Tales From The Long Road To Baku

Chelsea vs. PAOK : 29 November 2018.

As we set off for the game, with PD driving alongside Lord Parky, and yours truly in the backseat, I spoke to my travelling companions.

“You have to wonder why we’re going tonight, don’t you? We’re already through. It’s hardly an important game.”

PD soon took the bait.

“Yeah, but we love our football, Chrissy.”

Indeed we do.

Indeed we do love our football.

Guilty as charged.

PD battled the evening traffic and some appalling weather as I relaxed in the rear seats. I drifted off to sleep on a couple of occasions. I had been awake since 5.30pm. By the time we reached our usual parking spot at around 6.30pm – three hours after we had left – I was suitably refreshed.

In the busy “Simmons Bar” at the southern end of the North End Road, I met up with some friends from near and far. It was good to see Neil from Guernsey again for the first time in a while. He was with his brother Daryl, alongside Gary, Alan, Duncan, Lol and Ed and all seemed to be making good use of the two bottles of “Staropramen” for a fiver deal. On the exact anniversary of his first ever game at Stamford Bridge, Eric from Toronto soon appeared and we bought each other a bottle of “Peroni.” He is over for a few games. His enthusiasm was boiling over and he was met with handshakes and hugs from my little gaggle of mates. Prahlad, now living temporarily in Dusseldorf, but originally from Atlanta, was present too, and it was fantastic to see him once more. The Chuckle Brothers first met him for a good old pre-match in Swansea two seasons ago. He was with his wife; her first game, I am sure. Brenda, who runs the Atlanta Blues, was in the pub too, with another Atlantan, Ryan; his first game at Stamford Bridge for sure.

Everyone together.

Chelsea fans from England; South London, Essex, Somerset, Wiltshire, Oxfordshire. From Guernsey. Chelsea fans from Canada. Chelsea fans from the US.

These foreign visitors are not tourists in my book. They are Chelsea supporters. Tourists – that most derided of all at Chelsea and other football clubs in this day and age – happen to find themselves in London and decide to go to a game at Chelsea as part of the London experience. Another box ticked. Buckingham Palace. The Houses of Parliament. Oxford Street. The Tower of London. The Fullers Brewery. Harry fucking Potter. An “EPL” game. Check, check, check, check, check, check, check.

Eric joked with me; “See I am assimilating nicely. Not wearing a Chelsea shirt this time.”

We laughed.

Prahlad was assimilating nicely too. As he said his goodbyes, I tapped him on the shoulder –

“Nice Moncler jacket, mate. You thought I didn’t notice, didn’t you?”

It was his time to laugh.

Off we trotted to the game. We had heard warnings of many away fans travelling over without tickets – something that Chelsea will be doing when we visit Budapest in a fortnight – but I didn’t see any Greeks outside Stamford Bridge. As I walked with Eric past the touts and the souvenir stalls and the general hubbub of a match day, I heard voices from almost a century ago; my grandfather walking the exact same steps –

“Shall we get a rosette, Ted?”

“I’d rather have a pint of beer, Ted.”

There was a quick bag check and we were in. Eric had a ticket in the West Lower. I’d see him at the Fulham game and the one at Wolves too.

Inside the stadium, the three thousand visitors were stood, and were hoisting banners and flags ahead of the game. There were yawning gaps in the top corners of the East Upper, and similar gaps in the West Upper too. After 39,000 gates against BATE and Vidi, this one might not reach those heights.

But these tickets were only twenty quid. Here was a good chance for our local fans to attend a match at Stamford Bridge; to be bitten by the bug, for peoples’ support to be raised a few notches.

But I was sure that there would be moans about “tourists” the following morning…

For a few moments before the teams entered the pitch, I moved over to the seats to my right, which look down on the West Lower, and which give a slightly different perspective. In my desire to photograph every square foot of Stamford Bridge, it allowed me a few new shots.

The teams took to the pitch and I returned to my usual seat in The Sleepy Hollow.

The team was basically a “B Team.”

Arrizabalaga

Zappacosta – Christensen – Cahill – Emerson

Barkley – Fabregas – Loftus-Cheek

Pedro – Giroud – Hudson-Odoi

This was a chance to see how a couple of our youngsters might shape up. In the first-half, our Callum was right over in the opposite corner to me; in the second-half, he would be closer. After seeing him play in Australia, and then again at Wembley in the Community Shield, here was a rare start.

We began with all the ball, and on just seven minutes, our position improved further still. With Olivier Giroud chasing a loose ball, a PAOK defender lunged awkwardly at the ball. Giroud tumbled and the referee from Estonia flashed a red. Off went Yevhen Khacheridi. Sadly, Cesc Fabregas shot meekly from the resulting free-kick.

