Tales From The Terrace

Posted on November 11, 2015 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 7 November 2015.

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

Little did we know, eh?

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

Sandwich wrappers and parking tickets.

What?

There was silence.

It wasn’t my car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One for every day of the week.”

“And two for Sundays.”

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

We laughed again.

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

Wrexham in 1982 springs to mind.

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

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

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

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

Good times.

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

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

At least we have West Brom this season.

Gallows humour? You bet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which one is your car, Chris?”

“Bollocks, the nearest one.”

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

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

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

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

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

Chris, Sean, Trev, Nige, Steve.

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

“Friendship and Football.”

It was quite surreal to be back.

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

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

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

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

“Three bacon and cheese oatcakes please, duck.”

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

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

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

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

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

One familiar face was missing.

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

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

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

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

Arms were linked.

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

“We Will Remember Them.”

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

“Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

One-nil to Stoke.

“Here we bloody go again.”

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

Ugh.

I sighed.

And Jose Mourinho punched a hole through to room 15.

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

Another “ugh.”

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

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

Willian’s free kicks for once, were poor.

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

“Costa, get in the fackin’ box.”

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

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

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

What a season.

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

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

I could not resist.

“Goal.”

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

I turned around and screamed.

“Fuck.”

Mourinho knocked a hole in to room 13.

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

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

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

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

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

Remy replaced Ramires.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seven defeats in twelve league games.”

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

Football.

Sometimes I hate you.

Tales From The Highest High And The Lowest Low

Posted on November 1, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 31 October 2015.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trackie bottoms and YNWA scarves.

Tut tut.

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

Anyway, I digress.

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

It was a superb goal.

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

A fantastic start. I was hoping for further goals.

It was 12.49pm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2015 I hate you.

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

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

Ugh.

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

1-1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep walking.”

After the Benteke goal, even more left.

Sigh.

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

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

At Twickenham, there was a rugby game taking place.

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

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

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

See you on Wednesday.

Tales From 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 The Last Picture Of Summer

Posted on September 21, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 19 September 2015.

As soon as I walked into the beer garden of “The Goose”, pint of Peroni in hand, I was met with smiles from the usual suspects. Without wasting any time, Duncan looked me in the eye and asked me of my thoughts for the lunchtime game against our North London rivals. I summed things up quickly.

“I’ll take a draw, now.”

Duncan nodded sagely.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying.”

Daryl was not in agreement.

“We’ve got to win.”

I immediately wondered if this viewpoint might lead to disappointment later in the day. It was clear to everyone that we had not started the season well, and I – for one – was not going to read too much in to our easy victory over our Israeli opponents during the week. The thought of us losing to Arsenal, and therefore garnering only four points from a possible eighteen, was not worth thinking about.

A point would suffice for me.

The football talk continued as we spoke about the team and its well documented problems so far in to the season. I spoke about Eden Hazard. I noticed that there was a moment during the second-half during Wednesday’s game when he came over to retrieve the match ball from a ball boy before flicking it over to Cesc Fabregas who was waiting to take a corner. Eden’s face was anything but a picture; he looked thoroughly down, quite depressed, and his whole body language was off. Here was a man who did not appear to be enjoying his football. He had ballooned a penalty in the first-half and had miss-placed several passes in the second-half. I felt for him. I could not remember seeing a player so obviously suffering a “dark moment” so vividly for ages. I hoped for a recovery soon.

Other facets of our game were discussed.

There certainly seemed to be a lack of intensity, of fight, in most of our matches this season. I wondered if the way that we won the league during the closing months of 2014/2015, plugging away and eking out narrow wins, but under no real pressure from a chasing pack, meant that we had been playing under an “easy” environment for a good five months. Maybe it has proved difficult to re-focus after playing with a particular mind-set for so long.

I don’t know.

However, I certainly didn’t need football pundits and experts with pointy sticks and stop/go technical gadgetry for me to realise that we were missing “bite” in our midfield at Everton, our worst performance of the season, and that we were simply affording opposing teams too much space. That lack drive and urgency from all of our players, a trademark of the first half of last season, was key to our woes in 2015/2016 in my mind.

While we were stood in the beautiful September sun, the team news came through.

Begovic.

Ivanovic, Cahill, Zouma, Azpilicueta.

Matic, Fabregas.

Oscar, Hazard, Pedro.

Diego Costa.

Initial reactions were not favourable. We were not keen on Cesc Fabregas remaining in what is basically a defensive midfield position. Ivanovic’ inclusion annoyed many, but did not surprise me. I found it unlikely that the youngster Baba would get two games in four days.

Arsenal’s midfield was discussed.

Ed was forthright.

“We could get run ragged.”

Of course, John Terry was not playing, with Mourinho instead opting with the “Zorro and Zouma” (copyright Alan Davidson 2015) combination instead. Our fastidious manager was backing up his declaration on picking his starting eleven based on current form rather than reputation, though the pace of Arsenal’s attacking thrusts were an obvious reason why our captain was omitted.

