris – dark blue.

As we left the pub at about 12.15pm, I can honestly say that the game against Arsenal had not been mentioned once the entire day; not in the car, the café or the pub.

Too much other stuff going on.

As for the sponsored walk, another £16 had been added to the coffers.

Ironically, Glenn’s season ticket was being used by his mate Steve Malpas, who used to play for Frome Town back in the early ‘eighties in the glory days of Bertie Allen, Colin Dredge and Steve Walkey…but I digress

As I turned the corner outside the site of the former So Bar, I heard the usual “WWYWYWS?” being uttered by a little mob of Arsenal fans as they made their way towards the away end. By the way, it seems that the knuckle-draggers amongst our support that used to frequent the So Bar have now decamped to The Imperial on the Kings Road. I very rarely used to go inside the “So”, but after hearing a few songs about Auschwitz on my last visit two years ago, I soon decided it was not the place for me.

I bought a programme, then put some money in the collecting tin being held out by two members of the armed forces and was given a poppy. On the walk to the turnstiles, I had a quick chat with CPO director Rick Glanvil. I passed on my best wishes to him and said that I hated to see him caught in the crossfire on Thursday at the CPO meeting. He is a good man and I hope he escapes unscathed.

I got to my seat just in time to capture the Pride of London flag being passed above the heads of the denizens of the MHL.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50431704412658

This would be our nearest home game to Armistice Day, November 11th, and so the Chelsea Pensioners walked the teams out onto the pitch. We played with a red poppy embroidered into our royal blue shirts, always a nice touch.

I have to be honest; I had no problems with the starting eleven being selected by the manager. There are still unanswered questions about the right side of our defence (which two out of Alex, Luiz, Ivanovic and Bosingwa?), but I had to go with the manager. He alone knows how the players have trained this past week, who has injury niggles, who are best suited to the upcoming game. I surely had no problems with the midfield three of Mikel, Lampard and Ramires, nor the front three of Mata, Torres and Sturridge.

After the game against QPR last Sunday, I mentioned that it had been a crazy game.

Well, this one surely matched it.

A brief synopsis.

We began the livelier, with Ashley Cole playing in Fernando Torres in the inside-left channel, but the Boy from Fuenlabrada shot wide. Soon after, Daniel Sturridge attacked the bye-line right down in front of Parkyville, but his week right-footed cross was easily smothered by Szxcsxzscxzesny. Torres, loitering on the far post un-marked, would surely have scored had the ball reached him.

Then, Arsenal attacked at will, with Gervinho and Rip van Winkle spurning easy chances. Our defence was at sixes and sevens, or at least at twenty-sixes and seventeens. I lost count of the number of times that poor finishing or just bad luck stopped Arsenal from scoring in that first-half. However, we took the lead when the busy Mata sent over a lovely cross which Frank headed past the Arsenal ‘keeper.

We’ll take that – get in.

This was a very open game and, on 38 minutes, Arsenal equalised with another intricate passage of play which left our defenders flat-footed and embarrassed. Gervinho – he of the most ridiculous hairstyle ever – squared for Rip van Winkle to score past Cech. The Arsenal fans erupted.

Yet again, the away fans were out singing the 38,000 home fans and I’m only going to say one thing, damning though it is; this game was no different to any other.

Lo and behold, an in-swinging corner just before the break was deftly flicked home by The Captain and he reeled away in front of the away section, no doubt enjoying the moment.

2-1 at the break, riding our luck, but contented.

I popped out to the concourse to have a quick chat with San Francisco Pete, fresh from his Berlin marathon, and it made a change for us not to be moaning at the break.

The second-half was a horror show.

Arsenal equalised on 47 minutes just as I found myself putting my programme away; I only saw the shot from Santos fly past Cech.

Then the game’s pivotal moment. A break down below me involving Ramires and his path was blocked by a terrible challenge by their ‘keeper. It was obvious that the ‘keeper was not the last man, with two or three Arsenal defenders racing back to cover, but I honestly thought that the recklessness of the challenge warranted a red by itself.

Andre Marriner issued a yellow and we yelled our abuse.