There were attempts on goal from Hudson-Odoi and Giroud. Very soon into the match, Fabregas began sending a few lovely balls from deep towards our forwards. Of course, Jorginho and Fabregas – although both playing right in the middle – are wildly different players, but it was a real pleasure to see Cesc pinging a few beauties to Giroud and Pedro. Pedro took one down immaculately and forced a fine save from their ‘keeper Paschalakis.

A chance fell for Loftus-Cheek and his effort was tipped wide.

The away fans, dressed predominantly in black, and overwhelmingly male and under the age of thirty-five, made a constant din throughout the opening period of the half. They were not the loudest away fans that I had ever heard at Chelsea – I seem to remember Olympiakos, their countrymen, making more noise – but this lot were non-stop. It was stirring stuff.

On twenty-seven minutes, another magnificent ball from Fabregas found Pedro, who controlled magnificently. He spotted Giroud outside him, and he rolled the ball to his right. The finish from Giroud, struck with instinct with his left foot, was perfectly placed into the PAOK goal.

Stavros #1 : “They’ll have to come at us now, peeps.”

Stavros #2 : “Come on my little diamonds, innit.”

Hudson-Odoi went close just after, his curler from distance dropping into the bar with the ‘keeper beaten. There had been a solid effort from Ross Barkley too. Ten minutes after his opener, Giroud doubled our lead. Another Fabregas ball dropped at Giroud’s feet, but his finish was made to look easier than it must have been. Another first-time finish, volleyed home at the far post, the ball squeezed in between the frame of the goal and the luckless ‘keeper.

Amid some fine quality, there was time for a wild shot from Davide Zappacosta which went off for a throw-in.

PAOK’s attacks were rare. A sublime block from Gary Cahill nulled the best chance of their half.

The half-time whistle blew and we were well worth the 2-0 lead. On every seat back, a sticker advertising “The Fifth Stand” had been applied. It seemed that a private game had been taking place in the row behind me; our mate Rousey – he was oblivious – had been “stickered” by many. He even had one sticker stuck on his ski hat. The back of his coat was covered.

I whispered to Alan :

“Not the first time Rousey is going to end up with a lot of sticky residue on his jacket.”

“I dare to think about it” replied Alan.

The match programme, a better read this season I think, produced a few interesting morsels. The news of our game in the summer in Japan was detailed. I won’t be going; Tokyo in 2012 for the World Club Championships was a pristine, sublime and wonderful memory. I won’t be going back. It would only pale, I think, in comparison. But I am keen to see where else we are headed in the summer. This was our one-hundredth and seventeenth home game at Stamford Bridge in all European competitions, and we have lost just eight. I always remember the sadness of our unbeaten record going against Lazio in 2000. But eight out of one hundred and sixteen is phenomenal. I have – sadly? Is that the correct word? – been at all of the defeats. Throughout all the defeats, though, nothing hurts more than the Iniesta goal in 2009 and the resulting draw. There were nice profiles of Tommy Baldwin and Peter Houseman, players from my childhood, and who played in the first two games that I saw way back in 1974.

Into the second-half, and our dominance continued. The away team, so obviously lacking the class to combat us, would have found it hard to prise open a vacuum-packed packet of feta cheese, let alone our defence. But their fans were still making tons of noise.

A fine run from Loftus-Cheek – looking loose and confident – forced another good save from the PAOK ‘keeper. Then, the ball was played out to Hudson-Odoi by Fabregas. He took a quick touch and then shimmied a little before striking, the ball being whipped in at the near post with Paschalakis beaten. I just missed “shooting” his shot, but I caught his joyful celebratory run into our corner.

This was just lovely to see. The players swarmed around him. I have to pinch myself to think that our Callum is just eighteen years of age.

Ethan Ampadu replaced Zappacosta and took his place in front of Maurizio Sarri and the towering East Stand.

Willian replaced Pedro.

The away fans still sung.

Olivier Giroud – a great performance – was replaced by Alvaro Morata.

After only three minutes, Cahill pushed the ball towards Hudson-Odoi. He soon spotted the presence of Morata in the box, and his cross was simply faultless. Morata jumped and timed his leap to perfection, even though he was sandwiched between two defenders. It was a classic header – why does his heading ability remind me of Peter Osgood? – and the net was soon rippling.

Chelsea 4 PAOK 0.

Perfect.

Against the bubbles, we hardly squeaked it.

The away supporters among the 33,000 crowd were still singing. Their performance throughout the night was very commendable. As a comparison, I have to sadly report that this was the first Chelsea game that I can ever remember in which I did not sing a single note. However, I wasn’t the only one. It was a sad sign of the times.

With a midday kick-off coming up on Sunday, I am not overly hopeful that the atmosphere will be much better, London derby or not.

But I’ll be there.

I’ll see you in the pub.

Tales From Half A World Away

Perth Glory vs. Chelsea : 23 July 2018.