The Goose was full of Chelsea. Arsenal would not dare enter within.

Elsewhere there was talk of New York baseball, the lesser known characters in the 1970 sitcom “Porridge” and of China Crisis songs.

It’s not always about football.

I didn’t see a single Arsenal fan on the walk in to the stadium. I have no idea where they did their pre-match drinking, but I am sure it wasn’t in the Chelsea heartland.

There was a case of squad rotation within the stands too. Instead of watching alongside my usual match-day companions Alan and Glenn – who were on holiday and at work – I took my seat alongside my good mates Neil and Walnuts. The weather was holding firm. Next week, at Newcastle, there might well be a different feel. This game, a lovely old London Derby, under a blue sky seemed like the last picture of summer.

Throughout the day – I know why, all will be explained – I kept thinking back to another Chelsea vs. Arsenal game, again in late September, but from thirty years ago.

September 1985.

I can distinctly remember bumping in to Glenn around the pubs of Frome on the day before the game, the Friday, and – because I had not been to any of the three home games so far in that season – Glenn ribbing me about my lack of attendance.

“You’ll get some stick tomorrow.”

I remember smiling. At least I was missed. It made me feel wanted.

It was only the second time that I had witnessed Arsenal down in SW6, and I look back fondly on that game, with Arsenal taking a lead but Chelsea recovering with a Pat Nevin header to equalise and then a late penalty from Nigel Spackman giving us a dramatic 2-1 win. Watching on the benches, right in the midst of it, with Alan and Glenn, and a few other lads who I still see to this day. It was a fantastic result. I remember seeing Micky Hazard play for us for the first time. And Chelsea in all blue for the first time in my life, having jettisoned the classic white socks over the summer. That evening, I always remember, I travelled back on the Chelsea supporters coach from Yeovil, and met up with some school friends on a night out in my home town of Frome, recovering from its annual autumnal carnival. There is a fuzzy photograph of me, post victory beer in hand, in a town pub, wearing a paisley button-down shirt, which was all the rage at football in the autumn of 1985 and it is hard to believe that thirty years have since passed. I would be doing the same after the game in 2015 – no paisley shirt this time – with some school friends from that era, on carnival night too.

History repeating itself, thirty years on.

Lovely stuff.

As the teams came on to the pitch, it surprised me that I had not contemplated the fact that Petr Cech would be returning to his former home. Of course, I gave him a fine welcome back as he walked slowly to take up his position below us at the north end of the stadium.

But that was it, no lingering sense of what could have been. Asmir was our man, now.

It was an evenly-contested first half. Each team had small spells of domination. There was a significant step-up in our performance and the crowd seized on this. The noise was better. The players moved for each other, with several instances of fine play. Oscar was winning tackles, Pedro was spinning out of tight areas, and Hazard was more like his old self. But Arsenal themselves too were causing us occasional problems.

Tackles were made, bodies crashed against each other. I had heard that the first-half of the recent Manchester United vs. Liverpool match had been a tepid and timid affair, with none of the passion and intensity of yester year. Well, by contrast, this contest between “soft Southerners” was full of bite.

The main chant emanating from the replica shirts and the scarves of the travelling Goons in the Shed End was this :

“Fuck Off Mourinho.”

And they question our class.

We countered :

“Ashley Cole’s Won The European Cup.”

A few chances were exchanged by both sides. It was a fine half of football.

A determined run by Eden Hazard deep in to the Arsenal box ended up with a coming together with Gabriel, but the referee Mike Dean chose to rule that both were guilty of tangling arms and legs.

A fierce effort from King Kurt zipped over Cech’s bar from forty yards. Pedro tested him too. We were in the ascendency, but only by a narrow margin.

Then, the game’s big talking pint.

I didn’t see Costa’s flailing arms as he ran with Koscielny, but I did see the chest bump, which resulted in the Arsenal defender falling back and ending up on the floor. I feared the worst. Thankfully the linesman on the far side did not flag anything untoward. Then, with me not really paying too much attention to the ongoing chat and back chat between several protagonists, they walked back towards the centre of the pitch. The dialogue seemed to be continuing for a while. Nobody really knew what was going on. Then, a rise in the noise from the crowd and a brandishing of a red card to Gabriel, which resulted in a roar from the home support and incredulity from the Arsenal players.

Of course, the viewing millions throughout the world were better placed than myself and those watching in SW6. It was all a bit of a mystery. One thing was certain, though. Diego Costa was agent provocateur in all of this. A couple of texts and posts on Facebook from a couple of respected friends backed up my initial thoughts. Our man Diego was lucky to stay on the pitch. His combative nature is admired by many, but his pernicious tendencies do not sit well with me. Of course there are two sides to every story here. If we ask Costa to reign himself in, we might well dampen his effectiveness. Yet I remember the first couple of seasons of Didier Drogba at Chelsea, when his play-acting disturbed me. After channelling all of that negative stuff in to more positive play, he became a better player, a more respected team mate and a more potent striker.

