Tales From Fool’s Gold

Posted on April 2, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 April 2023.

April Fools Day In Fulham

There are three games to detail in this edition; two from 1983 and one from forty years later. Let’s do things chronologically.

On Saturday 19 March 1983, Chelsea played a London Derby against Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park. With Chelsea eager to pick up as many points as possible from the remaining games of the Second Division season to stave off relegation to the Third Division we could only eke out a 0-0 draw.

The Palace team included on-loan full-back Gary Locke who had played over three-hundred games for Chelsea after his debut in 1972. Locke played more games for Chelsea than Gianfranco Zola, Graeme Le Saux, David Webb, Micky Droy and Gary Cahill, but I fully expect there are folk reading this who have never heard of him. I guess this is normal, if not a little sad. I spoke with Bill from Toronto before the Everton game about this. He confirmed that many of the newer Chelsea supporters that he encounters simply have no care in the world to learn about parts of our history.

Gary Locke played in the very first Chelsea game that I ever saw in March 1974 and his performance is the only one that I can honestly remember much about; in the second-half he was playing right in front of me in the West Stand Benches and I recollect a succession of well-timed sliding tackles to thwart Newcastle United’s attacks down their flank.

Also playing for Palace was Jerry Murphy, who would make a move in the opposite direction in 1985. I was getting good at the “guess the gate” sideshow. I predicted 14,000. It was actually 13,427.

A week later, on Saturday 26 March 1983, Chelsea played Barnsley who were managed by the former Leeds United defender Norman Hunter. In the “Forward Line” section – it took the place of “The Talk Of Stamford Bridge” for programme aficionados – there was a desire for the club to finish in a better final placing than the twelfth spot of 1982. The club was currently in thirteenth place, but just six points above a relegation spot. There was news that our star player Mike Fillery was seeking a move to a team in the top flight and was therefore recently placed on the transfer list.

In the 1981/82 and 1982/83 seasons I subscribed to the home programmes and I eagerly awaited their arrival right after games. These days we are bombarded with official club information via the internet and endless social media offerings. In those days, the programme was everything. It was our only link to the club. I devoured those small match day magazines with an absolute passion.

In the Barnsley edition, there is a two-page spread featuring Paul Canoville who had recently scored two against Carlisle United. Needless to say, these were the first goals scored by a black player for Chelsea. Until then, Canners was our only black player. Sadly, the letters page contained two pieces from supporters complaining about racist abuse aimed towards Canoville at recent games.

On this day, Barnsley went in 1-0 up at the break and went on to win 3-0. My diary doesn’t detail any great shock nor surprise at this reverse. The gate was just 7,223. It was getting easy, so easy, to guess our home attendances. The most recent five home fixtures produced depressing figures.

Cambridge United : 7,808

Derby County : 8,661

Blackburn Rovers : 6.982

Carlisle United : 6,677

Barnsley : 7,223

Our substitute was debutant Keith Jones who replaced Clive Walker. Not only was Jones our second -ever black player, but he was the first player to reach the Chelsea first team who was actually younger than me. He was born on 14 October 1965, three months after me.

I was seventeen, coming up to eighteen in July. I remember that this game provided a particularly sobering moment for me; that someone younger than me was now playing for my beloved Chelsea. I found it hard to cope with the thought that I would be supporting and cheering on a lad who was younger than me.

At that moment, I may well have uttered my first-ever Chelsea “fackinell.”

As an aside, I had played football for my school teams from 1976 to 1982, but had drifted away from playing in 1982/83. There may have been occasional games within the school, but I think my competitive football came to an end in 1981/82. Regardless, the presence of Keith Jones in the Chelsea team had undoubtedly meant that I had missed the boat to become a professional footballer or a footballer of any standing whatsoever. That a lad younger than me was infinitely better than me at the tender age of seventeen had left me somewhat deflated. I still find it hard to forgive him.

Forty years later, our underwhelming season was starting up again after a fortnight break with another 5.30pm kick off at Stamford Bridge.

Aston Villa, who have won only twice in twenty years at Stamford Bridge, were to be the visitors.

There was no great sense of enthusiastic anticipation as I made my way up to London in the morning. The driving was tough going – “hello rain, hello spray” – but I made good time and dropped PD and Parky outside “The Eight Bells” at around 11.45am. All of us were not expecting much of a spectacle. In fact, the mood was pretty sombre. Sigh.

“Just can’t see us scoring” was a familiar lament as the day developed.

I was parked up on Bramber Road at around midday and the first three hours of my day at Chelsea would be spent meeting up with friends from Edinburgh, New Orleans and Dallas. But first, I wanted to involve my third passenger in a photo that I had been planning in my head for a month or so.

I have written about the Clem Attlee Estate before and how it has undoubtedly housed thousands of local Chelsea fans since its inception in the late ‘fifties. The tower block that overlooks the Lillee Road, consisting of three wings, dominates the first few minutes of my walk down to Stamford Bridge. I’ve taken a few photos of it in the past. On this occasion I wanted to pay homage to our gritty past and so I arranged for Ron Harris to stand in front of two of the building’s wings.

I hope you like it.

For the next few hours, I chatted with some pals.

First up, Rich from Edinburgh, visiting Chelsea again, this time with his uncle’s son Matt, on an extended holiday from his home in Perth in Western Australia.

A few former players were milling around.

There were plenty of laughs as Bobby Tambling told a lovely story about Terry Venables scaring Eddie McCreadie to death at a hotel in the Black Forest while on tour in West Germany. McCreadie was apparently scared of ghosts, so Venables borrowed a pair of Bobby’s black pyjamas and hung them outside McCreadie’s window as a storm was raging outside. A window was rattled, and McCreadie pulled the curtains back and screamed in horror much to the amusement of those in adjacent rooms.

Next up, Jonathan from Dallas, a chap that I was meeting for the first time, but who has been reading these ramblings for a while, and whose daughter was to be one of the team of mascots for the day’s game. The wait was long; eleven years. Initially his son was on the list, but COVID got in the way of his turn and was now, sadly, too old for mascot duties. The baton was therefore passed to his sister. I enjoyed chatting with Jonathan about a few topics. We briefly touched on the recent rumours, unproven, about Chelsea re-igniting the option of moving to Earls Court. Although a stadium upgrade is likely, and needed if I am honest, I’d prefer the current regime to sort the bloody team out first.

Lastly, my good friend Stephen – visiting from New Orleans with his wife Elicia and her friend Makeda – arrived at about 1pm and I handed over tickets that I had been keeping warm. I last saw Stephen in his home town of Belfast ahead of the Super Cup game. It would be Madeka’s first-ever Chelsea game.

As ever, Ron gave the same welcome that he gives to all Chelsea virgins : “if we lose, you’re not coming back.”

It was a pleasure for me to have the briefest chats with Ken Monkou. I first saw him play in August 1989. He would go on to become our player of the year that season.

At about 2.30pm, I sped off down to Putney Bridge tube to meet up with the lads – and lasses – again. There was subdued talk of the game. Bill from Toronto was back for another match, this time with his wife Beth Ann, her first one too.

I chatted mainly to Andy and Sophie. We centred on the current state of affairs at Chelsea, but also yakked about Vincent Van Gogh, my relatives’ migration to Philadelphia in the nineteenth century, visiting Canada and our combined love of Bournemouth. It’s not all about football.

Despite the desperate state of our play at the moment, I loved Sophie’s reaction to the news that she had been sorted with an Arsenal ticket. It is surely a mess of a club right now, but nothing beats going to a game. She punched the air and smiled wide.

I had earlier said to Andy that “I can’t understand people who say they want the season to end. I bloody don’t. It’s what I live for, this.”

Andy was surprisingly upbeat. Sophie and I questioned his sanity.

There were a few Villa fans on the tube back to Fulham Broadway. They were full of song and were singing praises of Unai Emery and John McGinn on the train and as they alighted at our destination. I inwardly sniggered. Well, you would wouldn’t you?

I was in at 5pm. The troops slowly appeared. My chat with Oxford Frank was predictably down beat.

“Just can’t see us scoring.”

The team?

Don’t ask.

Kepa

James – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Enzo – Chilwell

Felix – Havertz – Mudryk

The appearance of not only Reece James but Marc Cucarella in a back three while both Benoit Badiashile and Trevoh Chalobah were on the bench was unfathomable. This forced Ruben Loftus-Cheek as a far from convincing right wing-back on us yet again. Oh my life. I was hoping for a better performance from Mykhailo Mudryk in this game than in recent others. I wanted to see more of the Anfield Mudryk than the post-Anfield Mudryk. At least Enzo and Felix, two bright points surely, were playing. I prepared myself to be frustrated by Kai bloody Havertz yet again.

Before the teams appeared, a brief chat pitchside with John Terry and Roberto di Matteo, chatting about a “Legends” match versus Bayern Munich to raise money for the Royal Marsden Hospital, where Gianluca Vialli received treatment in his battle against cancer. John Terry joked he would play in his full kit.

There was a decent crowd; less empty seats than against Everton a fortnight earlier. Of course Villa had the standard three thousand. I was eerily aware that this was all happening on April Fools’ Day. I wondered what sort of headlines were waiting to be written. Our last game on this day of the year was the achingly depressing defeat to Tottenham in 2018.

The game began.

We were back to normal, attacking The Shed in the first-half. Without knowing it at the time, a wild effort from Mateo Kovacic after just two minutes set the tone for the rest of the evening. I can barely remember a shot from relatively close to goal that ended up so high in the upper tier. Soon after a shot from Mudruk inside the box was blocked by Emiliano Martinez. We were dominating the early exchanges but with some irritating early evidence that things might not go our way. Kai Havertz took an extra touch inside the box, as he often does, and invited an easy block. There was a scissor kick from Kovacic, similar to his fine goal against Liverpool last season, but on this occasion the effort almost went out for a throw-in.

Off the pitch, this game began quietly and continued the same way.

On the quarter of an hour, Ollie Watkins slid a shot wide in the visitors’ first attack. Just after, John McGinn slammed a shot from outside the box that hit the bar. A minute later, a ball was lofted towards Watkins, but two Chelsea defenders were drawn to the ball. It was my opinion that Kalidou Koulibaly, seeing the whole of the play, should have shouted down Marc Cucarella’s hurried chase to head the ball. Instead, the Spaniard’s touch just set the ball up nicely for Watkins, who had run from deep, to lob Kepa.

A voice nearby blamed Kepa, but it was hardly his fault.

So here we were again, dominating possession, finding it hard to finish, and a goal down.

The rest of the half continued in much the same way. If I am honest, our approach play was quite decent at times. Two players took my eyes as always; Enzo showed an eagerness on the ball and an ability to spray passes into space. And Felix exhibited fine skill at times, his happy feet taking him away from markers in tight areas. On the flanks, there were two different stories. Although he was away in the distance, Ben Chilwell looked to be doing all the right things at the right times, yet Ruben Loftus-Cheek forever looked a square peg in a round hole. His inability to cross the ball was annoying everyone.

The chances mounted up. The fleet-footed Felix forced a save. Then there was a lofted ball to Havertz that he chested down and volleyed, but the shot was straight at the ‘keeper. After a fine pass from Kovacic, a weak shot from the disappointing Mudryk. Loftus-Cheek continued to frustrate on his unconvincing forays down our right. He kept doing the simple things badly.

With half-an-hour played, Stamford Bridge was yet to warm up. I hadn’t joined in with a single song, nor had the majority of others.

We were ghosts again.

Kovacic as playmaker once more, this time a fine lofted ball towards Chilwell who advanced inside the box but slammed an effort against the woodwork. Half-chances came and went as the first-half continued. Chelsea’s approach play continued to hit some nice notes but we had no hint of a cutting edge.

Another Havertz effort was saved by Martinez. Late on, a dink into space from Enzo – becoming his trademark – set up Chilwell to head the ball in.

YES!

Sadly, our joy was short-lived when a tug on Ashley Young – who used to be a footballer – had been spotted.

There were muted boos at the end of the first period.

That a dirge from the hum drum Coldplay was aired at half-time just about summed it all up.

Our finishing had certainly been lukewarm.

I was waiting for a freshen-up – the footballing equivalent of a wet wipe to tidy up our grubby finishing – in the form of substitutions at half-time but there was nothing.

Attacking our end, the Matthew Harding, I was to appreciate the fine play of Chilwell at closer quarters. Soon into the half, he turned beautifully but shot weakly.

Just after, the Matthew Harding woke up, and me too.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I am ashamed to admit that this must be the latest in a game that I have ever got involved.

Fackinell.

On fifty-six minutes, we failed to clear a corner and the ball was worked back to the onrushing McGinn, galloping in at pace. I caught his shot, sadly, on film. It flew into the net, with Kepa well beaten. This was only their fourth or fifth effort on goal yet they were 2-0 up.

Another “fackinell.”

And I was mocking their “we’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn” chant at the tube station.

More fool me.

With that, at last some substitutions.

N’Golo Kante for Loftus-Cheek.

Noni Madueke for Mudryk.

“Off you go, Ruben.”

But, but, but…what of the shape now?

Madueke at wing-back, Reece still inside, but Kante appeared to be playing off Havertz and alongside Felix in a front three.