It was apt that the news regarding Antonio Conte leaving Chelsea Football Club was announced while I was driving up to London with Glenn ahead of our trip to the other side of the world to watch us play in Perth in the middle of an Australian winter. By the time I had parked my car outside our friend Russ’ house in Shepperton – Russ used to sit in front of us in The Sleepy Hollow at Stamford Bridge – the reign of Antonio Conte was over. It was hardly surprising news. The worst kept secret of the English summer was our courting of Napoli “mister” Maurizio Sarri.

On day one of my personal Chelsea season, I was having to sort out my feelings for one manager and those for another. To be brutally frank, I was underwhelmed by the whole sorry mess. I have not hidden the fact that I liked Antonio Conte a great deal. Despite his wayward moans throughout last season, I would have stuck with him. A serial winner with Juventus as player and then manager, he clearly knew football. But a title in his first season at Chelsea and a cup win in his second was deemed – fuck knows how – a sub-par performance for the people who run Chelsea Football Club.

So, there will be no more twinkling eyes of Antonio Conte at Stamford Bridge. I will miss him. Yes, there were issues with certain players which he perhaps should have managed a lot better, but throughout the closing months of last season, I regarded him as a flag-waver for the Chelsea fans, making a stand against those in power at board level.

In a nutshell, who knows more about top level players, of the ever-changing styles of football, of the inner-machinations of a modern football club, and what it is like to be a footballer, and a football manager.

The ultimate “football man” Conte or the board at Chelsea Football Club?

I know my answer.

But as Glenn and I made our way through the checks at Heathrow’s Terminal Four, we knew that it would be the new man Maurizio Sarri who would be leading a squad – of sorts – out to Australia a few days after us.

With a few hours to go until the first flight which would take us to Abu Dhabi, we settled down for a bite to eat and I toasted good fortune to Antonio Conte.

A few hours later, we boarded a double-deck 380 and were soon soaring over London and we were on our way.

Australia. Bloody hell.

We had known all about our game in Western Australia for quite a while. Chelsea games in Australia are quite rare events. And although I had previously shown no real desire to visit Australia, the lure of seeing Chelsea play in Perth whetted my appetite and, with it, gave me a fine reason to eventually visit the continent on the other side of the world. For a while, it looked like I would be making the trip on my own. And then my long time Chelsea mate Glenn – first spotted my me in The Shed in 1983, everyone knows the story – decided to join me. We both relished seeing the boys in Beijing last summer. But this would be different, a wholly dissimilar adventure. This time, the football section would be surprisingly small. It would all be about Australia. A fortnight in an alien environment for both of us. Glenn loves surfing. There would be beaches. And as the flights were booked, I began to work on an itinerary, encompassing all that Australia had to offer. I wanted to create a holiday of contrasts; cities, countryside, bars, beaches, mountains, and a little football thrown in for very good measure.

As the final months of our 2017/2018 season was played out, Australia loomed heavily. I read a few books, did some research, and put a plan together. I hoped that all of the hard work would pay off.

As the days slid past, I thought long and hard about doing something a little different with this blog for the Australia trip. I seriously considered writing a “day by day” account of my time in Australia, focussing on the holiday and Chelsea in equal measure. But then I thought better of it. Not only would it be something of a burden in having to set aside an hour or so each evening and jot down my thoughts – “I am on holiday for heaven’s sake” – I also thought this might be seen as being rather self-indulgent.

“Who bloody wants to know what I had for breakfast today?”

So, I decided against it.

In the back of my mind too, were the viewing figures from last year’s jaunt to China, when the blog that I penned drew a disappointingly low number of views – much to my surprise to be brutally honest – and so, I closed that avenue of thought.

Last season was the tenth anniversary of these match reports. The first five years were on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the last five on this site as an entity in itself. I did momentarily think about stopping. Ten years is a long time. But I enjoy writing these. They have become part of my Chelsea match day experience. So, on we go. Here’s to the next ten years.

For those interested, as I have marked ten years of these match reports ( now standing at over five hundred reports, and well over one million words, phew), here is a list of the ten matches with highest views in that period.

  1. 1,804 : Galatasaray vs. Chelsea – 2013/2014
  2. 1,660 : Liverpool vs. Chelsea – 2013/2014
  3. 945 : Chelsea vs. Tottenham – League Cup Final 2014/15
  4. 876 : Chelsea vs. Tottenham – 2015/2016
  5. 800 : Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea – 2016/2017
  6. 648 : Tottenham vs. Chelsea – 2017/2018
  7. 512 : Chelsea vs. Genk – 2011/2012
  8. 490 : Arsenal vs. Chelsea – 2014/2015
  9. 406 : Chelsea vs. Manchester City – 2016/2017
  10. 398 : Arsenal vs. Chelsea – 2015/2016

Rather than detail too much of what happened in the week before and four days after our game in Perth I have decided to go with the adage that a photograph is worth a thousand words. I include a scrapbook of photographs from the trip at the end of this blog.

But there is one story which certainly needs to be told.