That Frank’s fine effort from the resulting free-kick was superbly saved by Szxcsxzscxzesny just rubbed it in further.

Then, Arsenal went ahead with a goal from Walcott.

3-2 to the visitors and their fans celebrated wildly. Why do my eyes always get drawn to the away section in such circumstances? I hate that.

AVB made some substitutions and the game remained open. For 25 minutes, we chased the game, but without much pattern. Then, substitute Meireles chased down a loose ball and found Mata, who unleashed a dipping and swerving blast from 30 yards. While everyone around was wildly celebrating this amazing counterpunch, I was very impressed with the way that our new Spanish talisman shrugged off his advancing team mates and raced back to the halfway line for the re-start.

That said a lot to me. We unearthed a good’un, there.

Then, the screw turned further and JT slipped from a half-hearted Malouda back-pass on the halfway line. Van Persie raced away and netted past Cech.

Then, further ignominy as van Persie flashed a cracker past Cech from an angle and we groaned a thousand groans.

5-3.

Good grief.

I quickly dipped into my memory bank of past Chelsea games and tried to remember the last time we had conceded five in a league game. It was way back in the autumn of 1996 and a 5-1 loss at Anfield. Yes, over 16 years ago…we’ve been pretty lucky to be honest. It just goes to show how consistent Chelsea have fared over the most recent seasons. And the last time we conceded five at home in the league? Even further ago…Liverpool again, on my Dad’s birthday in December 1989.

Twenty-two years ago.

I think other teams would envy that record.

Ask Manchester United. They conceded six at home last weekend.

That, of course, does not mean that this loss to a resurgent Arsenal didn’t hurt.

It did.

Oh boy it did.

I sat, slumped, in my seat for ages at the end of the game and it made me ill to see the Arsenal fans, all three thousand of them, staying in the away section long after the home fans had left, bouncing like fools.

And yet – we had won 4-1 and 3-0 at the Emirates in recent years and those were the best of days. If we play football in the top flight, there will always be occasional thumpings. As the above comments prove, we have avoided these like no other team in the top flight in recent years. And so, this craziest of seasons continues on with yet another wild scoreline.

Manchester United 8 Arsenal 2, Manchester United 1 Manchester City 6, Chelsea 3 Arsenal 5.

We had best be wary of Manchester City…they beat United, who beat Arsenal, who beat us.

Oh boy.

After the game, we arranged to meet up at the Lillee Langtry, under the shadow of the Empress State Building and Earls Court Two at West Brompton. I walked along the infamous Seagrave Road, the road mentioned repeatedly by Bruce Buck on Thursday as the debate about walkways and bridges to the north of The Bridge grew hotter and hotter.

I had to admit to myself, the distance between Stamford Bridge and Earls Court would not be far. It would be almost as close as Highbury and their new stadium.

Still the CPO proposal dominated my thoughts and I sighed once more.

We reached the pub at 3pm and had a quick post-mortem. It wasn’t pleasant. Simon’s son Milo was especially subdued. This had been his heaviest home defeat in his 15 years. The fact that he lives in deepest Arsenal territory made his gloominess all the more relevant. He was dreading school on Monday.

Burger and Julie, then Andy Wray and Daz arrived. Within about twenty minutes, we had moved on past the depressing events we had just witnessed. Andy, always fearing the worst of the weather in England, was wrapped up for the cold with a heavy jacket, gloves, scarf, balaclava, snow goggles and wellington boots.

I thought he was slightly overdressed to be honest.

And still the pledges for Steve’s walk came in thick and fast.

It ended up at £50. A great effort.

I spoke to Steve on the phone – Frome had drawn 1-1 – and he was very pleased with the support from SW6.

While Andy and Parky spoke about the clothing requirements for his next visit in November, Daz and I rabbitted for ages about the CPO meeting and the fallout from it. We spoke of the way forward. We both reflected on one of the closing statements uttered by Bruce Buck on Thursday, once we had asked him what the board’s next move would be.

“Well, we’ll go back and talk to Roman…”

…and Daz and I both shouted

“NO…TALK TO US!”

In a nutshell, that demonstrates the gulf that exists between the interested parties.

Oh boy.