I wonder if Diego Costa will change.

I won’t hold my breath.

At half-time, John Dempsey – a scorer in Athens – was paraded at half-time. The away fans again showed their class :

“Oo The Fackin’ell Are Yooo?”

Dempsey conducted them, then gave them a full blown “double V.”

Oh boy.

With Arsenal a man down, I wondered if Daryl’s wish might come reality.

Pedro went close with a volley. Then, seven minutes in to the second-half, a foul by an Arsenal defender resulted in a free-kick to us. I waited as Cesc Fabregas sent in a magnificently placed ball deep in to the Arsenal box. I snapped as Kurt Zouma rose – with no Arsenal defender in sight – and headed down past Petr Cech. In a blur, the net rippled, the crowd roared and I watched through my lens as King Kurt sped off on the best celebratory run so far this season. He bounded along the goal line and jumped for joy.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

I knew I had a couple of beauties among that little lot.

My photos taken, I roared my approval.

From the island of Menorca, a text message from Alan : “THTCAUN.”

From Stamford Bridge : “C1-0MLD.”

Our young defender had shone defensively in the game thus far – one magnificent tackle the highlight – but now he was writing himself in to Chelsea folklore. Eden Hazard forced a fine save from Cech, but Sanchez and Walcott fired shots in on Begovic too. More chances to us. This was more like it.

Ramires replaced Oscar.

An errant, miss-timed tackle by Cazorla on Fabregas, meant that Mike Dean had no choice but to award Cazorla a second yellow. Off he went. We howled with pleasure.

Arsenal were down to nine.

Surely we were safe, now?

With Diego Costa getting in the face of Arsenal players everywhere, it was no surprise that the manager chose to substitute him. To lose him to a second yellow, and a subsequent ban, would be silly. Of course, he exited the pitch to a deafening roar of approval. He was replaced by Loic Remy.

For a while, it looked like we would play the ball to oblivion, across the back four, keeping possession, not threatening, waiting for the time to tick by.

The fat lady was gargling, off stage.

We waited for the final whistle.

However, Eden Hazard had the last laugh. The ball came out to him on the edge of the box and he slammed the ball goal wards. It took a wicked deflection, Cech was beaten, and the ball nestled in the net.

Safe.

This was a much better performance from the boys. Even the recently lampooned Branislav Ivanovic, captain for the day, so often out of position this season, did well. The star of the show, though, was King Kurt. He was immense. This was clearly a much better performance from the boys. There was much to admire, and – God bless him – Eden Hazard was obviously enjoying himself on the Stamford Bridge turf once more.

In fact, it was so good, it could have been from September 2014.

On the drive home, the airwaves were full of Diego Costa, as I knew they would be. Thousands of different opinions, thousands of different viewpoints; it’s never boring watching Chelsea.

To top off a cracking day, West Ham won at Manchester City.

“Get in.”

I had enjoyed myself immensely, but the fun was only just beginning. I met up with the class of 1985 (…followers of Chelsea, Manchester United, Liverpool, Leeds United, Portsmouth and Derby County) in a Frome pub at 7.45pm, and we then set off on a lovely pub crawl, and chatted about all sorts of nonsense – but mainly football – deep in to the night. I bumped into my Uncle Mike, whose father we used to take to Chelsea games in the mid-to-late ‘seventies, and we reminisced on how Uncle Geoff used to love those trips to Stamford Bridge.

Football, always football.

Six mates, six pints, five pubs, three points and one large doner kebab.

Perfect.

Tales From The U.S. Capital

Posted on July 30, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Barcelona : 28 July 2015.

As I have mentioned previously, ten years ago I was in the US to see Chelsea play two of our three tour games that summer. This summer’s trip has a lot in common with that trip a decade ago. In 2005, I flew in and out of Charlotte and saw us play in Washington DC and New Jersey. This year, I flew in and out of Washington and see games in New Jersey, Charlotte and Washington DC.

Three locations are forever tied together in my personal history of following the boys over land and sea.

With two down and one to go on this tour, I left the clean, crisp and charming city of Charlotte at around 11am on the Sunday. I had breakfasted at a busy local restaurant with my good friend JR from Detroit and his family. I am still having gastronomic flashbacks and sugar rushes at the memory of the apple pancakes which I waded through. Another wonderful Chelsea road trip was ahead of me.

Charlotte to DC and another four hundred miles on the American road.

It was a perfect Sunday as we headed north-east. I ate up the miles in my…cough, cough…red Chevy. Oh the irony of driving around the US in the vehicular equivalent of a Manchester United shirt. JR and I chatted incessantly about all sorts on the long drive through North Carolina and Virginia. The time soon flew past. The first three hours seemed like thirty minutes. Others were travelling to DC by plane. Others by train. We were not the only ones travelling by automobile.