My mother’s father, who was born in 1895 in the same Somerset village where I sit typing, had a number of brothers and sisters. I never recollect meeting any of the sisters. I remember meeting Uncle Chris many times. He lived in nearby Trowbridge and would often drive over to our village on his motorbike. He always had a story to tell, and a glint in his eye. He really was a rascal of a character, most unlike my staid and upright grandfather. I remember meeting Uncle Willie – at his house in Southall, he was a former train driver on the GWR – just once. And I never met Uncle Jack, who was once the village baker, who emigrated to Australia with his with Rene in the ‘sixties. Uncle Jack passed away in the early ‘seventies, but I remember Aunt Rene visiting us in 1980 along with her only child Audrey and her husband Brian. Audrey would often send us letters updating us on life in Australia, and often included photographs of their children Paul and Linda. Aunt Audrey and Uncle Brian visited again in 1990 at around the time of the Italia ’90 World Cup.

The next year – 1991 – saw my dear parents embark on a round-the-world trip encompassing Hong Kong, Singapore, Australia, Fiji, Hawaii, the US and Canada. Memorably, they stayed with Audrey and Brian at their bungalow on The Gold Coast – just south of Brisbane – for a few weeks. At the time, my father had just bought a hefty camcorder, and took it on this most monumental of trips. I have watched clips from that holiday on many occasions – of Mum and Dad in Australia specifically – and the words uttered by my father and Brian, when he took a turn with camera operations, have remained resolutely in my memory.

Visits to Brisbane, to Beaudesert, to Tambourine Mountain, to Coolangatta.

Audrey and Brian visited again in the autumn of 1994. As luck would have it, it tied in with a Chelsea match. One evening after work, I drove down to Bournemouth with my mother, and visited Brian’s brother Peter, with whom they were staying. The ladies stayed at home, while Brian, Peter and I shot off to nearby Dean Court to watch Bournemouth play Chelsea in the second leg of a League Cup tie. Chelsea won 1-0 and the three of us watched on the terraces of the home end. It wasn’t much of a game to be honest, but it felt lovely to have Brian alongside me.

Sadly we were to hear that Audrey – Mum’s cousin – passed away in 2003. I remember taking the phone-call from Brian in the room where I am typing this. That was a horrible shock. I always thought that my mother and Audrey were quite similar. I felt that if they had not all emigrated to Australia en masse, my mother and Audrey would have been the best of friends. They were both only an child. My presumption was that they would have been like sisters.

The years passed, and correspondence from Australia passed me by.

About a year ago, with the trip to Perth in my mind, I tried to search for Paul and Linda on Facebook to no avail. I wondered if I would ever be able to contact them. Their family home was in Ipswich, close to Brisbane, but I almost gave up. Then, at the start of the year, I miraculously uncovered a photograph of Paul’s children Christopher, Daniel and Adam, alongside a couple of girlfriends. I took a leap of faith and entered one of the girlfriends’ names (which was quite rare) alongside Paul’s family name (on the premise that there might have been a marriage) on a Facebook search and – much to my surprise and amazement – I was able to locate the whole family.

I was suitably thrilled when I sent messages to Paul and Linda, and they both replied.

I was especially pleased – no, that doesn’t do it justice – to hear that Uncle Brian was still alive at the grand old age of eighty-five.

Suddenly, the trip to Australia took on a whole different meaning.

I corresponded with Paul and learned the detail of the photograph.

Apparently, Paul – along with his wife Margret and Uncle Brian – had called in to see my mother in 2008. I had no recollection of this. My mother was already suffering slightly with dementia, but I am sure she would have remembered the visit. I racked my brain to remember if my mother had said anything. The photograph, evidently, was from that visit.

And then Paul shared some lovely news. Paul was born in England – in Bournemouth, in 1958 – and had never really supported a football team of any description. But Paul was so bowled over by my fanaticism for Chelsea Football Club, as explained to him by my mother on that visit in 2008, that he decided to adopt Chelsea as his team.

When I heard this, I just exploded with joy.

Paul also explained that his son Christopher was a Chelsea fan too.

Bloody perfect.

In May, a flag from the FA Cup Final and a Cup Final T-Shirt were sent out to Australia for Christopher’s young daughter Bobbi.

So, although three days in Sydney and three days of travelling through the Blue Mountains to The Gold Coast were quite magical, my focus all along was meeting up with my distant relatives. Unfortunately, Paul’s sister Linda and her husband Scott were not able to make it, but it was just wonderful to meet Paul and Margret for the first time, and – of course – to see Uncle Brian once more, for the first time in twenty-four years.

Paul had warned me that his father’s memory was not great, and I wondered if his apartment in Southport was sheltered accommodation.

Not a bit of it.

Not only does Brian have his own apartment overlooking the Pacific Ocean, but he takes care of himself, does his own cooking, does a little oil painting in his studio, drives a car – and even has a girlfriend.

“Bloody hell, Brian, you have a better lifestyle than me.”

We smiled and laughed.