Oh my fucking N’God.

Our play actually deteriorated.

Madueke cut inside but curled one over. Kante shimmied nicely but pushed a low drive wide. This was desperate stuff. The mood inside Stamford Bridge was horrible. It wasn’t top level toxicity, but the natives were not happy.

Our play and chances continued to frustrate us.

“You don’t know what you’re doing” rung out.

It got worse.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

I thought to myself…”why wait until then?”

And I was only half-joking.

Two more substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Christian Pulisic for Cucarella.

In the last few minutes, the setting sun behind the West Stand produced a ridiculously warm glow to the metalwork on top of the towering East Stand and the bricks of the hotel and flats behind the Shed End. It gave the whole place a strange feel, almost ethereal.

Fool’s Gold anyone?

At the end of the match, the boos descended down from those who were still in their seats. Many had left.

I met up with Elicia and Madeka underneath Peter Osgood’s boots and put the borrowed season tickets safely away.

“Sorry that we lost. Sorry it was so quiet.”

“Oh my. There were some angry people near us.”

“I can imagine. I bet you heard some bad words, right.”

“We did.”

It was a grim walk back to the car.

Surely there are not many Chelsea supporters left who would be saddened if Chelsea pulled the plug on Graham Potter?

Next up, a terrifying game with Liverpool at home.

See you there.

Heroes And Villains

Tales From The Villa And The Vine

Posted on October 17, 2022 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 16 October 2022.

It was a relatively late start for me. The 8am alarm sounded and I then collected the Gruesome Twosome by 9.30am. All three of us had chosen black tops – Fred Perry, Ben Sherman, Robe di Kappa – and as we stopped in Melksham for the first McBreakfast for absolutely ages we looked like the senior members of some “ultra” battalion.

Kinda.

Milan was still dominating my thoughts when I woke and over the first hour or so of the journey up to Birmingham. This is often the case, eh? The thrill of a European trip is difficult to forget easily. I soon told PD “I will be honest; I am trying my best but I am finding it hard to get up for this game. It’s a bloody good job I am not playing.”

I stopped for a coffee at Frankley Services on the M5 and I was soon turning off at West Bromwich.

To my right, the angled floodlights at The Hawthorns were easily spotted – “one of only three grounds where Chelsea have won the league, lads” – and the sighting of the stadium from half-a-mile away brought back immediate memories of Milan. On the elevated A4, approaching the end of our journey last Tuesday morning, I was keeping my eye out for the San Siro roof which I knew was a few miles to my right, to the south. Lo and behold, despite the grey and hazy view, I found it relatively easy to catch the ridiculously huge roof beams appearing in a void between some rooftops.

My heart jumped in Milan. But my heart jumped in West Bromwich too as I quickly remembered one of the finest nights of recent memory.

I dropped the lads off about a five-minute walk from the away turnstiles at Villa Park but then turned around and drove three-quarters of a mile north to my usual parking spot for Villa at Perry Barr. On the mile-long walk south, I noted that the horrible walkway – an underpass and a footbridge over the busy A34 – was no more, thus cutting a few valuable minutes off my approach to Villa Park. “The Crown & Cushion”, where we enjoyed a very boozy pre-match before the 2002 FA Cup semi-final, had been razed to the ground a few years back.

There were no real pre-game plans on this occasion. There aren’t too many pubs to the north of Villa Park and beers aren’t served in the away end.

This always was going to be a quick smash and grab raid against Aston Villa.

There is red brick everywhere on the way to the stadium. The terraced houses on Willmore Road where I parked for maybe the tenth time in a row, Perry Barr Methodist Church, the houses on Aston Lane, the Aston pub, the old tramway building and then of course the surrounds of Villa Park itself. Alas, the old Trinity Road stand with ornate gables was demolished in around 2000, but its design features are mirrored in the huge Holte End at the southern side of Villa Park. These days the only terrace in town is the steps which lead up from Witton Lane to the base of the Holte End. These steps are speckled with deep claret railings. Squint and it almost feels like an old-style football terrace.

I needed to wait a while to pass over a spare ticket.

I made it in at 2.02pm.

Phew.

The sun was beating down. My God it was hot. My choice of a black wool pullover seemed rather ridiculous. I sidled in alongside Gal, John and Parksorius.

The team? I tried to work it all out. With Reece James out, we wondered who Graham Potter would play at right wing-back if he decided to choose that system. We wondered about Ruben Loftus-Cheek. As I peered out into the bright sun, I attempted to piece it all together.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Cucarella

Sterling – Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Chilwell

Havertz – Mount

Aubameyang

I think.

Before I had time to ponder it all, Tyrone Mings headed a cross from Ben Chilwell up rather than away, and Mason Mount, lurking centrally, was able to pounce. He adroitly touched the ball past Emilio Martinez. Luckily enough, my camera captured it all.

Aston Villa 0 Chelsea 1.

A dream start, eh?

I looked around at Villa Park. It is a really fine stadium. It has been modernised but it still feels like an old ground because the four stands are reasonably different. The oldest current stand at the north end of the ground may not last too long though. There are plans to bulldoze it and build afresh with an even larger two-tiered structure in its place. An acquaintance, who lives nearby, had evidentially been invited in for a hospitality gig in the North Stand. He sent over a ‘photo of former Villa players Tony Morley and Kenny Swain who were in one of the lounges and were now hosting some guests. These two players had taken part in Villa’s European Cup triumph against Bayern Munich in 1982.

Ah that year again.

On Saturday 16 October 1982 – forty-years ago to the very day – Chelsea lost 0-3 at Ewood Park against Blackburn Rovers. The gate was a paltry 6,062. It was that bad that Alan Mayes made his first appearance of the season.

There is no punchline.

I was really happy with our start. In addition to the early goal, we were moving the ball well and the whole approach to attacking seemed to hark back to a more free-spirited time. We were looking to attack in a variety of ways.

Long and short. Over the top. Sideways into space.

And despite my ambivalence on the way up, I was absolutely enjoying this game. I was on it and hopefully not likely to fall off.

But then, imperceptibly, the home team grew into the game and for the rest of the first-half we were second best. There were defensive errors – Cucarella was the main culprit but even Silva on occasion – as Villa ran at our retreating backline.

A cross from the Villa left resulted in a melee at the back post. A header crashed against the top of the bar.

Kepa had already been involved before we were treated to three magnificent saves during the same move as Villa peppered our goal. The second one, especially – down low – was magnificent. The third save, in the end, did not matter as an offside flag was raised.

Regardless, our ‘keeper was cheered loudly by the Chelsea contingent.

“He’s magic, you know.”

An errant pass from the poor Aubameyang let in Danny Ings. Kepa was equal to a strong shot, pushing it away for a corner.

The best was yet to come. On the half-hour, Ings headed at goal from close in and I absolutely expected a goal, the equaliser. From right underneath the cross-bar, the Spanish ‘keeper managed to claw it out. I always cite a Carlo Cudicini save at Tottenham as the best save that I have ever seen by a Chelsea ‘keeper but this might well have beaten it.

I was in absolute awe.

“He’s better than fuckin’ Thibaut.”

We had spotted that Loftus-Cheek was now asked to deploy the right wing-back berth with Sterling further forward. Mount withdrew deeper. Both players then initiated a fine move, our first for a while. Loftus-Cheek strode out of defence and passed to Mount. The ball was moved on. A strong run from the previously quiet Kai Havertz was followed by a pass to Raheem Sterling.

“Curl the fucker.”

Curl it he did, but the ball smacked the bar.

Ugh.

At the break, we all knew that we had rodden our luck.

“Getting roasted here Gal. On and off the pitch.”

Potter reacted with some substitutions.

Kalidou Koulibaly for the battle-weary Cucarella.

Dave for the weak Havertz.

The team was re-jigged.

We were soon treated to a John Terry-style chest pass from the current “shirt 26 wearer” Koulibaly. I am sure that I wasn’t the only one who noticed JT’s trademark resurfacing.

The Chelsea crowd were giving the Villa manager some Ba-llistic pain with a certain song from 2014 being repeated again and again. This was followed up with a chant that was also aired in Milan last week.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

Now, I can concede that Internazionale might well have a claim to “own” the Italian city. But I wasn’t having Birmingham City being the top dogs in our Second City.

I turned to Gal : “Maybe they are including West Brom too, a joint bid.”

Chances were shared at each end.

Further changes ensued.

Conor Gallagher for a quiet Aubameyang.

Jorginho for Kovacic,

“Kovacic has run about today but he hasn’t done too much, Gal.”

On sixty-six minutes, a run into space by Mount resulted in a foul by Mings the merciless.

“I fancy this, Gal.”

Mount sized it all up. His dipping free-kick was perfection personified.

Goal.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Aston Villa 0 Chelsea 2.

Phew.

Steven Gerrard was again getting it in the neck.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning…”

On the right wing, down below us, Gallagher mirrored the current government with a quick U-turn to free himself of his marker. A fine searching cross found the head of Sterling but his downward header bounced past the near post.

In the last minute, one last sub.

Armando Broja for Sterling.

I fancied us to score another to rub salt in the wound, but it stayed at two.

Phew.

I’ll say it again.

Phew.

“That’s five wins in a row now, John.”

“Four clean sheets too.”

“Unbeaten in six.”

“Off to a great start, Potter, eh?”

Mason Mount, with his first two goals of the season, took the eye, but Kepa – surely – was our star man. Without him, we could have been 3-1 down at the break. Conor Gallagher injected some energy and movement when he came on. Thiago Silva was excellent. Kalidou Koulibaly looked like the footballer that we thought we had purchased rather than a mistake waiting to happen. I liked Ruben Loftus-Cheek too; steady, though I am not sure that when he runs with the ball he is deceptively fast or deceptively slow. The negatives were Cucarella, Havertz and Aubameyang.

On the walk back to the car, PD mentioned the now missing underpass by the A34 as being the location of an almighty ambush by some Villa lads after the mad 2-2 draw on the last day of the season in 1990/91.

As is so often the case, we called in at “The Vine” at West Bromwich for an early-evening curry. PD enjoyed his Lamb Madras. Parky and I had the same dish, Manchurian Chicken. All very tasty, all immediately served within five minutes of ordering. I was just surprised that Michelle, Dane and Frances didn’t show up.

Please come back into the top flight West Brom so we have another excuse to stop off.

It was a decent drive home.

I was back inside at about 8pm.

Next up, our sixth game of nine in October is on Wednesday at Brentford.

I will see some of the lucky ones there.

Outside

Inside

Tales From Boxing Day 1996 And Boxing Day 2021

Posted on December 30, 2021 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 26 December 2021.

We don’t always play on Boxing Day, but when we do it’s usually at Stamford Bridge. However, for once this was going to be a rare trip to the Midlands for this particular festive fixture and that suited me. Sometimes Boxing Day fixtures at Stamford Bridge, especially the dreaded early kick-offs, can be eerily quiet affairs.

Back when I was younger, attending Boxing Day football was fraught with logistical problems. I didn’t see my first Boxing Day Chelsea game until as late as 1992 when, at last with a car to drive, I made my way up from deepest Somerset to see us play Southampton at home.

Since then, I haven’t attended every Boxing Day game; most but not all.

However, the game at Villa Park on Boxing Day 2021 would only be the fourth away game out of twenty Boxing Day fixtures that I would have watched. The league computer certainly favours us to play at Stamford Bridge on this most traditional of footballing days. We missed out on an away game at Arsenal last year; and that was probably just as well.

I set off at around 9.15am but instead of heading off to collect PD, Glenn and Parky, I was headed due south for half an hour to collect Donna in Wincanton, a town in Somerset that I rarely visit. I fuelled up, then drove through Bruton and I soon realised that unless we play Yeovil Town in the FA Cup it’s unlikely that I would ever take this road to see Chelsea ever again. It was mightily heavy with fog as I crept past the Wincanton Race Course, opening up for its annual Boxing Day Meet. I collected Donna at 10am, then made a bee-line for Frome. I’ve known Donna for a while – I spent some time with her and some other friends in Porto in May – but even though I had seen her at various Chelsea games over the past ten years or so, I only found out from Parky that Wincanton was her home relatively recently.

Donna’s first ever Chelsea game was a pre-season fixture against Bristol City in 1995 just after Ruud Gullit signed for us. I remember that I eagerly travelled down to Devon to see us play Torquay United and Plymouth Argyle during the week before the game in Bristol on the Sunday. Supporters of our club that were not around in the summer of 1995 will, I think, struggle to comprehend the excitement that surrounded the Gullit signing. It absolutely thrilled us all. We both remembered it as a swelteringly hot day – we drew 1-1 – and Donna reminded me that for a long period during the pre-match “kick in”, our new Dutch superstar wandered around the pitch talking on his mobile phone. It just felt that only he would ever be allowed such a privilege.

Twenty-six years ago and a Chelsea pre-season tour in the West of England.

I can’t see that ever happening again, eh?

The first Chelsea away game that I attended on a Boxing Day was at Villa Park too; in 1996/97, a nice 2-0 win, two goals from Gianfranco Zola , and I even won some money on him as the first scorer. Our lovely “1997 FA Cup Final” season was just gaining momentum and times were good, now with a team including Gianluca Vialli, Gianfranco Zola and with Ruud Gullit now as the player-manager. The greatest of times? It absolutely felt like it.