Time was moving on. I heard Parky talking to Andy about bearskins for the Liverpool game, but we had to leave. We bode fond farewells and headed on.

We walked to Earls Court tube, then headed down to Pimlico. Back in the early to mid ‘seventies, Parky was in the army and was stationed at Pimlico Barracks for a few years, luckily no more than two miles from Stamford Bridge. He gave me a great little tour of his old stomping ground and we stopped off at his old local, The Morpeth Arms, on the banks of the Thames. It was a superb, cosy pub. I enjoyed hearing his tales from his youth and we knocked back a Peroni apiece.

From there, we caught the Victoria Line to Brixton, south of the river.

Brixton is Brooklyn to the Manhattan of Kensington and Chelsea. It certainly felt odd to be south of the river.

However, we thoroughly enjoyed the concert at Brixton Electric, formerly The Fridge, and we saw three bands…The Skets, Control and Sham 69.

I was into the punk movement in my early teens and Sham’s “Tell Us The Truth” album was the very first LP I bought, way back in 1978.

Well, they didn’t disappoint. Parky and I loved it. Jimmy Pursey, the gregarious front man, was mesmerizing and had the crowd in his hands. We bumped into two other Chelsea fans during the evening and I am sure there were many more. Sham were always firm favourites in The Shed.

The gig finished at 10.15pm and we slowly made our way back to the car. By this time, the chats in the Lillee, the visit to Pimlico and the concert in Brixton had helped dissolve the stern memory of the football.

In fact, despite those five goals, it had been a fantastic day.

Tales From The Bleak Midwinter

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 27 December 2010.

“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.”

Our last game – it seems ages ago, doesn’t it? – was at White Hart Lane and we now found ourselves heading for The Emirates. I’m sure it has happened before, but I certainly can’t remember two consecutive away games at our traditional London rivals. From the urban blight of Tottenham’s stadium to the swanky lines of Arsenal’s new pad, a distance of no more than a few miles, but with fifteen days in between. Fifteen days of sporting inactivity. Fifteen days of anticipation – and doubt.

I have been suffering with a heavy cold, with associated coughing and wheezing, for much of the past week. Thankfully, I awoke feeling much better and I was able to look forward to the day ahead with a more positive angle. The fields around my village have been coated in snow for quite a while, but I noted a slight thaw taking place in the morning. By comparison to the previously arctic conditions, the temperature outside seemed positively tropical. I was happy that our game against Arsenal was put back 24 hours as it gave me one more day to continue my recuperation. The coughing had subsided…I would be OK.

I gathered together my various match day essentials – coat, cap, phone, wallet and camera – and stepped outside into the bright winter sun. As I turned the ignition of my car, the bells of Saint Andrews parish church struck one. In the distance, the muffled sounds of a local shoot could be heard. The village is set amongst countryside owned by various farmers – to say nothing of our very own landed gentry, the Earl of Oxford and Asquith. Dairy farming is to the fore, but arable crops are often rotated around too. During the winter, the local farmers supplement their incomes by hosting events as pheasant shoots and suchlike. It was the crack of a rifle that I could hear a mile or so away. During the morning, I had driven past a heavily camouflaged team of “beaters”, crouching near a hedge, waiting for the next instruction from the leading hand.

There is something quite laughable about the clothes worn by these hunting types – all checked shirts, tartan ties, flat caps, muted green and beige tweed jackets and britches, outlandish mustard cord trousers, Barbour jackets and Daks pullovers. They really are a picture of upper-middle class buffoonery. I always smile when I see them. Without a doubt, they are a rare breed.

And yet – in case anyone is wondering why I am mentioning all this, in addition to setting the scene for my wintry foray through England’s green ( and white ) pleasant land – there are a couple of items which are favoured by the hunting set which have been adopted by the football fraternity over the years. Back during the early onset of football fashion madness, circa 1981 maybe, deer-stalker hats were worn with drainpipe jeans and the leisure wear of the day. I can certainly remember dear-stalkers on show on The Benches in 1983, but they soon disappeared from view. I saw one, being worn with ironic gusto, at a European away a few years back. And then, of course, the Barbour wax jacket, with the oily feel to the fabric and its inherently pungent aroma. These were worn around the 1986-1988 period and I contemplated getting one for a few short weeks. Barbour has come back into football circles over the past few years and a few of us have the classic quilted jackets, polo shirts, long-sleeved shirts and pullovers.