That evening, we enjoyed a wonderful meal at a nearby restaurant, and shared some great stories, with Paul and myself taking it in turns to fill in some gaps. Because I have seen photographs of Paul throughout his life, it felt like I had known him for years. I have rarely enjoyed four hours more than those four hours in the company of my relatives from Australia.

I promised to send them some more Chelsea goodies once I returned to England. I fear that there might be a battle for Bobbi though. Although Paul sent me a photo of her in full Chelsea kit, I have since seen her dressed head to toe in both a West Ham (please God, no) and a Bournemouth kit. The Bournemouth I can understand. Brian told us at the restaurant that his father would cycle from his house to watch Bournemouth & Boscombe Athletic games in his youth, and Brian often used to watch The Cherries play too. So, there is some history there.

Meeting Brian, Margret and Paul was the highlight of the trip for me.

But it was now time to start thinking about football.

On the Sunday, we caught a Virgin Australia flight from Sydney to Perth and landed at around 5pm. We quickly caught a bus in to town, but we were dismayed to see that it had been raining in Perth. Until then, the weather had been dry and favourable. We quickly checked-in to our central hotel, and were quickly met in the foyer by Steve, who had flown in from his home in Vietnam on the Saturday, and who I had last bumped into in Liverpool a couple of seasons ago. All three of us caught a cab to the Crown Towers, where the team were staying, to take part in a Chelsea “Question & Answer” evening. We met up with Ray from Watford, who cunningly managed to drop in to Perth for the game after some business meetings in Singapore. Cathy and Rich from England were there. Plus a few Australian friends who I had befriended over the previous few months and who had greatly assisted my planning.

You know who you are. Thank you!

Unlike in Beijing the previous year, when the five of us from the UK were not allowed to take part in the local supporters’ evening at the team hotel, this was a far more welcoming event. Around three hundred Chelsea fans were given lanyards, flags and retro silk-scarves (Bobbi is getting one, obviously) and there was a nice feel to the evening.

Cesc Fabregas and Tammy Abraham were first up and they spoke well about Chelsea and their hopes for the new season. Then, Mark Schwarzer and Bruce Buck answered a few questions. I am not still unsure about Bruce Buck. It is as if he is trying too hard at times. There was a raffle, and prizes were given out. The club then presented pennants to the five Australian supporter groups.

Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth.

The biggest cheer was for the Melbourne contingent.

“They’re the drinkers” I thought.

Bruce Buck had asked for the raffle to be made by the youngest child present and, after the last of the tickets had been chosen, the lad was given a round of applause. Bruce Buck then said that he would personally arrange for the youngster to be sent a signed Eden Hazard shirt.

“…mmm, it’ll be a Real Madrid one” I whispered to Ray.

A few of us then retired to the nearby casino – a horrible and gaudy cave of a building – for further liquid refreshments. But it wasn’t a late night.

On the day of the game, Glenn and I surfaced at around 10am and had a nearby McBreakfast before going on a little tour of the immediate area of the quayside. We bumped into Jayne and Jim, from Spain, who I last saw in Ann Arbour two summers ago. They had just spent a few fine days on the Great Barrier Reef. Given an extra week in Australia, I would have spent a few days split between there and Ayers Rock.

We joined up with the other Chelsea supporters at “The Globe” pub – spacious and airy, just right – and stayed there from around midday to about 6.30pm. It was a fine time. The beers flowed and chit-chat followed along behind. I spoke to a few Chelsea supporters based in Australia. Pride of place must surely go to Bill, who saw all of our home games in our first championship season of 1954/1955. Only around twelve Chelsea fans from the UK made it over to this one. I spotted Paul and Scott in the boozer too. It was great to see familiar faces so far from home. Glenn reported that a chap had spotted him as one of The Chuckle Brothers from my recent match reports and I think that made his whole holiday.

Bless.

More beers, more laughs.

I don’t honestly know where the time went.

We caught a free bus to the stadium, which sits on a spur of land on the Swan River. The previous evening, there had been an open practice at the WACA – the famous old cricket stadium – but everyone got drenched. I wasn’t sorry that I had missed that. Future test matches will now be played at the Optus Stadium, but the WACA is to remain for other cricket games. Night had now fallen of course, and we walked over a pedestrianised bridge towards the illuminated stadium.

The stadium looked half-decent. Bronze and golden panels made up most of the outside shell, with clear panels at the top. We arrived with not too long to wait, taking our positions just under the overhang of the tier above. Our tickets – in the lowest level – were $39 or just £25. The stadium took a few minutes to fill up. Being a multiuse stadium – cricket, Aussie Rules Football – the pitch sits in a large grass area, not dissimilar to West Ham’s much-maligned stadium. This would be the first ever football game hold at the stadium. Perth Glory play their games over the Swan River at the much smaller stadium. There are three tiers on three curves of the oval, but five tiers – including three tiers of boxes – on one side. The seats are all neutral grey, similar to St. James’Park.