Only the previous April we had assembled at Villa Park for an ultimately agonising FA Cup semi-final with Manchester United; the memory of walking back to my parking spot amidst a sea of United fans haunts me to this day.

But Boxing Day 1996 was a cracking day out; twenty-five years ago to the day. Blimey. File under “where does the time go?” alongside many other games.

I collected the remaining passengers and we were on our way. There was fog, but not as heavy as on the trip up the same M5 to Wolverhampton a week earlier. I made good time and I pulled into the car park of “The Vine”, tucked under the M5 at West Bromwich, for the second time in a week at bang on 1pm. We had enjoyed our meal there so much after the Wolves game that we had decided to do so again.

“The Vine” – good food, a quiet chat, a few drinks – would do for us.

Curries and pints were ordered. Chelsea tales were remembered. Three hours flew past. A trip to Villa Park was long overdue. It has been a mainstay on our travels for decades, but the last visit was as long ago as April 2016 when Pato scored. We remembered that, ironically, I had plans to take Donna to Villa Park for our game in March 2020 – Donna had broken her wrist and was unable to drive – but of course that game was the first one to be hit by the lockdown of two seasons ago. Like me, Donna kept the tickets for that game on her fridge as a reminder that, hopefully, football would be back in our lives again.

It didn’t take me long to drop my four passengers off near Villa Park before I doubled-back on myself and parked up on the same street that I have been using for years and years. We used to drop into “The Crown And Cushion” pub on the walk to the stadium but that is no more; razed to the ground, only memories remain. We had mobbed up in that very pub for the Fulham semi-final in 2002; there is a photo from that day of a very young-looking Parky and a very young-looking me.

I stood outside the away end, a few “hellos” to some friends. I had a spare ticket but couldn’t shift it. Unperturbed, I made my way inside the Doug Ellis Stand. I was rewarded with a very fine seat; the very front row of the upper deck. Alas, Alan wasn’t able to attend again, but Gary and Parky were alongside me.

I dubbed it the “Waldorf & Statler” balcony.

Villa Park is a large and impressive stadium. I looked around at the familiar-again banners, flags, tiered stands and other architectural features. Was I last here almost six bloody years ago?

Tempus fugit as they say in Sutton Coldfield.

The stadium was full to near capacity. The players appeared from that quaint “off-centre” tunnel that Villa decided to keep as a motif from the old, and much-loved, Trinity Road stand of yore. Chelsea as Borrusia Dortmund again; yellow, black, yellow.

The team?

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger

James – Jorginho – Kante – Alonso

Hudson-Odoi – Pulisic – Mount

We were up against Ings, Mings and otherlings.

Let battle commence.

The first thing of note during the game was the realisation that I had forgotten to include a good four of five songs and chants from the Chelsea catalogue at Brentford on the previous Wednesday. I had mentioned thirty; a few friends had added a few more later, yet I was hearing some others too, repeated in The Midlands. It’s a fair assumption that the tally at Brentford must have reached forty.

I doubt if it has ever been bettered.

On the pitch, there were some early exchanges and Thiago Silva continued his lovely form from the previous Sunday at Wolves. The singing in the two-tiered Doug Ellis quietened down as our play deteriorated a little.

But we were still the loud ones.

“Shall we sing a song for you?” was robustly answered on around twenty minutes by the home fans in the North Stand, which was met with sarcastic clapping from the away section.

No surprises, we were dominating possession but Villa were looking decidedly useful when they countered with pace. A run and strike by Ollie Watkins was ably blocked by the nimble reactions of Trevoh Chalobah, and the away fans applauded.

We were having a little difficulty in building our attacks. Reece James struggled with crosses and gave away the occasional ball. From a wide position on the left, Mason Mount slung in a ball that tickled the crossbar; I am not sure if the attempt on goal was intentional.

Sadly, Villa themselves were breeching us too often for our liking. Just before the half-hour mark, a cross from Matt Targett was flicked on – in an effort to block the cross – by James. The ball spun up and over Mendy’s head and outreached arms. Our goalkeeper was stranded and the ball nestled in the net. Villa probably deserved their lead.

At that time, we were looking a little weak as an attacking threat, with only Kante – “imperious” the bloke next to me called him – living up to his billing. Callum Hudson-Odoi seemed as reticent as ever to take people on and Christian Pulisic just looked lost. Thankfully our response was quick and a little surprising. Marcos Alonso pushed the ball forward and Matty Cash lunged at Callum inside the box. It was an ugly challenge and a clear penalty.

Despite Martinez’ merry dance on the goal line, Jorginho rarely misses and he didn’t this time.

1-1.

Back in the game.

The first-half ended with a period of huff and puff with not much real quality.

At the break, the fifth cavalry appeared on the horizon. Although Chalobah had performed admirably, it was his place that was jeopardised in favour of Romelu Lukaku. Pulisic, out-fought and out-puzzled in a central attacking role “of sorts” was pushed back to right wing-back. Soon after the restart, Silva slowly walked off to be replaced by Andreas Christensen.

There is no doubt at all that the changes resulted in a noticeable improvement in our play, the vast majority of which seemed to take place down below us on our right wing. Pulisic looked a lot more potent and of course it was a huge advantage to have a target, a hit-man, a goal scorer on the pitch.

But there were the usual moans and grumbles when Hudson-Odoi fluffed a goal scoring opportunity in his favoured inside-left channel. However, those chastising our youngster were soon eating humble pie. His perfectly floated cross towards the incredible bulk of Lukaku just outside the six-yard box was nigh-on perfection. Our number nine lept and angled the ball past the Villa ‘keeper.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

Our play improved. We looked more confident, more at ease. There was greater intent.

On the hour, Mateo Kovacic replaced Kante and we hoped our little miracle-worker wasn’t badly hurt.

A fine long ball from Christensen played in Mount. He drew the ‘keeper on an angle but with two team mates in good positions, decided to go for goal. With the ‘keeper having over-run his challenge and in no man’s land, Mount’s effort didn’t hit the target. The ball kissed the side netting.

There were howls from the Chelsea support.

At the other end, a rare Villa attack and – if I am honest – a cumbersome challenge looked a definite penalty but we were saved by an offside flag.

A strong run from Lukaku eventually tee’d up Callum again. But this was followed with a weak finish but also an excellent low save from Martinez.

More howls.

Late, very late, in the game, I was poised with my camera as Lukaku started a chase to reach a ball pumped forward by Hudson-Odoi. I watched through my lens as he quickly made up ground on Targett, and raced past. The defender lost his footing and ended up stumbling around like a newly born fawn. Our striker raced on, seemingly ripping up the turf as he sprinted away. It was simply a glorious sight. It was an instant classic, a reminder of older days when strikers were unshackled and free. He advanced into the box, and I was preparing for a Roy Of The Rovers – or Hotshot Hamish – thunderbolt. Instead, Ezri Konsa took his legs away.

Another penalty.

We waited.

Jorginho again.

Goal.

Phew.

But that run from Lukaku. The highlight of the season? Possibly. More of the same please. The second half had been a fine turnaround. Everyone was happy. I kept saying “round pegs in round holes, square pegs in square holes” as we made our way down the many flights of stairs to street level.

As we all walked back to the car, a group of Chelsea fans were singing in the dark distant night.

“Oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away…”

Boxing Day 1996.

Boxing Day 2021.

Tales From The B Team

Posted on September 24, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 22 September 2021.

This was our – literally, the team’s and my – fourth game out of five in London in just fifteen short days. What with my decision to go to Turin next week, the Aston Villa game in the League Cup (Carabao, my arse) would be the midway point of seven matches in a run of twenty-two days. After that little lot, I’ll need the next International Break.

Unlike the team, I had no alter ego, no reserve, no Chris-Lite, no twelfth man, no substitute to take my place for this game in a competition which was undoubtedly the lowest priority for the team, domestically, this season. What a great trick that would be, eh? To summon up a personal substitute at times during our lives when our full attention can’t be guaranteed.

Listening to a pub bore drone on, attending a dull meeting at work, watching a sub-standard film, watching England play football, listening to Queen. That sort of second-grade activity.

“No Real Chris, today?”

“No, he’s saving himself for the John Cooper-Clarke gig.”

I finished work, at home, bang on 3pm and – as with the game against Zenit last Tuesday – PD was parked on my driveway, with Parky riding shotgun, ready to whisk me away for an evening of football in deepest SW6.

Unlike last week, I grabbed a few minutes’ kip in the back seat as The Mother Road was devoured mile by mile. We were parked up at 5.20pm alongside the pot-infused Normand Park and we were in the first rub-a-dub at 5.30pm. As I walked through The Goose to the waiting beer garden, there seemed to be a discernible case of deja-vu. Both Robin and Russell were sitting at exactly the same places around the same table as last week. This week, though, I just didn’t fancy a beer. In “The Goose” and “Simmons”, I drank diet-Coke and PD, the conscientious driver, just drank water.

“How the mighty hath fallen.”

There was a little Frome / Westbury / Trowbridge / Melksham reunion in the beer garden of “The Goose.” Good to see chat to those lads, friends with each other for decades and decades.

There was also a chat with Kev, Brian, Julie, Tim and Rich in The Bristol Corner. Kev – a very seasoned traveller, he was recently in Vilnius in Lithuania – has been a great help in sorting out my pre-Turin plans and I bought him a pint of Doombar in recompense for his services.

In “Simmons”, a smaller, briefer Chelsea Chicago reunion.

Thankfully, there was no nightmare wait at the turnstiles before this midweek game and I was inside at around 7.30pm ahead of the 7.45pm kick-off.

This would be a nice test for our support. But the club always seems to get the pricing of these League Cup games just right; only £25 for tonight’s game against, almost certainly, the respective B teams of Chelsea and Villa. I was pleasantly surprised with the crowd; not a full house, but pretty damn close. I had noted that Leeds United had visited the borough on the previous night and had packed out the entire end at Craven Cottage; a very respectable 5,000 in the Putney End. And tonight, for the second time in September, Villa had sold their allocation of 3,000 at Stamford Bridge. Well done to them.

I definitely noted a different dynamic among the home support in and around the Matthew Harding, if not all the other areas; a younger support, many more replica shirts than usual, almost a boisterous air. I surmised that, for many, this might well be the first sighting of Chelsea for some time. There is no doubt the cheaper tickets entice a different fan base than the league games – where tickets are scarcer – and the European nights, which seem to entice a more cosmopolitan support. Tonight’s crowd was younger, more local, noisier.

After the sad passing of Jimmy Greaves on Derby Day, it came as no surprise that Chelsea were honouring our greatest ever homegrown goal scorer – Ossie was a creator too, a slightly different breed – and his face appeared on the cover of the programme, and on the TV screens before the match as the players from both teams circled in the centre of the pitch before kick-off.

The applause for Jimmy Greaves was heartfelt.

Tottenham had Greaves, but we had him too. And we had him first. Let’s not forget that.

He was, and is, one of ours.

Bless him.

Time for a quick run through of our team.

“Bloody hell, Kante is playing. What a strong side, so much for a B team.”

Kepa

James – Chalobah – Sarr

Hudson-Odoi – Saul – Loftus-Cheek – Kante – Chilwell

Ziyech – Werner

As the game began, it seemed that Ruben was the rock at the back of a packed midfield with Kante playing surprisingly forward and often wide. But this was a pretty fluid formation. We hoped Saul would enjoy a better game than in his debut against the same team a few weeks ago. In these days of COVID, not so sure Sarr is well-named. I hear we have cooled in our interest in Ronnie Tuberculosis and Tore Andre Flu.

[editor : “for fuck sake”]

For the first quarter of an hour, the game was played out down below me but I was in deep discussion with Alan about the process and protocols of the ball ache that is involved in following Chelsea to Turin. Hopefully, all of the tests and forms will be sorted out and uploaded in the necessary time-frame to enable me to see the team in Italy. At various times since me booking the trip last Friday, I have solidly wondered “is it bloody worth it?” and I am still not convinced.

The game started quietly, and struggled to “get going” throughout the first period. There was gentle sparring in the first twenty minutes, with the two defences only suffering minor tickling. But the home crowd were definitely in good voice and the Matthew Harding, as early as this, had already goaded The Shed, the East and the West to “give us a song”, admittedly with mixed results.

There was some good running from Timo Werner upfront, and we showed patches of good play but as the first-half progressed, it was the visitors who enjoyed most of the goal chances. It was odd to see Kante as an auxiliary winger, especially with Hudson-Odoi, and even Reece James in the line-up.

“Bollocks, let’s play with three right wingers.”

Ruben made some strong advances from deep and the game warmed up slightly. A rare shot on goal from the otherwise quiet Zyech was easily claimed by Steer in the Villa goal. The clearest chance of the first-half fell to Villa. On a break, Archer forced a fine block from Kepa as he was one-on-one with our ‘keeper, and as El Ghazi prodded a rebound towards the goal, Reece James was able to recover and hack the ball away.

I wasn’t sure why the Villa player Buendia was roundly booed each time he came over to take a corner. Any ideas?

A Villa player was substituted by a lad called Chukwuemeka.