Around thirty minutes behind us, JR heard via our friend Janset that she was travelling up in a van with Paul Canoville, Mario Melchiot and a few more of Chelsea In America’s finest. JR also heard that the three from Iowa – Phil, Chris and Sam – were on the road too.

It seemed like a Chelsea edition of “Wacky Races”, but instead of Penelope Pitstop, the Anthill Mob and the Slag Brothers, this edition consisted of The Schmuckle Bus, The Cannersmobile 5000 and The Iowa Hot Rod – complete with blue smoke bombs. We later heard that Jeremy from Kansas was on the road too, but maybe he was taken out early in his Beardwagon by Dick Dastardly.

It is not known if Sergei and Dmitry from Badgercrack, Nebraska ever left the start line in their Facepaint Coupe.

The traffic began to slow, however. A trip that ought to have taken six hours eventually took eight. It was especially brutal north of Richmond on I-95. Thankfully a bottleneck cleared and the end was in sight. As we headed up over a gradual incline on I-395, a magnificent view greated me. Around three miles away stood the thin needle of the Washington Monument, the sun lighting up its west face, and with the white marble of the Lincoln Memorial to the west and the half-dome of the Capitol to the east. Down below us to the right was the monumental bulk of The Pentagon.

I was awestruck. It seemed that I had done all of my sightseeing in DC in a few seconds.

Within ten minutes we had arrived safely at our Hyatt Hotel just over the Potomac River from DC in Arlington, Virginia.

On the Sunday evening, Erin, JR and myself zipped in to DC for a bite to eat – my first burger of the trip – and then walked around the centrally located monuments of The Mall. Each one was floodlit and very photogenic. I took a few snaps, though only with my camera phone. I had neglected to pack my normal camera battery charger and was having a little OCD – obsessive Chelsea disorder – of my own. My number one task on the Monday would be to buy a new one. We had a lovely time, though. It brought back memories of my first time in DC, 1989, when I enjoyed a similar evening walking tour, which was provided free of charge by the youth hostel. There were also memories of that 2005 tour, with Roma, her two daughters and myself running through the sprinklers on those wide grass lawns to keep cool.

In 2015, the torrid summer heat of DC was fading quickly and it was a very enjoyable start to our time in DC. For the first time ever, I took an “Uber” to get back to our hotel.

Monday was another perfect day on this trip. I spent some time writing up “Charlotte” and then met up with Erin and JR again to visit the historic Ford’s Theatre, where President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in 1865. This was the number one sight on my list for DC. I have luckily visited most of the other main sites on my other two trips. I have been a keen Civil War enthusiast for over twenty years, and one of my most memorable days in the United States was spent at the stunning Gettysburg Battlefield in 2010. Obviously, Lincoln was the most famous protagonist of all in the seismic war which battled states against states, even families against families, and which almost ripped America apart. To witness the exact place where his life was sadly ended was another interesting and yet emotionally raw experience. The tour guide set up the scene amazingly well – with sensitive comments about the atmosphere and sensory feel of that evening – and explained with fine detail how events unfolded during the hours leading up to the fatal shot.

At the end, we walked over the road outside the theatre, whose large size surprised me, to the house which contained the parlour where Lincoln eventually died from his gunshot wound some seven hours later.

I had to double-take at the sign outside the house which forbade visitors to take in firearms.

Or maybe it was America being ironic.

I certainly didn’t appreciate a sizeable shop adjoined to the house, selling a vast array of Lincoln souvenirs, a mere five yards away from where he exhaled his last mortal breath.

I hot-tailed to Dupont Circle to buy my battery charger; I could relax.

On the Monday evening, I walked the mile or so up to the “Four Courts” pub which is where the local Chelsea supporters group in the DC area – “The Beltway Blues” – meet for matches. This was another long night. Just after I arrived at 7.30pm, Neil Barnet hosted another “Q & A” session with Bobby, Canners and Mario. I had heard most of the stories before, so sat in a quieter part of the large bar with JR and chatted with many other fans. It was another lovely evening, although not as manic as Charlotte. The usual suspects were present.

Andy kindly presented two “OC Hooligans” tour shirts for Parky and myself.

There was a photograph with Cath, Sambuca in hand.

Tim from Philly kindly gave me a few Yankee trading cards.

Photos with many good friends; some old, some very old, but some new.

I met up with Kathryn and Tim, good friends and two of the Beltway Blues, who I met on the bus taking us from Philly to Chester for the 2012 MLS All-Star Game.

I was impressed that Janset was wearing an original 1981-1982 shiny Le Coq Sportif shirt – one of my favourites – and I then gave her a crash course in the casual sub culture 1977 to date, which she really seemed to appreciate.

Many laughs, many smiles, many photographs.

But one thing was missing.

Talk about the game against Barcelona.

I definitely approved of this.

This simply mirrored what happens in my local, “The Goose” on the North End Road, on virtually all match days. As I have said before, Chelsea is what brings us together but the actual football takes up a surprisingly small amount of “talk time” on match days.