We were treated to a darkening of the stadium lights, and then fireworks and strobe lights. All very modern. We have similar stuff at The Bridge these days. And then it got a little weirder. Phone torch lights were turned on and the stadium resembled a very starry night. I half expected Sir Patrick Moore to stumble out onto the pitch.

Although we were the away team, we were allowed our home colours. It clearly was all about us on this occasion. The Chelsea badge and colours dominated scoreboards and touchline displays.

The teams entered from the right hand side.

Suddenly, the football was minutes away.

The new manager Maurizio Sarri had chosen the best eleven from the depleted squad. A surprise was the goalkeeper. I had not heard of him.

The much vaunted 4-3-3 lined up.

Bulka

Zappacosta – Luiz – Ampadu – Alonso

Fabregas – Jorginho – Barkley

Pedro – Morata – Hudson-Odoi

The Perth Glory team contained names which seemed to characterise Australia’s immigrant population, almost to the point of caricature.

Steadfastly English names – maybe from Manchester and Salford – such as (LS?) Lowry, (Phil? Gary? Neville?) Neville and (Anthony H.?) Wilson.

Croatian names Djulbic and Franjic.

Bog standard Irish names Kilkenny and Keogh.

And the Italians Chianese and – as if it wasn’t bloody obvious – Italiano.

Perth Glory in a muted grey away kit.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

The shirt for this season looks great from afar. From about three miles. Up close, it is horrific.

Chelsea worked the ball out to Callum Hudson-Odoi on the Chelsea left and he created a half a yard of space in order to turn the ball in to a packed penalty area. But the youngster had adeptly spotted Pedro, and the Spaniard met the cross with a volleyed prod at goal. The pace of the ball beat the Perth ‘keeper and we were 1-0 up.

It was certainly enjoyable to see David Luiz back in the team – a Doug Rougvie style tackle on a home player brought howls from the Perth fans – and he was soon spraying the ball about with ease. Ross Barkley kept the ball well and looked fit and healthy. There was the usual endeavour from Davide Zappacosta and Marcos Alonso. Pedro was constant motion. Jorginho had tons of possession. But the star of the first-half was probably the youngster Hudson-Odoi. The rain returned to Perth midway in to the first-half, but I was watching in my shirt sleeves, sheltered from the rain, and enjoying the view from virtually the back row of the lower tier. The singing section – Melbourne in the main – to my right were getting soaked.

Both Cathy and I did a couple of “Zigger-Zaggers” in an attempt to get some noise generated. The noise wasn’t great to be honest. Many fans in our section showed no willingness to get involved, despite a little banter from Glenn, Ray, Steve and little old me.

Perth Glory looked a poor team to me.

The first-half was a breeze for Chelsea. The only negative was the performance of Alvaro Morata, whose play was generally sloppy.

At the break, there were changes.

Emerson Palmieri replaced Marcos Alonso. Timeoue Bakayoko took over from the new boy Jorginho. Mario Pasaloc replaced Hudson-Odoi.

Soon into the second-half, close control and a nimble turn from Barkley resulted in him scuffing a shot against a post. Fabregas – the captain for the day – hit a long shot and saw the ball hit the same post as Barkley. Perth only rarely threatened our goal.

Further substitutions followed.

Ola Aina for Zappacosta.

Tomas Kalas for Ampadu.

Tammy Abraham for Morata.

Lucas Piazon for Pedro.

Charley Musonda for Barkley.

Towards the end of the game, with the Chelsea end rarely able to put together a coherent series of songs or chants, we were treated to a further indignity.

A wave.

A bloody wave.

Around and around it went.

It will surprise nobody to hear that none of what I would call the Chelsea “hardcore” joined in.

The game ended. We were more than worthy winners. Perth were simply not at the races. But it is all about getting games in at this early part of the season. Apparently Sarri had planned six training sessions in the three days that he had available in Perth. Our fitness looked fine. But it was, let us not forget, just a glorified training session.

We made our way back to the casino for the second night in a row, and some of the group fell out with some of the heavy-handed security staff. At about midnight, or maybe a bit later, we called it a day. A cab back to the centre and the first win of the season – on what was my 1,200th Chelsea game – in our back pocket.

I was just happy with the win. It would certainly have been a bastard long way to go to see us lose.

After Perth, there were a further four days of wonderful sights and sounds of Western Australia. In total, we ended up driving 2,400 miles as we took two fairly sizeable chunks out of both sides of the continent. The football counted for a small portion of this particular holiday.

So, thanks Chelsea Football Club for getting me to Australia at long last.

Did I enjoy it?

Strewth. Too bloody right I did.

It was ripper. It was bonzer.

It was fair dinkum, mate.

 

Tales From A Stroll Down The Fulham Road

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 28 January 2018.