Alan : “He gets knocked down, but he gets up again.”

[editor : “I’ll give you that one.”]

At the break, I was just a little underwhelmed by it all.

There was a change for the re-start; a reversal of Tuchel’s decision at Tottenham.

Then, Kante for Mount. Now, Mount for Kante.

We went on the front foot in the second-half.

I soon realised that the Villa left-back, out of sight in the first period, was none other than forty-seven-year-old Ashley Young, back at Villa after his league win with Inter last season. He was only the third Englishman to win the “Scudetto” in Italy; one of the others was Jimmy Greaves, for his truncated role in Milan’s 1960-61 win.

Our Callum began to look a bit lively – “don’t forget the ball mate” – and the atmosphere seemed to improve. There were a few rousing choruses of everyone’s favourite hymns. You can’t beat a bit of community singing on a midweek night in London.

There was a deafening chorus of “Stand Up If You Hate Tottenham.”

Our increase in possession came to fruition on fifty-four minutes. A pinpoint cross from Reece – Al and I had lamented that his crossing hadn’t lived up to the promise that we saw in his first few games for us – picked out Timo Werner who rose with the whole goal in front of him. An emphatic header had Steer well beaten.

He enjoyed that. We enjoyed that.

The TV screen boomed “GOAL.”

We hit a little purple patch and Timo looked as though he wanted to be the recipient of every ball into the box. A shot from Ziyech. A half-chance from Timo.

However, just nine minutes later the game changed.

Just as the Matthew Harding were droning on about “your support is fackin’ shit” – it wasn’t to be fair, for the second time this month the Villa support was solid – the visitors hit a claret patch of their own. After a few fine saves from Kepa, Cash whipped in a long and deep cross that found Archer free at the far post. His header was even better than Timo’s, finding the very top left hand corner of the Shed End goal.

Bollocks.

This was an open game now and chances were exchanged at both ends. Buendia blasted over the bar and with twenty minutes to go, a sublime dribble by Ruben set up Mase with a gilt-edged chance inside the six-yard box. His toe-poke wriggled just wide.

“How the fuck did he miss that, Al?”

More substitutions from Tuchel and the Ross and Romelu show.

Lukaku and Barkley replaced Saul and Ziyech.

Two upfront, bloody lovely.

Dixon and Speedie.

Jimmy and Eidur.

Romelu and Timo? A work in progress.

Shots were powered in on Steer from Mason and a lively Ross. A header down into the ground from the leap of Ruben was our last real chance but it drifted wide.

Thankfully, there was no midweek extra-time, and no late night finish in deepest Somerset.

The game went to penalties.

Villa : El Ghazi – scored.

Chelsea : Lukaku – scored.

Villa : Young – crossbar, missed.

Chelsea : Mount – scored.

Villa : Nakamba – saved.

Chelsea : Barkley – scored.

Villa : Konsa – scored.

Chelsea : Chilwell – crossbar, missed.

Villa : Buendia – scored.

Chelsea : James – scored.

GET IN.

Chelsea edged it 4-3 and we won our second penalty shoot-out of the season.

The second-half, just like at Tottenham on Sunday, was a far more pleasurable forty-five minutes than the first-half. A pretty decent game, a tidy performance, a pleasing atmosphere.

Outside on the Fulham Road, the two sets of fans milled past each other.

“Cheeseburger with onions and chips please.”

On walking back to the car, I heard that we had drawn Southampton.

“Away?”

“No, home.”

“Ugh.”

I fancied a midweek jaunt down to St. Mary’s. Oh well, another League Cup game at home awaits. PD made good time on the drive home and dropped me off, in another mirror image of last week, at 1am. Another win, another decent performance, no injuries. All good.

On Saturday, an early kick-off against Manchester City awaits. You can all start dusting off your Porto songbook now.

See you in the pub.

Tales From The Mother Road

Posted on September 12, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 11 September 2021.

It is a familiar motif from these match reports – I am tempted to say “stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before” – of games from the early part of our campaigns that I usually need a few matches to get back into the swing of things. I was doing fine this season. I was acclimatising reasonably well, I was getting back into live football, the games were seemingly important once again and even my vocal chords were coping. It all felt a little different this season, though. Our forced absence from the game for so long was playing heavily on my mind and I suppose the crux of it concerned my fears that I wouldn’t get the pre-COVID19 buzz back.

But here was a real test. After seeing Chelsea Football Club play just seven times in five-hundred and thirty-eight days (an average of one every seventy-six days), I was now about to embark on a burst of five games in just fifteen days (an average of once every three days for those who failed CSE Maths). This represented, in my mind at least, a test, a litmus test, for my enthusiasm. I certainly hoped that this spell of five games in London would rid me of the considerable disconnect that has hounded me since March 2020.

We all live in a place called hope, right?

I woke again way before the alarm, and gathered my tickets, trinkets, passes and thoughts ahead of the 10.30am departure. A new car, a new Chuckle Bus, was parked on my drive-way and this would be its first journey of note, its maiden voyage with me at the helm and it’s first trip up my version of Route 66 – in fact, Route A303 would be very apt as it arrived with just 303 miles on the clock – to London SW6.

It would be its first trip along the Mother Road.

I collected PD and Parky in good time.

There was talk of these upcoming games (the printing-off of some of the tickets at home was proving to be a far from a straightforward task) and some matches even further out. Just like holidays, I get a great deal of pleasure in planning these games, especially the away games, and these sometimes awkward tasks feed into my Obsessive Chelsea Disorder. Tottenham was almost complete, Brentford was a work in progress, but Newcastle was sorted. More of those three trips later. Turin, Malmo and Saint Petersburg away games were taking a back seat. Not that I would plan on all three anyway, but travel within Europe was so much “up in the air” right now – or not, as the case might be – that I wasn’t wasting energy on plans for those three destinations just yet.

One potential destination that had ruled itself out of my plans was Tokyo. It had recently pulled out of hosting the World Club Championships in December, and I was now hearing that maybe Las Vegas or maybe Qatar would step in like some gallant knight in shining armour. This was met with growls of disapproval from me. I am not a fan of Vegas. And even less of a fan of Qatar. From one extreme from the other. From “anything goes” to “strictly forbidden.”

Such was my feeling of abhorrence when Qatar was handed the 2022 World Cup a few years back, that I made the conscious decision not to watch a single second of the finals on TV. And I just recently decided not to watch any more of the qualifiers too. So, the recent International break absolutely passed me by. I may have lost England forever.

In the circumstances, the lingering presence of Qatar in talk of the World Club Championships focussed my mind further. I would be a hypocrite to avoid Qatar in 2022 as some sort of moral crusade – stop sniggering at the back – and yet blithely sign up to watch Chelsea in Qatar in December. So, let’s see how that all pans out.

No pressure, Vegas.

We only stopped at Fleet Services for a quick pit-stop en route from Somerset to London, but from then on in, we became embroiled in some nasty traffic. It usually takes me three hours from door to door (my door to the door of The Eight Bells in Fulham) but it took me just over four hours on this occasion.

I dropped PD and Parky at West Brompton, then about-turned to park my car just off Lillie Road. Then a quick flit by tube to Putney Bridge. Job done.

I had booked a table for 1.30pm, and the hosts had very kindly kept it for us when we arrived an hour later.

I met up with Mark, from Norwich, and his son Matt. We had been talking during the build up to this game how our first Chelsea match in 1974 was the very same one; Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, 16 March 1974. We are the same age. We both live out of town. A few nice similarities in fact. He is the first Chelsea fan I have ever met whose first match was the same as mine. I was quite thrilled when Mark shared a couple of previously unseen on-line photographs from that day forty-seven years ago. We chatted and reminisced about tons of Chelsea games, especially from the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, and we found ourselves finishing off each other’s sentences on a few occasions as the memories and reference points interweaved and overlapped. That’s always a good sign.

I have to admit to being taken aback on a few occasions during our lovely conversation when I spotted a rather stern looking fellow, with a mop of white hair looking up at me from the other side of the bar.

Oh, it was me in a pub mirror.

The passing of time, and all of its crimes, is making me sad again.

Note to self : must smile more.

Kim, Andy, Dan and the Kent lads arrived and it was the first time that we had seen them since last year. It was superb to spend time together once again; around a dozen of us in our cosy corner of The Eight Bells, all meeting up again, trying our best to prove that football is real life, and not a TV programme. I totally understand that many can’t attend live football due to finance and geography, but it seems that so many these days do not make the effort. Is modern football now a diet of watching games on TV in pubs, streaming at home, fantasy football and betting accumulators?

At Putney Bridge tube station, there were a group of boozy and cheerful Villa fans. One chap, of a certain age, approached me and told me that he liked my yellow Adidas SL76 trainers. Thirty-five years ago, the conversation might well have been different.

“You got too much for us today. Think you’ll beat us 3-0.”

I concurred. It was my prediction too.

At Fulham Broadway tube, the lad at the Krsipy Crème stand spotted my Boca Juniors T-shirt and asked if I was from Argentina.

My colours on this day of football were yellow and blue, in-keeping with the current Chelsea offering, but without me looking too much like a Billy Smart’s Circus reject.

There was further talk of South American football with Clive in The Sleepy Hollow. A few months before my visit to Argentina last year, he had visited Brazil, and had caught an itoxicating Flamengo game at the Maracana. He highly recommended Brazil. The World Club Championships in Brazil has a nice ring to it. Chelsea at the Maracana? Where do I sign up for that beauty?

From 1993 to 2016, my desire to witness new sporting stadia outside of Europe was clearly focussed on North American baseball stadia; twenty-one major league and four minor-league. I have a feeling in the future my focus will now be on South American football.

We had heard that ten-men Tottenham had succumbed to three late goals at Crystal Palace – how we laughed – but a Cristiano Ronaldo brace had helped Manchester United beat Newcastle. All of this fizzled away into insignificance as our collective thoughts focused on the game against Villa.

The sun was out despite some clouds, and the extra hours of drinking meant there was a bubbly atmosphere as kick-off approached.

The teams entered onto the beautiful green lawn. A new Mason Mount flag surfed below me.

I checked the team.

The inclusion of Saul Niguez surprised everyone, possibly none more so than him himself.

It seemed an oddly thrown together team, but one which was representative of the pressures put on members of our squad during the international break. No Mount. No Dave. But an injured Kante too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger

Hudson-Odoi – Kovacic – Niguez – Alonso

Ziyech – Lukaku – Havertz

Romelu Lukaku was to play in his first game as a Chelsea player at Stamford Bridge since a substitute appearance against the same team in August 2013. All the rail-seating was in now. The banners around the pitch lay heavy with the early evening humidity. “The “knee” drew boos but then louder applause. The game began.

A few early Chelsea raids acted as mere foreplay for the full-on end to end session that followed. The game was a cracker. A zipped-in corner on our left from Callum avoided everyone but hit a knee, I think, of a defender and bounced up onto the bar at The Shed End. The first thing of beauty that I noted was a deep and high ball from the cultured boot of Thiago Silva which dropped perfectly and pleasantly at the feet of the advancing Marcos Alonso. People talk of a deep-lying midfielder pinging balls like a quarterback, but here was Silva doing the exact same. It reminded me of Ruud Gullit and then Frank Leboeuf doing similar.

It turned out to be a precursor to an even better ball from Mateo Kovacic. Breaking away in that busy style of his, he spotted the advanced Romelu Lukaku. A magnificently-placed ball, cutting right between two scuttling Villa defenders, and curving and dropping into the exact place that both Kovacic intended and that Lukaku had expected, landed perfectly. Lukaku sized up the options, turned Tuanzebe’s limbs into a pretzel and dispatched a low shot past Steer into the Villa goal.

It is fair to say that The Bridge boomed.

Lukaku raced past Parkyville, and led on the floor, facing the sky.

At last we had a finisher in our midst, not a finisher in the mist, out of sight, lost.

A magnificently noisy and rude “Carefree” enveloped the entire stadium.

Bliss. Absolute bliss.

But Villa, who had already enjoyed a few moves into our half, were not put out and only a sublime save, low and late, from Mendy at his right post from a Watkins drive saved us. Halfway through the first-half, and with Villa vibrant, Saul Niguez surrendered possession and that man Watkins rounded Mendy. A goal looked on the cards, but Silva is an experienced fellow and he nimbly recovered to block the shot admirably.

Our Saul was struggling with the pace and tenacity of the early exchanges.

“Our Saul, you say? More like a fackin’ arsehole. Wake up you caaaaaaaaant.”

I turned to Clive :

“Well, they’ve had their chances.”

This was a good game, possibly a great game. I was involved, and I appreciated the moment. It was an intriguing game of football, but one which was causing Chelsea increasing problems.

On thirty-three minutes, our man Mendy threw himself to save a rocket from Mings, but was able to scramble to his feet to push away the follow-up from Konsa. These saves were simply sublime. They sent me spinning back to Wembley 1973 and the Jim Montgomery double-save.

This was becoming a disconnected and disjointed performance from us with only occasional flourishes. Ziyech was quiet. Saul was getting over run in midfield. There were only flashes from Havertz. Lukaku was hardly fed anything save the pass for the goal.