On my long and arduous drive down from West Virginia to Charlotte on the Friday, one town haunted me. As I set off early in the morning, a sign on I-81 said “Roanoke 202 miles.” For the next two hours I appeared to be driving in quicksand since the distances took forever to decrease.

“Roanoke 197 miles.”

“Roanoke 189 miles.”

“Roanoke 183 miles.”

“Roanoke 179 miles.”

“Roanoke 174 miles.”

Fackinell.

Well, late in the evening at “Four Courts” I met the chairman of the Roanoke Chelsea Supporters Club. Not only did this give me a wry smile, but it made me gasp. Roanoke is not a huge town – 97,000 according to my own personal information resource Akipedia – and yet it had its very own supporters group.

As the kids say these days –

“Mind. Blown.”

Two lads from London arrived late on the scene, just as the bar was calling last orders, and as I was thinking of heading back to the hotel. They had just come over for the one game on a quick “in and out mission.” We shared a couple of final beers. Then, Danny from Massachusetts and myself headed a few doors down for a gobsmackingly tasty Indian.

It was around 2.30am.

I needed to get back to the hotel.

In a slightly – only slightly of course – inebriated state I shuffled down Wilson Boulevard. I spotted a “7/11” and fancied a nightcap.

A beer?

A short?

Nope.

A “Reece’s Peanut Butter Ice Cream Cup.”

At 3am in Arlington, Virginia I was living the American dream.

I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of peanut butter, curried turnips, naan bread, Benetton rugby shirts and Torres’ goal against Barcelona in 2012.

On Game Day Number Three, I awoke with no hangover. This was a huge surprise. I am surprised that it didn’t make the papers. Rather than head back to “Four Courts”, a few of us were headed in to the city centre to meet my good friend Steve, who was travelling down to the evening’s game from his home in Philadelphia, but also Team Roma, which was already in DC, and taking a time out to show Super Shawn a few of the main tourist sites.

At around 12.45pm, I walked the short distance from Union Station to the Phoenix Park Hotel, where I met up with The Bobster and Steve. It was a pleasure to see Steve again, who I last met on a Friday afternoon in Manhattan last month as part of my baseball trip. In June we met at “McSorley’s” in the East Village, this time it was “The Dubliner” in DC.

Bizarrely, within minutes, three lads from home – two from Dorset, one from Scunthorpe – burst in to the bar and there were smiles all round. Even more strangely, I first met these chaps, and their oft-spotted “South Dorset Chelsea” Union Jack – out in Kuala Lumpur in 2011.

Now, it seems, we can’t stop bumping in to each other.

Even more incredibly, JR – who was visiting the American History Museum with Erin – had just bumped into Roma, Vanessa and Shawn a mile or so away.

Chelsea world – I have said it before – is such a small world.

Before the others arrived, we enjoyed each other’s’ company. It was the first time all three of us had been together since Philly in 2012. Food was ordered, the beers flowed and we spoke about a wide range of topics, including the plans for the new stadium. Steve is yet to visit Stamford Bridge and we spoke, seriously, about concocting a robust yet devious plan to appease Steve’s wife Terry into allowing him a visit.

“Steve. You are an architect. That is reason alone.”

Roma, Vanessa and Shawn arrived at 4pm, clearly exhausted after walking around the city for a few hours. They sat and cooled off. It was lovely to see them again.

Outside, we had spotted many more Barcelona shirts than those of Chelsea. This was no surprise, since Barcelona can genuinely lay claim to be one of the big three global names alongside Real Madrid and Manchester United. Steve wondered if we are far away from their level. This was a question which I didn’t really answer, though I suppose we are undeniably one of the fastest rising stars of the modern football scene. I still, honestly, struggle to come to terms with our surge in popularity over the past ten years.

Others joined us. Rick and Beckie from Iowa. JR and Erin. Dennis and Dre from Seattle. The clans were gathering. Again, the game was hardly mentioned.

Roma met up with a family from her home town in Tennessee, who were in town for the game, but who were – gasp – Barcelona fans. Roma had coached the two young lads, resplendent in Barca shirts, in the local AYSO league. I explained that I was a Chelsea season ticket holder and, without thinking, soon said that I was “at Camp Nou in 2012.”

I then sheepishly admitted to Roma that this was not the most tactful of things to say. We all laughed though. And I think I laughed the longest.

They left to spend time together, and made their way independently to the stadium by car.

Despite warnings of lengthy travel times by car to Fed-Ex Field, which sits on the very edge of the DC conurbation in Maryland, the three of us booked an Uber car to take us to the game. We left at around 6.15pm. The game was to begin at 8pm. We envisaged reaching the stadium at 7pm.