Our eighth out of nine games in the month of January saw a return to the FA Cup and a good old-fashioned battle with long-standing adversaries Newcastle United. On the drive up to London, we briefly chatted about the meek second-half surrender at Arsenal on Wednesday, but forward to the next run of games, and made transport plans for a few of them. There were a few moments lambasting the shocking mess of the VAR system, which stumbles from one farce to another with each game. Get rid of it now.

After having worked on eighteen of the previous twenty days, here was a much-needed day of rest, though it was my turn to drive after Glenn and PD took a turn at the wheel for the two previous games. But there were no complaints from me. Football acts as a release-valve as much today as it ever did. I ate up the miles and made good time. The weather was mainly mild but overcast.

Previous FA cup games against Newcastle United? There was an FA Cup semi-final at Wembley in 2000 of course. This was a fine game of football and should have been the final itself. Gus Poyet was the hero of the day with two headers after Rob Lee equalised for the Geordies. I remember their end resembled a huge bowl of humbugs. It was a fantastic game. By comparison, the 1-0 win over Aston Villa at old Wembley’s last-ever Cup Final was such a dull affair.

There was also a win against them at home in 2006, but that 1-0 win does not ring many bells. Once the draw was made, I immediately thought back to a game from 1996, when Newcastle United were riding high in the league – it was the season that saw them infamously over-taken by Manchester United – and when we had already beaten them 1-0 at home in a thrilling game in the December. In a third round tie at Stamford Bridge in January, we were winning 1-0 with a goal deep into injury time from Mark Hughes. Sadly, a stoppage-time equaliser from Les Ferdinand took the tie to a replay, which we famously won on penalties. We made it to the semi-final that year.

We popped into “The Goose” but I left for the ground a little earlier than the rest to take a few un-hindered photographs of the pre-match scene. Deep-down, I also wanted to feel a special FA Cup buzz around the stadium, but – apart from the nauseous presence of few more touts than usual trying to hawk tickets – there was little different to this game than others, except for maybe more than the usual amount of kids with parents and grandparents. I wondered who was more excited.

As I walked on past the old and new tube stations, the town hall and the CFCUK stall, I mused that the famous lyrics to the song by Suggs should now be updated :

“The only place to be every other Saturday lunchtime, Saturday tea-time, Sunday lunchtime Sunday tea-time, Monday night, Tuesday night, Wednesday night and Friday night is strolling down the Fulham Road.”

I took a photograph of the fine frontage to the Oswald Stoll buildings, which have been part of the match day scene at Chelsea for decades. It houses veterans from the armed forces. I love that. It underlines the role of the army, navy and air force at Chelsea, in addition to the more famous pensioners from the Royal Hospital. During the week, I read that the foundation is thinking of building a new residence elsewhere, and there is the chance that they will offer Chelsea Football Club the chance to buy up some of the existing property adjacent to the existing West Stand. There will be no added capacity to the new Stamford Bridge, but simply more space for spectators to enter and exit the cramped footprint of the stadium. I guess the board needs to weigh up the options. Is it worth the added expense of buying up more land? Possibly. During the week, there had been a CPO meeting. Though I did not attend, I was pleased that the CPO board and the CFC board have never been closer.

For the people who constantly moan about our reduced presence as a major player in the transfer market, I’d suggest they need to re-value their thoughts. In the autumn of 2011, with the threat of us moving from Stamford Bridge to an unloved new build away from our ancestral home, we would not have worried too greatly about a few years of treading water on the pitch if our future at Stamford Bridge was secure.

I’m strongly behind the new stadium. I’ll say no more than that.

However, I do find it odd that Roman Abramovich has only been spotted at one Chelsea game this season; the win against Manchester United. I doubt if he is losing interest, but perhaps it has shifted its focus. I wondered if Roman is one of these people who obsesses about one thing at a time. A company acquisition. A football club. A football team. A new house. A yacht.  A stadium.

I had a vision of him locked away in a room in one of his properties, maybe not as obsessed as Richard Dreyfuss in “Close Encounters” as his character builds devil’s mountain out of mashed potato and then debris, but with a 2018 mix of Hornby train sets, Meccano, and Lego bricks – and cranes, lots of cranes – working in unison to replicate the Herzog and De Meuron model.

Inside the current Stamford Bridge, the first thing that I noted was a void of a few hundred seats which were not filled in The Shed. As with Norwich City, The Geordies did not fully occupy their three-thousand seats. A 1.30pm Sunday kick-off is a test though. No surprises that it was not filled.

The manager had chosen a 3/4/3 again and re-jigged the starting personnel.

Caballero

Rudiger – Christensen – Cahill

Zappacosta – Kante – Drinkwater – Alonso

Pedro – Batshuayi – Hazard

For once, we attacked the Matthew Harding in the first-half; a Benitez ploy no doubt. The thought of a replay on Tyneside – two days off work for sure – filled me with dread. Absolute dread.

As the game began, the Geordies were making all the noise.

“New-casuhl, New-casuhl, New-casuhl.”