Callum Hudson-Odoi was again a disappointment. It was as if the well-worn football phrase “flattering to deceive” was invented for him and for him only. On several occasions he was presented with a few one on ones, but inevitably chose a soft option.

I moaned to Clive : “I wasn’t a great winger, but when I received the ball, my one thought was to get past my marker, not look behind me.”

It was Villa who grew in confidence as the first-half progressed and by the time we all reached the interval, there was a mixture of relief and worried expressions in The Sleepy Hollow.

“We should be 3-1 down. Villa must feel robbed.”

Lo and behold, Thomas Tuchel – still without a song, I still feel I don’t know him too well – spotted the obvious and replaced Saul with Jorginho at the break. It would be a move that we all wanted and that would help to solidify our position in the second-half.

Just four minutes into the second period, Lukaku lost possession but then harassed and harried Tuanzebe and the ball was rushed to Mings whose attempted back pass to Steer was ably intercepted by Kovacic. He doesn’t often find himself in such forward positions, but his finish was impeccable. It had something of the Pedro about it; an instinctive and incisive flick past Steer, and in off the far post it went.

GET IN.

Initial thoughts : “bloody hell, Villa must be spitting feathers.”

But the relief was palpable. We were now 2-0 up and able to consolidate things. A Havertz drive slid past the far post. Thankfully, the Villa offensive was not as potent in the second-half.

On fifty-eight minutes, I was poised to clap in memory of the wonderful comedian Sean Lock, a regular at Stamford Bridge for years, who sadly passed away recently. At the start of the dedicated minute, not many joined in, but thankfully at the end the applause was taken up by many. It extended past the minute mark. The Matthew Harding then started our own song of remembrance :

“One Sean Lock, there’s only one Sean Lock.”

Bless him. He was one of my modern day favourite comedians.

The game continued, and thankfully most of the visitors’ shots on goal were tame, and often at Mendy. Our crowd was surprisingly buoyant for a decidedly average performance. But we were leading, and I suppose that helped.

Stating The Bloody Obvious #716.

To be fair to them, the Villa fans were pretty noisy throughout the game, and even though they are not known for being particularly vociferous, I had to admit that I was impressed with their performance. The three thousand strong block virtually stayed en masse, despite the game going against them.

The devilish McGinn was running things for Villa, his spirit and energy mirroring that of our Kovacic. I was really enjoying this battle. As, I think were most. There didn’t seem to be a dull moment. The supporters were enjoying it too, and there was even one rare moment of appreciation of a strong tackle by a Villa player on one of our lot. Is this the new normal? To be fair, this isn’t too uncommon. Great saves by opposition ‘keepers, tackles by opposing players, even the occasional goal against – only as long as we are winning – have been clapped in the past.

On the hour, another change.

Dave for Kai.

Dave to right wing back, Callum to outside left, down in the Hazardous Area below me. Again, he was all flicks but with no real finished product.

“Thing is Clive, he doesn’t have to beat his man over five yards. He has twenty yards to run into. Knock it past him, and kill him for pace.”

The Matthew Harding had twice goaded into getting The Shed to sing in the first half with no response. An attempt to get The Shed involved – this is invariably met with a defiant “Carefree” – again fell on deaf ears. Midway through the second-half, when The Shed did finally get involved, an audible noise able to be heard, the Matthew Harding Lower jumped in.

“We forgot that you were here.”

Not sure what The Shed thought of that, nor ironically if they even heard it.

Former Chelsea player Bertrand Traore was given a nice reception as he came on as a substitute for Ings. A shot of his from distance was deflected narrowly wide.

Alonso had a trademark dig at an angle down below us, but his daisy-cutter fizzed wide.

Villa’s attacks grew weaker and without much intent.

Their fans still sang, but the Liverpool “Allez!Allez! Allez!” needs to be dumped. Sharpish.

Werner, the forgotten man right now, got a late run out, with Tuchel no longer willing to witness the advanced Hudson-Odoi anymore. By now, the game was being played out in a strange murky twilight, the sun long gone, the floodlights on, a hint of autumn in the air.

In the last moments of the game, a typically positive run from Dave down the right was followed by an inch perfect pass into the feet of Lukaku. A slight adjustment, and then –

BAM.

The ball flew past Steer.

Chelsea 3 Aston Villa 0.

Lukaku, attitude and / or arrogance on show, jogged over to our corner, and gave me – and others – a fine photo opportunity. Like the man himself, I don’t miss that easy an open goal.

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

At last, after the stern face, Lukaku smiled.

The ref soon blew up.

This had been a hugely enjoyable game. Villa had certainly surprised me though. Absolutely no way they deserved to lose 3-0. As we left the stadium, I shared these thoughts with PD.

“There must be few occasions over the years where an away team has come here and lost 3-0, yet the Chelsea supporters know deep down that they deserved more.”

The top three performers were undoubtedly Mendy for his excellent saves, Kovacic for his growing command of the midfield, his sublime assist and his beauty of a goal and Lukaku, two shots two goals, Goodnight Vienna.

We met up with Parky back at The Anchor fish bar on Lillee Road.

“Saveloy and chips mate, please, open.”

The drive home was a lot less stressful than the trip to London. It was a blissful trip back to Wiltshire and Somerset. I loved this day out. And I am so pleased to be able to report that I am rapidly getting my appetite for the game back.

Game one of five down, superb, very enjoyable. Zenit on Tuesday, my first European Night at Chelsea since that tough loss to Bayern in 2020. Then Tottenham away – “love it” – and one of the games of any season. Then Villa again in the League Cup (that might be the one that tests me) and lastly a possible season-deciding game against City. I suspect we will give them a few reminders of Porto, don’t you?

Good times. Let them roll. Let the Mother Road lead us back to London time and time again.

See you Tuesday.

Goal One.

Goal Two.

Goal Three.

Tales From Work And Play

Posted on December 5, 2019 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 4 December 2019.

In this edition.

More logistical woes.

More US visitors.

More “Peroni.”

More photographs of goal celebrations.

More “fackinells.”

More “THTCAUNs.”

More “COMLDs.”

Interested?

Read on.

I was in work early, at 6am, as I wanted to cram in as much into the Chelsea segment of my day as possible. I managed to coerce my boss into letting me work a 0600-1400 shift, and it was easily OK’d. I had planned to take two days off work, the Thursday and Friday, and be able to look forward to wonderful visits to my two favourite stadia in England – Stamford Bridge and Goodison Park – with no hindrance of work. But these plans took a battering. We are short-staffed at the moment, and down to the bare minimum. I said I’d work the Friday. No worries. My managers are always very helpful in giving me as much “Chelsea time” as I need.

And I need a lot.

I met up with the other two Chucklers, PD and Parky, and we quickly demolished a meal at a pub in Melksham before PD set off for London at 3pm.

Sadly, the last twenty miles took ages. With rising frustration – PD’s F count reached triple figures as did his C count – we slowly manoeuvered our way into London, through the dismal traffic, and the last two miles took over half-an-hour.

Some friends were waiting on our arrival in The Goose from earlier on in the afternoon.

Cesar, looking to enjoy a different emotion after the disappointment of West Ham, was waiting for us with his wife and children, as was Johnny Twelve Teams – he has more clubs than Tiger Woods – and his wife Jenni. And also waiting for us was Jaro, who – if the loyal readers of this tripe can remember – saw his first ever game with his son Alex around six weeks ago. He had enjoyed it so much – SO MUCH – that he managed to wangle a work trip from his home in Washington DC to his company’s office in Chiswick to tie in with this game against Aston Villa. Over the past few weeks, we have been messaging each other, and trying to sort out the match day plans. He had, intelligently, managed to buy a ticket on the official exchange just a few seats away from us in the Matthew Harding Upper.

My – our – late arrival at 6.30pm was all rather frustrating.

So – yeah – three and a half hours to drive just over a hundred miles.

Fackinell.

There was just time for one pint of “Peroni” but it was magical for Jaro to be able to meet, in person, LP and PD. Jaro is, by some margin, the person who interacts with me most, and has done since 2009, with these reports. He would later tell me that it was like meeting characters from his favourite novel.

“More like a fucking tragedy” I replied.

There was rushed chats with everyone. Not perfect at all. But Jaro announced that Tammy was back.

“Good.”

And we hoped that the return of John Terry would not be too “OTT.” We already had banners and all at his last ever game in 2017 when – remember? – he was carried off the pitch during the game.

Looking back. What were the players thinking?

Fackinell.

Jaro just loved the walk, in the cold winter air, along the Fulham Road. I introduced him to a few friends on the way, and he bought a “CFCUK” to read on the flight home. He would be heading back to DC on Friday. We joked that Jaro needs to work on his managers – “am I needed in the London office again between now and May” – in the same way that I have done with my managers since 2003 (thanks Stu, thanks Clive, thanks Paul, thanks John, thanks Mike, thanks Matt…).

There has to be a balance between work and play, right?

Neither of us could have imagined for one minute that, after his first game against Newcastle United in October he would be back again for his second so quickly.

Good work, Jaro.

As we headed in to the forecourt – my body swerve past the security guards was textbook and saved getting my camera bag checked – Jaro mentioned to me that the black and white photograph that sits on this website reminds him constantly of the Peter Osgood statue, what with my right arm cradling a ball just as Ossie does. I really had not made the connection – unlike me, I thought – but he was right. That I am wearing the same kit – even the hand-sewn “9” on my shorts – makes it even more uncanny.

Inside the stadium, it was a pleasure to welcome Jaro to The Sleepy Hollow where he finally met Alan too.

Lovely stuff.

After the “rent boy” songs by West Ham on Saturday, we now had rainbows around the large CFC crest on the pitch and a rainbow flag in front of the teams as they lined up.

Ah, the teams.

We lined up as below :

Arrizabalaga

James – Christensen – Zouma – Azpilicueta

Kante

Kovacic – Mount

Willian – Abraham – Pulisic

Banners for John Terry were presented in The Shed Upper and the Matthew Harding Lower. But there were no noticeable chants for our returning hero before the game. I took a few early shots of JT and Frank, then concentrated on the action being played out in front of me.

Alan and myself chatted away about all sorts during the first part of the game. Alongside us was Bournemouth Steve, his first game of the season. Jaro was only fifteen feet away. The three thousand Villa fans really were in food voice, and were loudly bellowing “Holte Enders in the skoi.”

There were two Villa flags, one of which was worth repeating.

“You can get another wife. You can’t get another club.”

Five minutes into the game, I received a call from Les who I had seen earlier in The Goose. He was in trouble. He, and a few others, were stuck in the lift which takes supporters up to the MHU. He had already been embroiled in the traffic congestion on the M4, but was still struggling to reach his seat. I alerted the stewards. I hoped to see him soon. He sits in the same general area.

We began well, and drove through the Villa defence. Both wingers were working the space, and crosses reached targets. A Willian blast was kept out by Tom Heaton. A Mason Mount header was straight at the same player. The Villa ‘keeper was in the heat of the action, scooping up another effort. Tammy misfired on a couple of chances. Current media “flavour of the month” Jack Grealish was chosen to be the one player that would infuriate the home supporters.

There had been a couple of “sighters” from Reece James, but on twenty-three minutes his fine cross was inch perfect and Tammy was on hand to steer it past the ‘keeper with a firm header.

Simple.

GET IN.

I felt Tammy’s relief from one hundred yards away.

Lovely.

Was there a moment of doubt, was VAR lurking? We didn’t think so.

Alan : “They’ull ‘ave to cum at uz nowww.”

Chris : “Cum on moi little di’munz.”

However, still no Les.

Fackinell.

I called him to reassure him that an engineer was on his way.

It was all Chelsea, really, but our chances dried up a little.

The atmosphere wasn’t brilliant but was certainly better than against West Ham. There had been a “Double, double, double” chant midway through the half but the home fans had set the right tone I think. It was all quite understated. The last thing I wanted was wall-to-wall John Terry adulation.

Eventually Les arrived.

Phew.

Alan and I spoke about the disbelief of hearing that there was not one Chelsea foul against the previous opponents. In this game, the harrying and tackling was much better. There was more energy. No more so than from Mateo Kovacic, N’Golo Kante and Mason Mount. Top stuff.

A song for Grealish :

“You’re just a shit Mason Mount.”

…mmm, 7/10…needs another syllable slotted in there somewhere.

However, there was a poor back-pass from Reece James (file under Kamikaze Defending Part 413) but we were lucky. Sadly, with the first-half coming to an end, Grealish combined with El Mohamady and his fine cross was headed home, off his leg, by Trezeguet. Annoyingly, our defenders in the six-yard block did not attack the ball. They were flat-footed. The showed the same amount of inertia as tectonic plates.

Fackinell.

Purple flares were visible in the claret and blue half of The Shed. It reminded me of the same colour flares in the same end against Wolves in 1994.

At the half-time confab between Jaro and I, our combined thinking was along the lines of “let’s hope for a little more precision in the second-half…a late winner would be perfect.”

Two minutes into the second-half, the game changed. I was able to capture the studied skills and delicate dink from Willian, the fantastic chest pass from Tammy – how John Terry, right? – and the ferocious volley into the roof of the net by Mason Mount.

WHAT. A. GOAL.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

Chelsea 2 Aston Villa 1.

Especially for Jaro, the players raced down to the corner flag below.