Proper English gear – as worn by the middle-classes in The Shires and football followers on the terraces.

As I left the village, Texas were on the CD singing about “some foolish mission” and I rued their words. This would be a tough game for sure. Despite their defensive frailties, Arsenal represented one of our toughest opponents this season. This would be a solo trip up to London for me. It felt strange to be heading east all alone. Both Parky and Glenn, season ticket-holders, were keen to go to Arsenal, but had missed out. Arsenal away is a tough ticket. Despite 60,000 spectators at Arsenal, any away team is limited to a maximum 3,000 tickets. There are around 500 in the away scheme and the rest goes 60% / 40% to season ticket-holders and members. Parky missed out on an away trip to Goonerville by one solitary loyalty point and was mortified.

I raced over Salisbury Plain, the fields still white with snow, and was soon stopping for an espresso on the A303. Onto the M25, the traffic slowed to a crawl and gave me the chance to observe the westbound planes leaving Heathrow, now getting back to normality after our unusual wintry spell. The Killers gave way to the Cocteau Twins as I neared my destination. I enjoyed listening to the two atypical Cocteaus songs “Winter Wonderland” and “Frosty The Snowman” – never have the words to those Christmas songs sounded so ethereal and shimmery.

I was parked-up near West Brompton and walked to Earls Court, before catching the Piccadilly Line to Holborn. We had arranged to meet, as always for Arsenal, at The Shakespeare’s Head. I rolled in, a little late, at about 4.30pm.

“Chris!”

The Americans were there – Rick and Becky from Ohio, and Paul and Mary-Ann from Tennessee – and it was lovely to see them. I first met Rick in that cramped wedge of Chelsea support at Toyota Park in Chicago in 2006. I met Paul and Mary Anne at “Yankee Doodles” in Santa Monica in 2007. Great to see them again – they had just arrived in London and were all staying in the hotel at The Bridge. Paul and Mary Anne had already packed in a Boxing Day excursion to Stonehenge, Glastonbury and Avebury…a mystical mystery tour of Wessex. They should have popped in for a coffee as they must have passed very close to my own little part of England. We joined Daryl, Rob, Alan and Gary further inside the boozer.

We stayed in the pub for around two-and-a-half hours and we were joined by Kev, now back in Michigan, at about 5.30pm. Kev had been on his own little tour of England, visiting friends and family alike. The pub was busy – there were clusters of middle-aged Chelsea fans everywhere I could look. We spoke about what? All sorts, really…Paul’s bright orange Tennessee Volunteers sweatshirt, the idiosyncrasies of English TV, the Amish, scrumpy, mutual friends, plastic surgery for Kev,plans for Wednesday, my new CP pullover (a deep, muted green – very “Shooting Party”! ), past summer tours, Detroit Bob’s beer intake… even the team occasionally.

At 7pm, I acted as tour guide and rustled up the troops for the ten minute tube ride to Arsenal. Mary Anne began talking to a chap from Texas, bound for the game, but wearing a Longhorns T-shirt. We all made out we were Vols fans – the London Branch – and, amidst much laughter, I think we confused him a little. His next comment was a classic –

“Anyway, I hope it’s all a bit more civilised than a Cowboys game.”

With a dozen Chelsea fans bellowing further down the carriage, we soon advised him that he might be in for a shock. To be honest, we the ratio of 20:1 against, we all presumed he was an Arsenal fan. But no – this was his first ever football game and his son, sitting bemused nearby, was a Chelsea fan…

“Oh – good man!”

Mary Anne, ever the CIA cheerleader, quickly placed a CIA calling card in his hand and we wished him a good time. He was from Dallas and it is hoped that this friendly encounter deep below the cold streets of Holloway will result in another member, or two, for the Texas Blues. As we marched through the narrow tunnels at Arsenal tube, a few Chelsea up ahead began The Muppets-inspired “Ivanovic – Na Na, Na NaNa – Ivanovic – Na NaNaNa” chant. It was great to hear – and I could see that Jim the Texan loved it. One lone Arsenal fan, no older than ten, was trying to muster a response with a shrill “Red Army” offering.