I’d suggest that they started the match with more pressing and more energy than us. Early on, we were concerned when Davide Zappacosta stayed down for a few minutes. Thankfully, he was able to run off his knock and was soon back to his barnstorming runs. On one occasion, he pushed the ball way past his marker and sent over a brilliant cross.

An Eden Hazard free-kick did not trouble the ‘keeper Karl Darlow.

There was a fine leap and header on by Hazard to Michy Batshuayi which took me back to the ‘eighties when the hanging-in-the-air leap of David Speedie often supplied Kerry Dixon with many a cushioned header.

There was a magnificent cross-field pass from Toni Rudiger; one of his specialities. He is surely deserving a regular run in the team. I see a fine player. At the other end, Wily Caballero managed to save from Jonjo Shelvey. Our play certainly looked a little off the pace. It felt like “advantage Toon” at the half-hour mark. We had not got into the game. The Stamford Bridge were quiet. But you knew that. Thankfully, this was to change.

A beautiful and flowing move involving a long pass from Pedro into the feet of Hazard, a touch to Marcos Alonso – a great appetite to join the attack – and the finest of passes to Batshuayi.

“Michy doesn’t miss from there” zipped through my mind. It was virtually an open goal with the ‘keeper lost.

Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

GET IN.

This goal seemed to pump life into the crowd, the team and most especially Michy himself. For the rest of the half, his movement was better, and his appetite too. There was another excellent save from Wily down at The Shed, with our ‘keeper managing to fall quickly at his near post and block an effort from Gayle. A lovely shot from the left foot of Rudiger flew past the post. The game was opening up now.

Pedro and Hazard were hitting some fine form and the former found the latter with a great ball. Hazard picked out Batshuayi – “Nevin to Speedie to Dixon” – and the striker lashed the ball goal wards. There was an immediate groan as the shot was blocked by Jamaal Lascelles, but the noise quickly changed to that of hope and expectation as the ball spun high and over the ‘keeper.

“I like the look of this” I thought.

It dropped into the goal.

Chelsea 2 Newcastle United 0.

The game seemed won. Phew. No replay? I hoped not.

We had that strange experience of us attacking The Geordies and Parkyville in the second period.

The crowd were a little more involved. On two occasions especially. There was a loud and heartfelt “Antonio, Antonio, Antonio” – louder than normal it seemed – and it certainly felt like a resounding show of support for him. Soon after, even louder, and with the entire ground appearing to join in there was this –

“STAND UP FOR THE CHAMPIONS.”

It was if these two chants were for the benefit of Roman and the board.

The only problem was that Roman was not present; he was up to his waist in mashed potato in the west wing.

Will manager Conte be here next season? I hope so but I doubt it. I hate modern football and I’ll say no more than that.

A shot from Pedro, and a beautiful volley from Alonso showed our intent as the second-half progressed. Newcastle fell away, but their support remained as belligerent as ever. There were two shots from distance from DD. It was all Chelsea. With twenty minutes remaining, we were given a free-kick after a foul on the useful Zappacosta, who we all agreed needs to start ahead of the ailing Victor Moses. I love his appetite.

This was in prime Marcos Alonso territory no doubt. There was a wait for a few moments. We held our breath. Three Chelsea players were in the wall, but the Spaniard struck the ball up and over. It was yet another prime free-kick from Alonso. The boy can certainly strike a ball.

Chelsea 3 Newcastle United 0.

Game most definitely over.

The rest of the game was notable for four significant substitutions.

72 minutes : Ross Barkley for Eden Hazard.

A home debut for our new midfielder. He looked strong and eager to impress. He had been the cover-star on the match programme, another retro one, this time from the ‘forties.

77 minutes : Ethan Ampadu for N’Golo Kante.

He immediately fitted in. Is he really only seventeen? Very soon, he played the ball of the game through to an onrushing Pedro. The lad looks the business, so loose and natural.

80 minutes : Callum Hudson-Odoi for Pedro.

A Chelsea debut, and his first three passes were on-the-money cross-field balls out to Zappacosta out on the right, now enjoying acres of space. All of a sudden, the future seemed brighter, rosier, more positive. Fantastic.

83 minutes : Christian Atsu for Iscaac Hayden.

It was certainly nice to see and hear some warm applause for our former player, who never made it to the first-team. I bet we never got any credit for it on the TV commentary.

The game ended with a fine and free-flowing move from our penalty box all of the way through to a shot from Michy which the ‘keeper saved. By that time the away team were chasing shadows.

But the Newcastle fans kept their support of their team until the end and hardly any left. Top marks. I remembered back to 1983/1984 when, at the end of a completely one-sided 4-0 thumping, the Geordies kept singing, and were rewarded with applause from the home support.

In 2018, the reaction to the bonny lads was not full of such bonhomie :

“You’ve had your day out. Now fuck off home.”

Modern football, eh?

On Wednesday, the month ends with a home game with Bournemouth.

See you there.