Click, click, click, click, click.

A screamer from Mason and a scream from Mason.

Beautiful.

For the next twenty minutes, we hit a purple patch. We played some great football.

Pulisic running at defenders, twisting and turning.

The energy of Kovacic. Arkright, on this day, had sold a can of peas, a copy of the evening paper, some fire lighters and a quarter pound of peardrops. Ching ching went his cash register.

Mount winning 50/50s against Grealish – the battle of the night.

Kurt Zouma more confident now.

The technical ability of Reece James.

The tigerish spirit of Dave.

The whiplash of Willian.

And Kante. The relentless Kante.

Alan came up with a good metaphor for him. For opponents he is like that annoying itch that just can’t be reached. He is always there. Always beyond reach.

Good work, Al.

Crosses were whipped in, shots were blocked, the movement off the ball was superb. Mount went close from way out, then Tammy held his head in his hands as his shot was touched past the far post.

“Still need a third, though boys.”

Heaton was in the thick of it now and his goal lived a charmed life. A free-kick from Willian, again from distance, was tipped on to the bar and the ‘keeper then fell on the loose ball.

Fackinell.

The funniest part of the night?

Grealish’s attempt at a Mason Mount-esque volley. He missed the ball completely.

His song was repeated.

How we laughed.

(Good player though, on his day. That’s why we didn’t take to him, right? If he was shite, we would have ignored him.)

Some late changes.

Michy for Tammy.

Callum for Christian.

Jorginho for Willian.

Good applause for all.

The Chelsea shots still came, but Villa were not giving up.

“They’re far from the worst team we have played this season.”

There was a moment when a wide player received the ball in roughly the same area as Cresswell on Saturday – ugh – and I was deja vu’ing but the move broke down. One last chance for Villa and Kepa threw himself low to his right to avert the danger.

Phew.

We held on.

A good win, a great second-half, it felt like that we were back on track.

It was not the time to dwell too much on the niggling doubt that we have picked up points against average teams yet have struggled against the better teams.

A win and three points was all that mattered on this night in SW6.

Of course, John Terry took to the pitch at the end after the usual hugs and handshakes had taken place between the victors and losers, the heroes and villains, former team mates everywhere. I stayed until the end and took a few photographs, as is my wont.

I marched out onto the Fulham Road just as some Villa fans were walking past, but there was no trouble. I devoured a cheeseburger at “Chubby’s” and Jaro and I walked up the North End Road, chatting away like fools.

Back at PD’s car, we admitted what a fine second-half it had been.

PD had better luck on the return journey and, despite lots of fog en route, he reached Parky’s house at just after midnight. I clambered into my car and I was at home just before 1am.

It had been a fine night out in SW6.

Next up, a very poor Everton at a very fine Goodison.

See you there.

Tales From Seat 369

Posted on October 18, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 17 October 2015.

Some words to accompany twenty pictures from a typical Chelsea Saturday in 2015.

One : M4.

On the elevated section of the M4 motorway, with the floodlights of Griffin Park ahead, Stamford Bridge was near. Amidst a CD of Northern Soul, a thought or two of the game ahead.

“This is a game that we will win, boys. Villa are bloody rubbish.”

“If we lose, they’ll sack him.”

“Nah. Not at all.”

Two : Pints.

The pubs around Chelsea, sadly, are in decline. There is always The Goose, but The Wee Imp closed after the Southampton game, with the Prince Of Wales and the Lillee Langtry to close within a few months to make way for flats. The Wellington closed recently, following close on the heels of The Barrow Boy. The Rylston, last visited before the Bradford City cup loss at the start of the year, is a fine boozer. With Glenn driving, at last I was able to indulge in a few beers for the first time this season since the US. Oh, and Porto. How could I forget?

Lager : Chris.

Cider : PD.

Pale Ale. : Glenn.

Cider : Parky.

Three : Adidas.

“Cracking tee-shirt, mate.”

Standing not running.

“Like you have any choice, Parky.”

Four : Head And Foot.

“Peroni” lager, “Nike” trainers and “Henri Lloyd” jeans. After a very tough week at work – long hours, relentless – this was time for me to relax in the beer garden. The autumnal sun of a fortnight earlier had faded, but the cool air outside was most welcome.

Five : Football Clobber.

Glenn has owned a fair bit of “Napapijri” over the years. He loved his skidoo jacket. This one is worn by Parky, with a Chelsea Remembrance Sunday badge perfectly placed.

Six : Weekend Pleasures.

A half-full, or a half-empty pint of lager, and a football functional top from “Weekend Offender”, a new player on the football scene of recent seasons. No frills, just football.

Seven : Two For A Fiver.

Flags and emblems, club and country, nationalism, patriotism, rivalries, identity, poppies and something for the ladies.

Eight : Tube.

The first cold Saturday of the season and I spent an inevitable few minutes deciding what to wear. This “Armani Jeans” number came out on top. Muted blue, just right. With a new Chelsea badge alongside.

“Right, who wants another beer?”

Nine : Game.

The team news were discussed in the boozer. Begovic in goal. With Ivanovic out, Baba Rahman was in at left-back, with Cesar Azpilicueta shunted over to right-back. JT with King Kurt in the middle. The team line-ups suggested Loftus-Cheek alongside Ramires and this was met with approval. Further up-field, no place for Eden Hazard, with the midfield three of Pedro, Fabregas and Willian. The much-missed Diego Costa back to lead the line.

Ten : SW6.

The walk along Fulham Road, earlier than usual, was a chance for me to slow down and take it all in. I wondered how long I would be walking along this little stretch of West London. To be honest, my renewed interest in my local team, Frome Town, has brought me an extra dimension to my football over recent years. There was a little part of me that was annoyed that I would be missing the Robins’ home game against Bedworth United. With a third new stand being constructed – a surprisingly deep side terrace, providing cover on all four sides of the increasingly impressive home ground – and an upturn in fortunes since a new manager took over, I can see myself turning towards my home town more and more over the next few seasons. My first-ever football game, after all, was at Frome Town, in 1970, when I was just five. Wait a bloody minute. There is no reason why I can’t do both is there? Of course not. And I’d hope that I am no football snob. Football at a lower level is just every bit as interesting if it means something.

Eleven : Green Green Grass Of Home.

The “Chelsea Wall” has had more transformations recently than David Bowie, Madonna, Frank Maloney and Bruce Jenner combined. It is covered in plastic grass at the moment.

I have no punchline.

Twelve : 369.

Alan, Glenn and I – friends from one of the seminal years of my life, 1984 – were together at Stamford Bridge for the first time since the home opener versus Swansea City. We are all so sad that neither Joe nor Tom, the true pensioners, will be well enough to attend Stamford Bridge alongside us ever again due to ill health. The passage of time. Sigh.

Thirteen : Flag.

“Unless he is out injured, how must Scott Sinclair feel, if he can’t get into this Villa team. Should have stayed at Swansea.”

Fourteen : Captains.

Around 1,500 away fans had descended from the Midlands for this one. A couple of flags. We hardly heard from them the whole match. Soon in to the game, the home stands combined with a hearty “Jose Mourinho.” There was a brief wave from the manager.

Fifteen : Dave.

Arguably our most consistent player this season, it was good for me to see Dave at work in his more natural position during the first half. We began well and Loftus-Cheek came close with an effort. The predicted line-ups were evidently incorrect; it was Fabregas alongside in the defensive two, with Ruben further up-field. This surprised me really. We had all agreed in the pub that Cesc has outstayed his welcome as a holding midfielder.

“Push him further up-field.”

“Deserves to be dropped before Hazard to be honest.”

Sixteen : The First Goal.

After an initial period of play which suggested good things to come, our play deteriorated. A header from John Terry and a free-kick from Zouma did not harm Villa. At the other end, they had a few chances of their own, with Begovic able to thwart any effort on goal. That our opening goal should come from a defensive mistake summed up the paucity of quality in the first-period. Guzan’s poor kick out to Lescot was pounced upon by the willing Willian. His square pass gave Diego Costa an easy tap in.

Phew.

I was surprised that Mourinho replaced Loftus-Cheek with Matic at the break. The lad had fared well.

Seventeen : Thanks.

Into the second-half. we sang Diego’s name and he waved a quick “thanks.” Soon after, a lofted ball from Cesc found our number nineteen, who took the ball down and after seeing Willian unmarked on the far post, attempted to play him in. From our vantage point, we were both elated but confused when we saw the net ripple.

“How did he score that?”

On seeing the replays, I understood why his celebrations were rather muted. I guess he was almost embarrassed to score a goal such as that. Still, they all count. The support, quiet in the first period, roared for a while, with the loudest “Carefree” heard all season.

Fantastic.

Eighteen : 17.

“To be honest, apart from that game at West Brom, I’ve not been too impressed with Pedro so far. I know many have struggled.”

“Takes a while to settle in a new league though.”

“Absolutely.”

What of the others? I have to say that Baba looked rather nervous at left-back. Let’s give him time though. Willian fizzed around, closing down where required, and running at his man. Ramires won many a tackle and supplied some energy. It was reassuring to be armed with the threat from Diego again of course.

But Villa, as if I need to say it again, were poor. Very poor.

Nineteen : Eden.

As a late substitute, Eden joined the fray. In the few short minutes that he was on the pitch, I felt that at last I was being entertained for the first time all afternoon.

Let’s be honest, despite the win, it had been an average match at best.

Twenty : The King.

Outside, under Peter Osgood’s boots, I collected a spare ticket for West Ham away. That match – a week away – will be an historic fixture. It will be Chelsea Football Club’s last ever game at Upton Park. And we have got a special trip lined for that one. But first, a Champions League game in Kiev.

Am I going?

No. I’m chickening out.

Tales From Three Types Of Magic

Posted on September 28, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 27 September 2014.

I didn’t go to the Capital One Cup tie with Bolton Wanderers on Wednesday. This was only the fourth time in almost ten years that I had not been present for a Chelsea home game. However, this one was a little different; for the other three, there were extenuating circumstances (Celtic friendly in 2006 – I was on holiday in the US, Arsenal league in 2013 – snowbound, Hull City league in 2013 – my mother was unfortunately ill) but this was the first time since a League Cup game against West Ham United in the autumn of 2004, that I had chosen not to attend a first team game at Stamford Bridge.

Instead, I watched on my laptop at home and the experience was, not surprisingly, odd. I felt quite distanced from the proceedings to be honest. When I attend in person, I get totally wrapped up in the game. On Wednesday, save for a little exultation and a small fist pump when Oscar carefully placed the winner inside the Bolton goal, I watched in bored silence. Bolton hardly attacked us and the shots rained in on their goal. It didn’t seem like a proper game of football. With my good friend Alan also absent – he was in Albufeira with his good lady – Stamford Bridge was without the two of us for the first time in years and years.

Don’t worry, this won’t too often – I hope – in either the near or distant future. I am, however, not attending the Maribor game either. Why? The main reason is a change in working hours which means I need to be awake at 5.45am each day. On these midweek games, I rarely get to sleep before 2am. Do the maths.

On Friday, I left work with a smile on my face. After an arduous few weeks, I was off for six whole days, with the highlights undoubtedly being Chelsea games in London and Lisbon. Although I knew that there would be a lot of painful “catching up” to attend to on my return to work, all I could think of was my six days’ away from the daily grind.

I then realised that four of these would be spent in the company of Lord Parky.

Insert punchline here.

Bless him, I can’t be too harsh. This will be His Lordship’s first “European Away” since Stockholm in 1998, and the old fool has been buzzing the past few days. At last there will be new stories from Europe for him to regale us with for the next few – er – decades.

We were in the beer garden of The Goose for 12.15pm and the weather was warm and humid. There was a little talk of Lisbon as we waited for a few friends to arrive. Alan was still in Portugal with Sue. He, in fact, returns back home on Sunday, before turning tail and heading back out to Lisbon on Monday with Gary. This surely has to be the long-distance traveller version of “making sure your girlfriend gets home OK.”

We’ll all be staying in the same hotel in Lisbon.

To see Lord Parky at the bar, downing some Super Bock, will surely be a highlight of this season.

Some faces rolled up – Dave, then Rob, then Woody and Seb, then Andy, then Chris and Nick. The Peroni was hitting several spots. At around 2.15pm, Cons arrived, a little the worse for wear after a night out on Friday, but happy to be attending another Chelsea home game. I first met Cons in the spring of last year when she was in London to attend interviews at various colleges. Originally from the Detroit area, she had since enjoyed a year at college in The Smoke and had just attained her Master’s Degree on Friday; hence the hangover. What better way to celebrate than with a Chelsea game. Her last match was the friendly with Inter in Indianapolis last summer. It was good to see her. Meanwhile, PD was turning purple and almost exploding after several minutes of gut-busting laughter with Lord Parky and Dave the Hat.

On the way up in the car, PD and I had spoken briefly about the upcoming game at Shrewsbury in the Capital One Cup. We touched on the days when our club used to play the likes Shrewsbury in the old second division and it triggered some memories of attending football back in our youth; the raw pleasure of independence, not long out of school, meeting up with mates, dressing in the correct manner, making sure your trainers were clean and your polo shirt ironed, the pre-batch revelry, the uncertainty of not knowing the result, the added uncertainty of not knowing if you might encounter some rough-and-tumble during the day, the sense of camaraderie, the thrill of a day on the edge.