“On your own, mate.”

At street level, we turned left and not right. I had promised my five guests a quick glimpse at the old Arsenal stadium, Highbury, now a housing development but with the two classic Art Deco side stands intact. It was the first time I had paid it a visit since the move to The Emirates to be honest. We took a few photos out on Avenell Road, the Arsenal Stadium signage still intact. We then sat on the steps leading up to the famous marble halls and took a few photos, Becky’s Chelsea scarf unfurled for effect.

I had immediate memories of the 1984 game – detailed in depth in “Chelsea Here Chelsea There” – and of the smiling Chelsea players giving us the “thumbs-up” from the large windows of the changing rooms as we marched past. What a day that was – ah, the memories.

We backtracked past the tube station, joining the flow of match traffic heading west, past the Arsenal souvenir stalls, past the hot dog stands, past the T-shirts. To my left, one other stall caught my attention.

A candy-striped awning covered box upon box of assorted confectionary. There must have been forty or fifty boxes, filled with various items such as liquorice sticks, boiled fruit sweets, peanut brittle, toffees, mint imperials, fudge, candy walking sticks, chocolate covered nuts, peppermint creams, chocolate raisins, flying saucers, wine gums and pastilles. It was quite a picture. Sweets of every shape and size.Sweets of every colour.Sweets of every hue. Quite tempting in fact.

The Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger was not available for comment.

We walked, slowly – taking it all in – up and over the footbridge which links the old Arsenal of the narrow terraced streets around Highbury with the 21st Century space-age Emirates Stadium. I squeezed both Paul and Mary Anne’s hands – “Welcome To London” – and I could sense that they were besides themselves with excitement. I’m lucky to be able to be able to share these moments of unbridled joy with so many new visitors to these footballing shores.

I reached my seats in that corner section with a few minutes to spare.

The Emirates – my fifth visit – and, of course, rich with memories already. We lost the hold on our champions crown at the 1-1 game in 2007, when Jose Mourinho made that iconic walk towards us, thanking us for our support, the famous “chin up” gesture to us all. To me, that was a defining Chelsea moment – it reminded me that even in defeat, we could be defiant, belligerent, noisy, passionate and united.

But then, the game before Christmas the same year under the tutelage of Uncle Avram was a grim affair…a 0-1 loss and were never in it. Since then, the 2009 games – the 4-1 and the 3-0 goal fests – were just too good to be true…two magnificent results and the old phrase “men against boys” was never more apt.

What of the game of Monday 27th. December 2010?

I can hardly remember anything of note in that mediocre first period. I remember a long shot from Didier Drogba flitting past Fabianski’s far post. We had quite a bit of possession, but what did we create? A great Cech tip-over came on forty minutes and I could hardly believe that the first-half had gone by so quickly. Let’s get to the break, mix things up a bit and get at them. Then, a bit of pinball in our area and Arsenal had an extra man. We could all sense danger. Song swept it in and I bowed my head – “oh no.”

It was all doom and gloom at half-time in the CFC section. We hadn’t threatened, had we? Kalou was in for the usual slating, but nobody shone, JT excepted. I couldn’t quite fathom why Mikel was taken off as the underperforming Ramires took his place. I yearned for a “Spurs Away Part Two” in that second forty-five minutes.

Our game plan fell apart within a few crazy minutes – first Essien losing possession and Fabregas slotting home, then Malouda guilty of the same and Walcott rifling home from distance. This made the home fans erupt and the sight of their flailing arms is haunting me as I write. At this stage, I had visions of a capitulation and our heaviest league defeat since a 5-1 drubbing at Anfield in 1996.

Thank heavens that didn’t happen – I’m searching for small morsels of positive news here – and at least the Chelsea support stayed to support the team. There was no mass exodus at three-nil. We were rewarded with a fine Ivanovic header from a pin-point Drogba free-kick. We temporarily roared our support and hoped that the wounded beast would respond. It shows what a deeply pathetic romantic soul that I am that I still had hopes for us to get it back to 3-3. I’d suggest that JT was our only player who showed any drive and skill, yet – bizarrely – all three Arsenal goals came through our middle. We tried to rally the troops – despite a recent sore throat, I gave my all.