For an hour and thirty minutes we sat with increasing tension as the driver – a cricket enthusiast from India – edged east. While we moaned about the traffic, the minutes ticked by. On the very last section – a mile or so out – we noticed many passengers leaving their drivers to battle on and walk the final distance. We counted the number of replica shirts. It was split something along the lines of 90% Barcelona / 10% Chelsea. Now, I know that the afore-mentioned casual subculture hasn’t really permeated into the US sporting psyche just yet, but even if some Chelsea fans were eschewing club colours, as is the tendency in SW6, this still represented an overwhelming bias in favour of Barcelona.

We wondered if the game would sell out the huge home of the Washington Redskins, which was once the largest in the National Football League. Ever since we heard that the magical skills of Lionel Messi would not be present, I personally thought that the attendance would suffer. As we edged ever closer, touts lined the approach roads offering tickets.

At 7.45pm, we arrived. There was still a ten minute walk – uphill, damn it – to the large and aesthetically messy stadium. On the final few hundred yards, we heard the national anthem from inside. The briefest of bag checks, and we were in. With ridiculous good fortune, we were inside in time for the kick-off. The stadium was not full, but I knew only too well how many were still outside in cars.

Due to my rushed arrival, I took a while to settle.

Again, the usual scan of the team, a scan to see if there were many friends close by, a scan of the setting and a scan of the replica shirts. It was easy to see that Barcelona greatly outnumbered us in the stadium, unless the Chelsea fans had followed the lead of Rick (Lacoste), Steve (Ralph Lauren), JR (Lacoste) and myself (Monclair).

The stadium was more or less as I remembered it from 2005 when we watched Chelsea beat DC United 2-1 with goals from Duff and Crespo in front of 25,000. It wasn’t a bad match to be fair, and we watched from the same eastern end behind the goal as in 2015. Ten years ago, I had driven to the game – no traffic – and had given a brief interview with a local TV station before the game, when the main question seemed to be about the perceived inadequacies of the local MLS team compared to the all-conquering visitors. When we went 1-0 down, I wondered if the interviewer was re-writing his script for his postgame analysis. I remember being scalded by a “soccer Mom” for knocking in to her when Duffer equalised. It emphasised to me how important it is to have segregation at football games. Sharing the same space with fans supporting opposing teams is always a problem, due mainly to the passions involved in our sport.

Chelsea in all white. I like that strip.

Barcelona in Catalan yellow and red stripes, with blue shorts and yellow socks.

The pitch seemed small and very close to the stands. Of course an NFL pitch is relatively narrow. It was not a stadium that I could easily like. It just appeared to be rather ugly, with executive boxes in the middle tiers, upper tiers sectioned off, brutal concrete everywhere. I bet that the Redskins will be building a new one before we know it. The new generation of NFL stadia seem a lot sleeker than this one.

So. Our team.

In goal was Thibaut, the hero of Charlotte.

In defence, Dave at left back, Kurt Zouma and Gary Cahill in the middle, Ivanovic on the right.

In the midfield two, Matic and Magic Hat.

In the three, Oscar, Hazard and…who? I didn’t recognise the chap. Ah, Kenedy.

Washington is as good a place as any for a chap called Kenedy to debut.

Up front, looking mean and menacing, Diego Costa.

Sadly, Roma, Vanessa and Shawn did not make the kick-off. I hoped they would soon be in. Again, as in Charlotte, and as in most US games, “our end” was full of supporters of the other team. I know that segregation is a prickly issue in America, but it can’t be hard to designate – say – one thousand Chelsea tickets to the Iowa Blues, the New York Blues, the North Texas Blues, the Beltway Blues, the Boston Blues, the Motor City Blues, the Roanoke Blues, the Badgercrack Blues et al, and then two thousand to other Chelsea fans fans to bolster that key segment of support. It was clear early on that the two main singing sections were too spread out, and with a horrible mix of Barcelona fans and “quieter” Chelsea fans too.

We began well I thought. An early Zouma header tested Ter Stegen. Matic seemed to impress straight away, winning tackles and prodding the ball intelligently. Although Messi and Neymar were missing, one familiar face and major irritant was playing.

Luis Suarez. I disliked you then and I dislike you now.

I wonder if the Suarez and Ivanovic subplot might continue.

A header from goal machine Mikel, a shot from Oscar. Barcelona were second best in the opening minutes. A magnificent run and dribble, leaving the entire Catalan nation in his wake, enabled Eden Hazard to dance in to the Barcelona box and calmly prod the ball low and into the goal.

Fantastic.

Barcelona countered, but our defence and Courtois especially were able to withstand any attempts on goal. Suarez was always a looming presence, though, and I like the look of Rakitic.A Chelsea free-kick taken by the involved Oscar rattled the bar. We were definitely on top.

Thankfully, Roma, Vanessa, and Shawn appeared alongside Bob and myself. The traffic had been awful. In addition to an ugly stadium, the Redskins also chose an ugly location for their new home.