In an instant I was transported back to a different age.

Coming in by train, stepping out on to a platform in a foreign town, and joining in the rush to get to the ground unharmed, along with hundreds of similar followers of fashion and football – a mix of surly youths intent on trouble, but also a heavy presence of normal lads overdosing on Pringle pullovers, wedge haircuts, Diadora Elite trainers, Sergio Tacchini tracksuit tops and Lois jumbo cords – and a rush of adrenalin and a sense of danger. Following the team.

Following your team.

The warm feeling that you got when you followed a club in the second division with a massive away following through thick and thin, while your school mates who followed the more popular teams hardly ever went to see their lot play. We were like some unknown army, existing below the radar, carving out reputations.

They were magical times for me.

With the time quickly passing, there was a massive roar inside The Goose when Everton bagged a late equaliser against Liverpool.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, it was still humid and muggy. At the Matthew Harding, one of the five turnstiles was not working and so PD, Cons and I were delayed getting to our seat. We missed the first five minutes.

I quickly settled and glanced at the eleven players down on the pitch; again, the nine ever-presents, this time supplemented by Willian and Oscar.

Lo and behold, our first attack yielded dividends. Branislav Ivanovic played a fantastic ball through to Willian, whose shot rebounded back to him. He had the presence of mind to lay the ball back to Oscar who swept the ball in, low, past Guzan. Cons and I turned to each other and yelped.

How nice of the team to wait until we were inside the stadium before they opened the scoring.

I had been reliably informed by a Villa-supporting work colleague that they had only enjoyed around 32% possession in their games so far this season. The play for the rest of the half backed-up this fact. We had tons and tons of possession as we moved the ball across all areas of the pitch and tried to expose gaps in the Villa defence. Over in the far corner, the Villa support were berating us.

“Your support is fcuking shit.”

How boring.

“Dear Aston Villa Football Club,

It has come to my attention that your supporters believe that the backing given to Chelsea by its supporters is rather lack-lustre. May I remind you that away teams are entitled to three-thousand tickets at Stamford Bridge. Until your supporters bring that full amount to Chelsea Football Club may I suggest that they wind their collective necks in.

Thank you.”

With Cesc Fabregas instrumental in our attacking endeavours – one slide rule pass to Brana had us all purring – we continually moved the ball well. Our chances started to stack up with only rare attacks from the away team. It seemed that every Chelsea shot ended up in the Shed Upper. As the first-half came to a close, the Stamford Bridge crowd became quieter and quieter. We were desperate for a second goal to kill the game off, calm our nerves and also re-energise the support.

At half-time, Neil began to introduce the half-time guest player with a few clues about his time at Stamford Bridge. I had an idea straight away, but the big clue was that he played right-back in Athens in 1971.

Yes, it was Johnny Boyle, our under-appreciated Jack-of-all-trades from our early ‘seventies pomp. As he walked around the pitch with Neil, I realised that he is sadly overlooked when supporters look back on that lovely period in our history. He often used to play in times of injury to others and he was often named as substitute. I never saw him play. Whereas others in that vaunted team were household names, Johnny Boyle would forever be the Private Sponge of the early ‘seventies Chelsea team – just outside the main troupe, with few speaking parts – leaving others to take on the roles of Captain Mainwaring, Sergeant Wilson, Corporal Jones, Godfrey, Pike, Walker and Frazer.

I spoke to Tom, alongside me, now 78 years old and we shared a few words about Josh McEachran. He also chatted to Cons about his first game in 1947. In those days, he attended a school over the water in Wandsworth and he explained that midweek games would kick-off at 2pm. Absenteeism was therefore rife on certain Wednesdays, with a good portion of the boys sidling off to cheer on the blues. At assemblies the next morning, the headmaster would often say –

“So, I see Chelsea were at home yesterday.”

For Tom, magical times.

A few chances were exchanged in the second half and Diego Costa came close. Eden Hazard, possibly showing off – not sure if Mourihno approved at just 1-0, but I’ll forgive him – attempted a lovely rabona. Soon after, a delightful passage of play involving several players set up a pinpoint cross from Dave which Diego Costa headed powerfully past – or rather through – Guzan.

“Fantastic goal.”

That was the second goal that we so needed. It was time to relax a little. Oscar almost nabbed a second, while yet more sublime trickery from Hazard resulted in a whipped cross which narrowly avoided Deigo Costa’s stoop. With an eye on Lisbon, Mourinho soon took off Hazard. I was hoping for Drogba to replace Diego Costa, just so that he could shadow Senderos for twenty minutes and try to turn him into a quivering wreck.

“Remember me?”

To be honest, I was surprised that Jose left Diego Costa on until late.

On eighty minutes, however, a strong run by our new golden scorer, involving a sublime dummy, resulted in a shot being blasted at the Villa ‘keeper. The rebound fell nicely for Willian who bundled the ball in from very close range. It capped a great all round performance by Diego Costa, who now has eight goals in six games.

So, 3-0 and an easy win.

Magical times for Cons.

At the final whistle, many of the Villa fans had begun their journey home.

I was obviously pleased with this result, ahead of a potentially awkward game on Tuesday. There were no injuries and our team continues to gel. A clean sheet was an added bonus and I hoped that the quite ridiculous noise among certain sections of our support doubting Courtois’ capabilities would quieten. A defence lets in goals, not just a goalkeeper.

Sixteen points out of eighteen – and a full nine points ahead of Liverpool, for example – and an excursion to Portugal on Monday ahead of our game against Sporting Lisbon on Tuesday.

I suppose that these are the most magical times of all.

Tales From The Crown And Cushion

Posted on March 16, 2014 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 15 March 2014.

Villa Park is a familiar away ground. This would be my fifteenth visit with Chelsea, not including the 1996 and 2002 F.A. Cup Semi-Finals versus Manchester United and Fulham respectively. I have only seen Chelsea aways at Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal on more occasions than at Aston Villa. In the fourteen other games, there have been five Chelsea wins, five draws and four Villa wins. This was another Saturday evening kick-off and, after a particularly long and frustrating week at work in which I longed for the weekend to arrive, I was buzzing. In fact, I was buzzing more than Buzz Lightyear and Buzz Aldrin getting electrocuted while playing “buzz” in a bee’s nest with vibrators up their arses.

It’s an old cliché about football on a Saturday being the outlet for the working man’s pent up feelings of containment – and possibly resentment – at work during a working week, but this really hit home on this occasion. The previous five days in the world of logistics had certainly tested my patience. Things were so out of control that on one or two occasions I found myself chirping the circus theme and the music to a Benny Hill chase.

Thankfully, Saturday came.

Time to relax, chill a little, time to start thinking about the jaunt to Birmingham.

Weeks are made for Saturdays and Saturdays are made for football right?

I collected Lord Parky from Parky Towers at 1pm. There was a little update on our plans for the next handful of games – a little logistical planning, if you will – and we were then deep in banter and bullshit mode. That we had to win at Villa Park later in the day was imperative for our title challenge. My week had been so messy that, apart from the Manchester United vs. Liverpool encounter on the Sunday, I was oblivious to other games taking place on this particular weekend.

To be blunt, I was only interested in Chelsea. But you knew that.

We are usually creatures of habit for away games and this was no exception. I turned off the M5 at West Bromwich and began my approach to our usual parking place for an away game at Villa Park. I drove past The Hawthorns; our game there about a month ago is only one of three league games that I have missed this season. Just after 3pm, I was parked-up on Willmore Road, a tatty terraced street, strewn with litter. It was safe though. We entered our usual pub for Villa away “The Crown & Cushion.” This has been our pub of choice ever since that Chelsea vs. Fulham semi in 2002. This game, I think, was the first time that Parky and I had met up for a drink. Somewhere on the internet, there is a photo of the two of us, twelve years ago, looking much younger, in the beer garden of The Crown & Cushion. The pub was pretty quiet, save for a few Villa fans and a few locals of West Indian descent. On the menu board were Caribbean specialities such as patties and ackee and saltfish. We promised each other “next time.” The barman soon sussed we were Chelsea, but there was no bother.

Inside the men’s’ toilet, there was some graffiti which issued the proclamation –

“This pub is 100% underclass.”

Just as I was finishing my second pint, I was very surprised to see a familiar face enter the pub. Roy is a well-known Chelsea supporter who sits within range of Alan and me in the MHU. Roy explained that he had “done” most pubs within a two-mile radius of Villa Park and was simply keen to experience a new boozer. I have to admit, I’ve only “done” two pubs at Villa. The area around the stadium is far from salubrious.

The familiar walk to the stadium was over within fifteen minutes. The red brick of the Aston Hotel blended in with the red brick of the old industrial units and the tramway building. Ahead, the red brick and the steel cladding of the Doug Ellis Stand on Witton Lane were visible. On my first few visits to the ground between 1986 and 1991, there were terraced houses on Witton Lane and the existing stand was a simple single-tiered structure. Villa Park is certainly a grand old stadium – or it was before extensive rebuilding over the past three decades – and so of course it is now a grand, largely, new stadium. The oldest current stand is the two-tiered North Stand, which was built in the late ‘seventies. Chelsea were massed within it for the Fulham game in 2002. I was impressed with the small circular pin badges being sold by a street-side “grafter.” In addition to the Villa lion, each badge featured “Aston Villa” at the top and a selection of areas of Birmingham beneath. What a great idea.

“Aston Villa – Balsall Heath.”

“Aston Villa – Castle Bromwich.”

“Aston Villa – Erdington.”

“Aston Villa – Sutton Coldfield.”

“Aston Villa – Solihull.”

I am sure that Birmingham City fans will protest that their club controls the southern areas of the city and Villa the north, but surely this is Villa’s city. They’ve always been a large club. I remember my maternal grandfather saying that he had a soft spot for them.

Just before we met plenty of familiar faces outside the away turnstiles, I asked a WPC to take a photo of Parky and me outside the stadium and the inevitable bustling street scene. Photograph taken, we walked past five PCs.

Parky quipped – “that’s Crimewatch taken care of.”

For once – and for the first time in years – we were sat in the Lower Tier. I was happy with that; we’re usually shoved up above, usually right at the back. I hoped that I’d enjoy being closer than usual to the action than normal. Despite all of the changes at Villa Park over the years, there is a part of me which appreciates that the wildly off-centre players’ tunnel has stayed in the same location. I was very happy with the team; possibly our current strongest starting XI? With many Chelsea having been stationed in the city’s pubs for a right royal blue sesh, the away fans were in fine voice. I briefly chatted to Jeremy, a Chelsea fan from Kansas; his first ever domestic Chelsea away game. I could see that he was buzzing too.

News had filtered through that Manchester City had eked out a 2-0 win at Hull City, despite having Vincent Kompany dismissed. The pressure was back on us to keep on winning…

As the game began, I certainly enjoyed being so close to the action – Cesar Azpilicueta especially – even though I was a good fifteen rows from the front. At such close quarters, you get a lovely appreciation of the sheer speed of the game. As both teams toiled to impose themselves, I was increasingly distracted by the setting sun behind the gap twixt the Trinity Road and North Stands. Chances were at a premium, although we seemed to dominate possession. Despite Torres’ runs, Willian’s energy and Hazard’s obvious silky skills, we were unable to carve out many chances. Benteke occasionally threatened. Torres had a couple of efforts. This was hardly a classic. After a corner from the left, the ball fell at the feet of Nemanja Matic, possibly our best player thus far, who slotted home. The away support feverishly celebrated, but then came the gnawing realisation that the goal had not been given. But surely I saw the referee Chris Foy point to the spot? I quickly looked around at the faces of others in my midst, and confusion reigned. Nobody was sure.

Then – it immediately dawned that a free-kick had instead been awarded.

“Why?”

To add insult to injury, a rampaging Ramires was stopped in his tracks but only a yellow was deemed necessary.

Not to worry. After Fulham and Tottenham, a strong second-half was almost expected.

Now it was time for me to really revel in my closeness to the skills of Willian, Hazard et al. Firstly, though, the more robust Ivanovic sent in a lovely cross into the Villa box which caused all sorts of mayhem. However, a mixture of dogged defending and pure luck kept the ball out. We were well on top now, but goal scoring chances were very rare. A weak effort from the quiet Oscar summed it all up.

Villa’s best chance of the game came on the hour when Weimann’s effort flashed past Cech’s post. Then, the game changed. Watching live, down low, my immediate view was that Willian just got too close too soon to Delph and the entanglement of bodies was almost inescapable; in that moment when Foy dished out a red, I immediately remembered that Willian had previously been booked. Willian showed naivety in getting so close to his man when he was already on a yellow. A chase from behind rarely ends with a clean tackle.

A text soon came through stating that the second yellow was very harsh.

Just like Frank’s game last season, Chelsea were down to ten men at Villa Park.

A Hazard free-kick didn’t threaten the Villa goal. I was still convinced that we would get a win, though. A free-header from Villa drifted wide.

With just ten minutes to go, we lost possession and the otherwise impressive Matic missed a tackle and Delph broke away. The ball was played out wide to Albrighton. As soon as the ball was played quickly in, there was a grim inevitability about what would happen next. Delph readjusted and the ball bounced goal bound. Before it hit the net, I was already shouting out in pain.