We had possession, for sure, but no threat. No threat at all. Bosingwa and Kakuta entered the fray – and Kalou stayed on. But Arsenal could sit back and soak it up, then threaten us at will on the break. I think I was just grateful that we didn’t concede further and it stayed 3-1.

Arsenal made a few late substitutions and it reminded me of how little attention I had been paying to their personnel. I was only vaguely aware of who was in their team. I don’t pay such scant regard to other teams, so why am I so ambivalent as to who plays for Wenger? I think that this has been the way with Arsenal for the past few years. I think I lost any interest in Arsenal’s players when people like Hleb and Flamini flitted in and out of the team. They might still be there for all that I care. Is there a Clichy that still plays for them? I really don’t know and do you think I care? If I am honest, it just seems to me that Wenger has a whole squad of interchangeable waiflike metrosexuals and to hell with the lot of them.You see, rather than berate our own players – they need our support in these troubled times – I would much rather kick-out at the opposition.

The Emirates, for large periods, remained incredibly quiet. It seems that some things, Highbury or not, don’t change.

Regrettably, with a long drive ahead of me, I left on 90 minutes and so didn’t witness the final few moments of this most depressing night in North London. At Earls Court, feeling famished, I couldn’t resist popping into “Dall’Artista” for a fiery pizza which certainly put an end to the final vestiges of my head cold. Salvo rewarded me for another year of patronage of his restaurant with it being “on the house” and so there was at least some comfort in my solo trip to London.

I got home, the thaw almost complete, the roads now ice-free, at about 1am. I collapsed onto my bed and hoped for a deep sleep, but I knew that when I eventually woke, the pain would still be there.

Where is it all going wrong? I don’t know, but maybe we will find out more against Bolton.

Tales From The Only Team In London

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 3 October 2010.

This was another manic whirl-wind of a match day at Stamford Bridge – a frantic twelve hours overflowing with travel, chat, laughter, friends and football.

It was a wet and windy Sunday morning and there was considerable “debris” on the road into Frome, following a rough old Saturday night, with small branches and leaves littering the roads. The leaves have started to turn colour over the past week and this felt like a proper autumn day. I collected Glenn and his first words were –

“Yep, it’s a day for the big jackets.”

We picked up Lord Parky and we headed east on the M4, the spray on the motorway making driving a little tiresome. The pre-match vibes were good. We didn’t exactly dismiss Arsenal’s threat out of hand, but we all agreed that we had enough in our collective locker to win the day’s game. Two words alone would strike fear into the Arsenal psyche –

Didier Drogba

It was a very busy pre-match. After a quick breakfast, we left Parky to head into The Goose when it opened at midday, but Glenn and myself hot-footed it down to The Bridge where the clans were gathering. As I turned the corner and headed towards the West Stand, I was able to spot the Peter Osgood statue for the first time. It certainly dominates the West Stand forecourt and quite right too. The statue stands centrally, beneath the club crest, looking out. Initially I thought the body was spot-on, but the face wasn’t that great. However, as I looked at it later, I realised that it was a pretty reasonable likeness. The most important person to judge is The King’s widow Lynn and her praise has been well documented. That’s good enough for me. We met Jules and Steve outside the West Stand, cowering from the rain, then four NYBs soon appeared in the mist – Mike, Stan, Pat and Linda. We then collected the brothers John and George and headed up to spend thirty minutes or so in the Copthorne Hotel. “Kent Blues Gill” was there too…handshakes all round. I acted as cameraman as several group photos were taken of everyone with Ron Harris, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling. Most of “the guests” got to speak with the three Chelsea legends, if only for a few seconds. John especially was bowled over by being able to chat to these former players. A slight glitch with a ticket for John was eventually sorted via a few transatlantic phone calls and all was good.