Despite taking the lead, the Chelsea support in the area where we were based was at best piecemeal. We tried, but to be honest I soon gave up. My throat was still smarting from Charlotte. Every time a Chelsea song – and there was a nice variety – got going, it was drowned out by the annoying single grunt of “Barca!”

There were four FCB fans in front of me. There were two quiet Chelsea fans behind me. It was going to be an uphill struggle off the pitch.

The football was still of a good quality. Diego Costa should have scored after being set up by the neat Fabregas, but his shot was drilled wide. It seemed that Suarez was our main irritant, but Courtois did well to smother his few strikes on goal.

At half-time, we were happy.

Jose made two changes at the break with a Brazilian themed double substitution.

Wilian and Ramires for Oscar and Kenedy.

Soon into the second period, there was a repeat of my 2005 altercation, when a Barcelona fan and I had a few choice words. It was so pithy as to be unworthy of repeating.

I noted that I could see hardly any empty seats. Even the skyboxes appeared packed.

On the pitch, Diego came close, but then Suarez – why did it have to be him? – managed to lift the ball over the advancing Courtois. In a scene reminiscent of Anfield in 2005, the ball was hacked away by Zouma, but after the referee had already signalled a goal. Of course, all of the Chelsea had varying views of the incident. My view – over one hundred yards away – was perfect.

No goal.

1-1.

So…we then watched as Barcelona took over. And I got more and more irritated by the Barcelona fans around me. Having the enemy so close…breathing on me…might be OK in American sports, but it makes me feel uneasy. I’m no hooligan, but my tempers rose with each of their mocking chants.

We had to endure “BARCA / CHELSEA / BARCA / CHELSEA / BARCA / CHELSEA.”

I even found myself joining in, waving the white flag of surrender.

Ugh.

From behind me –

“Mourinho never beats Barca.”

A worry as Diego Costa appeared to be hurt. Please not his hamstring. He was substituted, and replaced by Falcao. On sixty-five minutes, Sandro – linked with us recently – stepped past Moses, who had been one of a flurry of substitutes from both teams on the hour – and curled a sublime shot past Courtois’ outstretched dive.

The stadium erupted, and the four Barcelona fans in front screamed.

“Count to ten Chris, count to ten.”

We somehow worked some chances. An acrobatic volley from Falcao is still in the air as I write, maybe over Florida by now. Ramires, taking a touch too many perhaps, shot well wide. The minutes ticked by. Moses did ever so well down in front of us, but his drilled centre evaded everyone. Our support rallied and we hoped for an equaliser.

The gate was announced as 79,000.

Bloody fantastic.

It could turn out to be our biggest attendance all season long.

Roma, bless her, was shrieking wildly throughout the second half.

“Let’s Go Chelsea” followed by that crazy smile.

With just five minutes remaining, Willian sent over a teasing centre, but the ball was knocked vertically. It seemed to take forever to come down, but a magnificently-timed leap by Gary Cahill met the ball before others could pounce. The ball looped – a la Ivanovic in Amsterdam – up and down before nestling inside the goal.

“YESYOUFUCKINGBEAUTY.”

The joy was palpable. It was a friendly, but this meant so much.

Willian and Moses had a very late chance to win it, but inexcusably managed to jump for the same ball on the far post. A late Barcelona chance flew past the post.

2-2.

More penalties.

With perfect timing, Brian from Charlotte spotted me on his way out for a comfort break, and smiled as he said :

“Screw the penalties, let’s go to the pub.”

It was the line of the night.

So, the penalties at our end this time. Everyone stood. I varied my approach as I photographed each one.

Iniesta – Barcelona, goal – a photo of the TV screen behind me : 0-1.

Falcao – Chelsea, goal – a photo of the TV screen at the other end : 1-1.

Halilovic – Barcelona, miss – a photo of the TV screen at the other end : 1-1.

Moses – Chelsea, goal – a photo of him through the crowd : 2-1.

Pique – Barcelona, miss – a photo of the TV screen behind me : 2-1.

Ramires – Chelsea, goal – a photo of the TV screen at the other end : 3-1.

Sandro – Barcelona, goal – a photo of him through the crowd : 3-2.

Remy – Chelsea, goal – a photo of him through the crowd : 4-2.

We roared. Winning a friendly had never been this important.

Fantastic.

As Gill and Graeme, a few rows in front, almost exploded with joy, I too was pumped. My pleasure almost surprised me.

Only a friendly, right?

The post-match celebrations and presentations were over remarkably quickly. Thibaut was handed the man of the match trophy – a pint of Guinness and a packet of pork scratchings – and gave a rather embarrassed “thumbs up” to the camera.

The FCB fans had sloped off. I looked around to see if I could see some friends. Everyone was disappearing into the night, keen to leave by train and car.

Outside, I said my fond farewells to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn.