Branislav Ivanovic was pushed forward in the closing moments as we chased goals. This is a Mourinho ploy; I similarly remember Robert Huth playing upfront in the closing moments of “that” CL game at Anfield in 2005.

In the end, our exploits were frustratingly hindered further when Ramires, sprinting away from our defensive third, lost possession and lunged at a Villa player. I was unsighted to be honest. However, another text was damning; it was a terrible foul.

A deflected effort from Delph spun up and crashed off the bar in extra time. A second goal would have been the final straw, the final twist of the knife. Immediately after the final whistle, all the talk – no, the bile and hate – was of referee Foy. Over the entire game, though, we had not created enough chances. We were, quite simply, not good enough. There was – yet again – a lack of desire and drive in our play. I would hate to think that Tuesday’s encounter with Galatasaray was the reason for our malaise.

Outside, there were minor scuffles as home and away fans goaded each other. A Villa fan held out his hands and bellowed –

“Yippeeh aye ay.

Yippeeh aye ooh.

Holte Enders in the skoi.”

Parky and I just walked on. We were quiet. As I drove through Perry Bar and Handsworth, trapped behind slow-moving traffic, I confided in Parky –

“I know it hasn’t been a great day. We played poorly. But I still love this life, mate.”

On the weekend that marked my fortieth anniversary of my first ever Chelsea game – 16 March 1974 – I was hoping that the occasion would be marked with three massive points. It wasn’t to be.

Let’s hope that there is a celebration on Tuesday night.

Tales From A Brand New Canvas

Posted on August 23, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 21 August 2013.

Chelsea’s 2013-2014 league season began on Sunday 18^th. August, but it began without me. For the first time in ten years, I had been forced to miss a league-opener. Back in 2003, my mother was hospitalised and so I missed the euphoria and joy of the first four home games under new owner Roman Abramovich; that strange honeymoon period of stratospheric optimism induced by wave after wave of new signings which brought unbridled hope to Chelsea supporters everywhere. Back in August 2003, Adrian Mutu was the new crowd favourite, “Chelski” T-shirts were worn with pride on the Fulham Road and “Kalinka” was top of the Stamford Bridge hit parade. Ten years later, despite initial fears about the longevity of our Russian oligarch’s long term plan, we have witnessed previously undreamed riches. The silverware has been plundered at regular intervals, the club has become a global super-power and we have all enjoyed the ride of a lifetime. On Wednesday 21^st. August, it was time for me attend my own personal opener of the season, to pay tribute to Roman’s ten years at the helm and to welcome back the returning Jose Mourinho. In truth, it felt decidedly odd being late to the party. As I drove into London with Old Parky and Young Jake, music blaring wildly, it felt that I had missed all of the fun from Sunday.

After stepping back inside The Goose, the first Peroni of the season was quaffed and I was back amongst friends. There were Chelsea smiles, Chelsea handshakes, Chelsea backslaps and Chelsea kisses and I soon felt involved once again.

Outside in the beer garden, I stood with Daryl, Alan and Gary. All four of us had lost some weight over the summer but there was a gnawing inevitability that this would be the lightest we would be through the entirety of 2013-2014. All of those lagers, all of those cholesterol heavy fry-ups and all of those stops at motorway service stations would surely take their toll by May. Alan handed me my away tickets for the upcoming fixtures in Manchester and Merseyside. The season was up-and-running. In truth, I have had a dull and uneventful summer, with long hours at work and few memorable days in the sun. I wasn’t too bothered; it was a time to recuperate after the long haul of the previous season. After 58 games in 2011-2012, I tallied 57 in 2012-2013. I have my sights set on a similar number in 2013-2014.

Fingers crossed.

I chatted to Alan and we quickly reviewed the events of Sunday. It was no surprise that we mentioned the typically Mourinho-esque – whether intentional or not – performance from his new Chelsea team. A spellbinding first period (I am sure Jose would have bristled at Graeme Souness’ Barcelona comparison on Sky) saw us leap into a 2-0 lead, only for a more subdued performance in the second-half. This was so typical of the first-era Mourinho team, almost to the point of ironic self-parody.

“Get ahead. Kill the game. After an hour we have won and I am resting players for the next game.”

As Alan and I chatted about Mourinho, the smiles from both our faces were proof that we were so excited to have him back at our club.

After walking past the busy souvenir stalls along the Fulham Road – there always seems to be so much more royal blue in the shirt-sleeved crowds of August than later in the season – I turned towards the West Stand and was soon struck by a change from May. The large pictorial adornments from Wembley and Munich which hung proudly all season long are no more. There is a blank canvas for Mourinho now. What do we expect from him in 2013? A little more adventure? Is that what Roman desires? Will Jose test himself to see if he can win “another way”? With home-grown youngsters? We will wait and see what paintbrushes and what brushstrokes – what colours – he will use on this new canvas. Who can say what trophies will be referenced on that same West Stand wall throughout his second term of office? It’s fun thinking about it though, isn’t it?

Welcome back Jose.

“One Of Us.”

I bought a match programme and was pleased to see further referencing to the 1983-1984 season. My mate Glenn had bought me a programme from Sunday and the 1983-1984 campaign was featured in that one too. There were previously-unseen photos from that lovely 5-0 home opener against Derby County. I’m hoping for a season-long retrospective of that season throughout this one; just like, I hasten to add, I did throughout my 2008-2009 match reports. In further editions of this season’s programme, I’m expecting references to Pat Nevin’s end-to-end run against The Geordies, Joey Jones’ fist-pumping, Mickey Thomas’ goals and many casual comments about the terrace fashions of that crazy era in our lives. Despite the silverware of recent years, I’m still likely to name 1983-1984 as the most enjoyable season ever.

With typical Chelsea-esque inefficiency, one of the five turnstiles servicing the MHU was unmanned, but thankfully I still reached my seat with a few seconds to spare. I just caught the kick-off on film. Phew.

It was a warm and sultry evening. Aston Villa had around 1,500 in the away segment; it sounded like they were buoyant after the win against Arsenal.

A quick check of the team; I think we were all surprised to see Demba Ba in ahead of Romelu Lukaku. I was also surprised that Frank was playing. The main change was Juan Mata in for the impressive Kevin de Bruyne. Oh, Axon in for Gorham.

“Expect a steadying influence there. And lots of photos.”

Stamford Bridge was largely unchanged from May. However, I did note that all of the various supporters’ club flags, with which Chelsea has chosen to decorate Stamford Bridge in the style of badges on a back-packer’s rucksack, were missing from the West Stand.

No Philly Blues. No Hungary Blues. No Pittsburgh Blues.

In the wash? Who knows?

In my desire to capture some of the early match action on camera, the first goal caught me wrong-footed. I actually caught the moment that the ball crossed the line on film, but was only vaguely aware of how it ended up in the goal. Not to worry.

The first “They’ll Have To Come At Us Now /Come On My Little Diamonds” moment of the season.

The goal sparked some noise at The Shed End and they were in good voice for a while. Villa, never the loudest singers at Chelsea, would not be defeated though and ably battled on, even including a familiar Chelsea tune from last season in their repertoire. Chelsea enjoyed the possession without really providing much in the way of end product. Villa, wearing a kit which harked back to their 1982 European Cup win in Rotterdam, chased and closed us down well. I kept glancing over towards the suited Mourinho, tie limp around his neck, prowling in the technical area. It was a surreal sight for sure. After sowing his wild oats in Milan and Madrid, our man was back.

Midway through the first-half, I glanced around the stadium, twinkling in the late summer evening haze. For once, every seat was taken. It was a joy to behold.

Out of nowhere, Alan and I found ourselves talking about 1988. It seems like a lifetime away now, but the summer of 1988 was a low point in my – and countless others’ – Chelsea life. I had suffered relegation with Chelsea in 1975 and 1979, but my boyish enthusiasm and love for the club enabled me to keep my spirits up on those two occasions. The allure of attending games was reason enough to keep any negativity at bay. Come 1988, though, things were different. Our relegation from the old First Division in May 1988 had resulted in a summer of anxiety for me. Elsewhere, pill-popping Britain was enjoying the second Summer of Love – Acid House parties, smiley T-shirts, M25 raves – but I was fully absorbed in the fear of a sustained spell in the second tier of English football. We had, remember, become the only team to finish fourth from bottom and still be relegated; our team was simply too good to be relegated. And yet, with John Hollins and then Bobby Campbell in charge, we had been relegated amidst scenes of carnage against ‘Boro. Ahead of our league campaign, with our opening medley of home games to be ticket only with the terraces closed, we embarked on a tour of the West Country. I didn’t attend, but I know a man who did.

Alan travelled to Devon, where we played at Saltash, Dawlish and Plymouth. He had booked cheap accommodation at the halls of residence at Exeter University for the duration. Imagine his surprise when he arrived for breakfast on day one to see the entire Chelsea team staying there too. Yes dear reader, 1988 Chelsea was playing football on another – distant – planet. In 2013, Chelsea Football Club jet-setted around the globe playing friendlies in Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia and U.S.A. and stayed in five star hotels. In 1988, we played in Devon and stayed at Exeter University halls of residences.

I can always remember coming out of the sandstone booking hall of Fulham Broadway for the season-opener in 1988 against a recently-moneyed Blackburn Rovers and meeting up with Alan outside. My face must have been a picture of miserable discontentment because his words were :

“Bloody hell. You look pleased to be here.”

On that occasion – with the terraces shut and less than 9,000 present – we lost 2-1. Waiting at Paddington Station that night for the train home – sick of football, sick of caring too much, sick of it all – is one of the iconic moments that I’ll never forget.

As the match drew on with few chances for both sides, Alan and I commented that Jose Mourinho, if things took a while to gel, would be given slack by the Chelsea support that others could only dream of. And that is the way it is. No qualms from me. Benitez was given no slack. Villas-Boas’ slack was tightened quickly. There was no slack for Scolari. Di Matteo? Let’s not even talk about it.

With the half-time break enticing some spectators to leave for an early pint, Villa moved the ball down to Agbonlahor down in front of Jake, Alan and I in the North-West corner. The pacey Brummie played the ball back quickly and Benteke slammed the ball in off a post.

1-1.

Bollocks.

In truth, it had been a pretty mundane performance and our five midfielders had been rather unadventurous. I caustically commented to Alan;

“If Rafa was still in charge, we would have been booed off.”

The second-half began and the tone inside Stamford Bridge was all rather muted. The Villa fans kept singing, but everyone else seemed subdued. Over in the far corner, a full moon began its slow ascent into the night sky and I was soon under its spell. I took many pictures of its pure white form, occasionally hiding behind breaths of cloud as the players toiled below. I was clearly distracted. I was clearly rusty. My singing was patchy and half-hearted. Maybe I needed a few games to get back to normal.

On the hour, a half-chance but the quiet Eden Hazard fluffed his shot. Agbonlahor was then clean through but blazed over. A move down the Villa left resulted in a deep cross to the far post where two attackers were seemingly unmarked. It was Villa’s turn to fluff their chance. I breathed a sigh of relief.

A double substitution brought renewed energy to our attack, with the much-vaunted Lukaku replacing Ba, who had endured an off-night. Andrea Shurrle replaced an equally ineffective Mata. Schurrle was soon in the action, shooting from distance, but looking at ease. I’ll be honest, from my viewpoint I thought Ivanovic’ challenge on Benteke was clumsy and not vindictive. The Villa players were adamant that an injustice had occurred. Maybe we were lucky.

On seventy-two minutes, a rampaging Lukaku run was brought back to where an infringement had taken place. The ball was swung in by Frank Lampard – click – and a forest of players leaped as the ball continued its venomous course deep into the Villa box. Ivanovic leaped – click – and his header beat the diving Guzan.

2-1 Chelsea.

Brana raced over to the far side – click, click, click – and the stadium was once again reverberating with noise.

Just after, Lukaku did well to spin and slam a ball towards the Villa goal, only for it to hit the side nertting. Weimann shot low at the other end, but Petr Cech made the save of the day, stooping low to his left and clawing the ball wide.

The referee signalled an extra five minutes. This would be a testing period for us. I looked over towards the brooding Mourinho. In days of yore, at 2-1, we would have slowed the play down and calmly played the ball around the back four. An old-style Jose team would have closed it down more effortlessly. There were hurried punts up field, drastic clearances, our defence at sixes and sevens. There was no calm air of efficiency which was such a feature in the definitive 2004-2006 period. With a minute to go, the ball was punted up towards Frank who gamely raced after it. He soon gave up the race and sprinted back to his holding position. I am sure I heard him say to himself :

“What are you doing Frank? Jose won’t like that. Get back and defend you pillock.”

The whistle blew. Another three points. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect.

But at least it wasn’t 1988.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Aston Villa

Tales From Fool’s Gold

Tales From The Villa And The Vine

Tales From Boxing Day 1996 And Boxing Day 2021

Tales From The B Team

Tales From The Mother Road

Tales From Work And Play

Tales From Seat 369

Tales From Three Types Of Magic

Tales From The Crown And Cushion

Tales From A Brand New Canvas