However, one sight in the hotel bar made me see red ( and blue. )

Two numpties were stood across the way, each wearing Chelsea leisurewear, but with Chelsea / Arsenal friendship scarves tied around their necks. I am not a violent person ( and for those of a delicate disposition, please look away now ), but I was sorely tempted to march over and bang their two heads together, causing severe and lasting pain to them both for the rest of their sad lives.

Instead, I glowered at them as I descended the elevator.

We all heard The Goose calling. I popped back to take a few snaps of the Peter Osgood statue and John and George took photos by the new Chelsea Collage on the perimeter wall. By the time we reached the pub, the place was unsurprisingly rammed, but still offering the best value for pre-match tipples at Chelsea for miles around. I spent my time flitting between the bar, The Bing in the pub and the US guests in the beer garden. The Bing were awash with the usual assortment of Henri Lloyd, Lacoste, CP, North Face, Barbour and the like and I noted that we had all made a “special effort” for Arsenal. The City vs. Newcastle game was on TV, but I gave it a wide berth. In the far corner of the beer garden, we were discussing the rivalry between the Red Sox and the Yankees ( friendship scarves anyone? ), the Ossie statue, the phenomenon of UK-based JCLs, the predilection of Americans to annoyingly quote complete passages of “Monty Python”, John and George’s overuse of the word “Dude”, a host of various Chelsea games from the past and – for a brief moment – Shakespeare.

“Two nil or not two-nil, that is the question.”

All of the NY guests were over for just this one game – a fine effort! Linda’s one previous game at The Bridge was the Wigan 8-0 game last May. I probably said something like “you lucky so-and-so.” Glenn and myself spoke about or friendship which goes back to 1977 and John was lapping up our stories from the past. Parky and his Famous Crutches appeared on the scene and I feared for the two girls who were in our little group. He didn’t disappoint –

“I’m Parky – kiss, kiss.”

As we left, I realised that the rain had stopped and the sun was trying hard to break through. I walked down to the ground with Daryl and we spoke about Bobby Tambling, who scored some 52 more goals than Ossie, but is not well known outside the Chelsea support. He was a fine player in his own right. But it just goes to show how highly Peter Osgood was regarded by us all that Ossie was “the star of that great team,” as the song goes, by quite some margin.

There were a couple of articles about Peter Osgood’s involvement in Chelsea vs. Arsenal games in the match programme, but the game I always remember was the 1973 F.A. Cup quarter-final between the two teams. This is the very first game that I can remember being excited about before it took place. I was seven…my friend Andy Cox ( who I bumped into last week, the first time since about 1992 ) was an Arsenal fan and I was Chelsea. Not sure about the quantity nor quality of the banter in the week before, but I can remember that Arsenal went 1-0 and 2-1 up, only for Hollins ( I think ) and Peter Osgood to equalise. It ended 2-2 and I well remember watching the highlights on TV that evening. Then, on the following Wednesday, I can remember being allowed to stay up to watch the BBC News at 9pm to see brief glimpses of the replay at Highbury. We lost 2-1 and I was heartbroken. But Ossie had the last laugh. On Cup Final day ( when Sunderland beat Leeds United 1-0 ), I can vividly remember that Peter Osgood’s volley at The Bridge was voted “Goal Of The Season.” And there he was – my hero – standing in the TV studio amidst a massive pile of envelopes and postcards with the correct answer and it was Ossie’s job to pick a winner.

I got to hear my hero speak – this was all too much!

We love you Ossie.

There was the usual scrum to get in to the Matthew Harding, but I reached my seat just as the teams came onto the well-watered pitch. Alan and myself quickly scrambled down to the front of the upper tier and held by hand-made Peter Osgood banner aloft for a minute or two. I was hoping that Sky might spot it, but I think it went unnoticed. The US guests were huddled together in the Shed Lower, by the SW corner flag and Mike soon texted me to say he had snapped the banner as it was held aloft.

We weren’t sure if Zhirkov or Ramires would complete the midfield, but Carlo Ancelotti chose the latter. I noted just two Arsenal flags – pathetic.

Within thirty seconds, a Chamakh header flew at Cech’s goal and, from the resultant corner, another header was put over the bar. This seemed to set the tone for the early exchanges. Arsenal – as they do – moved the ball around at will and we seemed to be content to give them space. An Arshavin screamer was saved by Cech, at full stretch, but Arsenal were generally reluctant to shoot. A Nasri shot went narrowly wide, but Cech was largely untroubled.

Didier bore down on the Arsenal goal in the inside-right channel on 34 minutes, but could only force a save at the near post. However, we were getting in to the game and five minutes later, Ramires won a tackle, then slid in Ashley Cole with a perfect pass behind the full back. In front of the Arsenal support, Ashley slid a ball in. Didier arrived and I’ll be honest – I didn’t know how he did it, but I soon saw the ball nestling inside the far post.

We erupted – and I immediately thought of our trans-Atlantic guests being able to see the players celebrate right down in the SW corner.

With the news that Blackpool had won at fellow relegation strugglers Liverpool, the place was buoyant at the break. Lynn and Darren Osgood came on to the pitch to a warm reception and then Neil Barnett walked Erland “Moon Man” Johnsen around the pitch to an equally fine show of affection.

It was more of the same in the second period. Lots of Arsenal possession and mounting nervousness all around me. Arsenal were again goal-shy though and it was Chelsea who managed to carve out the more clear cut chances. Ramires was growing with each passing minute, but Mikel and Essien were the real stars in my eyes. The destructor Mikel, so strong and determined and looking more and more settled in our midfield. The rampaging Essien, no tackle too hard, no challenge too tough, no foraging run too difficult. Ramires set Didier Drogba off with the ball of the game, a delightfully paced pass using the outside of his foot, curving beautifully into Drogba’s run on the left.

Anelka sensed frailty in the centre of the Arsenal defence and pestered the defender into losing the ball. He calmly approached Fabianski, rounded him but then inexplicably hit the side netting. Anelka then lofted the ball into the path of Cole, but his shot into the net was ruled offside. It looked level in our eyes, but maybe we are biased. Chamakh had another clear header, but headed over.

Then, a free kick about thirty yards out. Drogba had taken a few free-kicks during the game, to no avail. The crowd were again bellowing for Alex. I pulled my camera up to my eyes and focussed on the ball. I widened the lens a little to spot Alex’ advance and waited.

A blur of blue – snap! – and I pulled the camera away from my eyes.

The ball flew.

It was a bludgeoning hammer, a swerving thunderbolt, a screaming torpedo. I gasped at its ferocity and, as the back of the net bulged, Stamford Bridge roared like hardly ever before.

A roar from me too, then I honed in on Alex on his run towards the West Lower.

Snap, snap, snap, snap. The look on John Terry’s face as he jumped on top of the huddle of players was really fantastic…one of absolute pleasure. I looked up and the Arsenal fans were leaving and it was another beautiful sight. The Chelsea fans, I felt, had been too nervous to fully get behind the team in the way I would have liked, but we soon made up for it. With the Arsenal support speeding for the exits we bellowed –

“One Team In London, There’s Only One Team In London – One Team In London, There’s Only One Team In London.”

I’m sure you all heard us.

We even had time for a few more good goalscoring chances in the dieing embers of the game, but 2-0 would be enough. What a fantastic result.

As we drifted past the Peter Osgood statue, the fans serenaded him once more and a Chelsea tradition was surely borne there and then. After every game – win, lose or draw – let’s do the same.

We sat in traffic for ages and ages, listening to the moaning Gooners on “606” – but we could almost share their frustration. They do play some good stuff, up until the penalty box, but they desperately need a 25-goal per season striker. They miss Thierry Henry and the current team is a pale shadow of the 2003-2004 team. Why Wenger doesn’t spend is a real mystery and I can sense that the Arsenal fans are losing their patience. The three of us, maybe typically underestimating our performance, had recognised Arsenal’s superior possession and were pleasantly surprised by the radio commentator’s praise of both our strength and Arsenal’s weaknesses.

Parky made a comment that we had “chiselled out a win” and I think this was a fine summation. We had defended deep, content with our defensive abilities – JT’s positioning was superb all game – and were far more direct when we attacked. With that, Parky slumped and fell asleep, his exertions taking its toll. Glenn soon joined him, leaving me to steer the ship home.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

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