I slowly walked past the slowly-exiting cars, teetering down the shallow slope of the exit road. There seemed to be more Chelsea fans on the walk back to a local train station than I had expected. Maybe the Barcelona fans really had left quickly. At the station, a wait for a ticket, then a wait to board the train. The crowds reminded me of Munich. At least these ones were air-conditioned. I found myself talking to a Chelsea fan on the train, thus missing my stop. I alighted at the next one, which was conveniently located opposite “Four Courts” and unwittingly extended the night.

Here were all the usual suspects again, plus a couple of Chelsea fans from Toronto – Leigh-Anne and John – who had been hoping to see me all day. That I should bump into them in the last few seconds of the day – after extra-time and penalties if you like – was just perfect.

More beers, more photos, more laughs.

And then sadly, a few goodbyes.

A few of us popped next door for a kebab and one last beer.

Andy, Brad, Shaun, The Bobster, Leigh-Ann, John, little old me.

It was around 2am.

The last and final scene of this magnificent and memorable US Tour was being played out.

On Sunday, it’s back to England and back to London and back to Wembley.

And bloody Arsenal.

How boring.

Tales From Fergie Town

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 5 May 2013.

Manchester is possibly my favourite musical city. I make no apologies for this. The Smiths and New Order are right up there in the upper echelons of any list of my most revered bands. Add in The Buzzcocks, a dash of Joy Division, plus a smattering of bands from the Madchester era – James, Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets – and it’s a quite formidable selection. For some unfathomable reason, I was never in to the Stone Roses – I should be – or the more eclectic The Fall. Magazine was a good punk band, though. So, ahead of my trip to Manchester for our massive game with the newly-crowned Champions, I was well aware of the whole trip turning into a personal voyage into my musical history.

John Cooper Clarke, a native of Salford – that strange city within a city – rode the punk rollercoaster back in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties. He was the poet of punk, sporting big black-rimmed glasses and mountainous back-combed hair. I was aware of his stuff, but – like Mark E. Smith and The Fall – found it too difficult for my ears. I then saw him recite one of his most famous poems in the film “Control” and was taken aback at its style and resonance. For me, it summed up the greyness of Manchester in those days of unemployment, recession and urban blight.

“The bloody cops are bloody keen.
To bloody keep it bloody clean.
The bloody chief’s a bloody swine.
Who bloody draws a bloody line.
At bloody fun and bloody games.
The bloody kids he bloody blames.
Are nowhere to be bloody found.
Anywhere in chicken town.

The bloody scene is bloody sad.
The bloody news is bloody bad.
The bloody weed is bloody turf.
The bloody speed is bloody surf.
The bloody folks are bloody daft.
Don’t make me bloody laugh.
It bloody hurts to look around.
Everywhere in chicken town.
The bloody train is bloody late.
You bloody wait you bloody wait.
You’re bloody lost and bloody found.
Stuck in fcuking chicken town.

The bloody view is bloody vile.
For bloody miles and bloody miles.
The bloody babies bloody cry.
The bloody flowers bloody die.
The bloody food is bloody muck.
The bloody drains are bloody fcuked.
The colour scheme is bloody brown.
Everywhere in chicken town.

The bloody pubs are bloody dull.
The bloody clubs are bloody full.
Of bloody girls and bloody guys.
With bloody murder in their eyes.
A bloody bloke is bloody stabbed.
Waiting for a bloody cab.
You bloody stay at bloody home.
The bloody neighbours bloody moan,
Keep the bloody racket down.
This is bloody chicken town.

The bloody pies are bloody old.
The bloody chips are bloody cold.
The bloody beer is bloody flat.
The bloody flats have bloody rats.
The bloody clocks are bloody wrong.
The bloody days are bloody long.
It bloody gets you bloody down.
Evidently chicken town.
The bloody train is bloody late.
You bloody wait you bloody wait.
You’re bloody lost and bloody found.
Stuck in fcuking chicken town.”

Stirring stuff, eh?

“Evidently Chicken Town” was also used in a closing scene of an episode of The Sopranos.

I just love it.

United away is one of the games of the season. A trip to either Merseyside or Manchester always stirs the memories, evoking past trips, past matches, past battles. It is also a chance for me to observe how the other-half – the Northern half – live. There’s definitely a northern culture. And this has permeated to the football world over the years. I like to think that I might occasionally spot a couple of well-turned out old-school Perries from Crumpsall and Urmston, sporting Berghaus rain jackets, Paul & Shark pullovers and Adidas Trimm Trabs. What I usually end up with is a bus load of United divs from Cornwall, Belfast and Dublin wearing replica shirts, friendship scarves and gormless Megastore expressions. I remember reading a United fanzine a few years ago in which one of the regular contributors lamented the passing of legions of well-turned out United supporters; he always used to stand on the forecourt and size up the away fans to see if any new “look” was on the horizon. A new label here, a new pair of trainers there. These days, seeing a new “North Face” jacket is the best we can hope for.

So, United Away. I wanted to make sure I was suitably attired. A Lacoste polo – as old school as it gets – was chosen along with some Levis and a new pair of white and midnight blue canvas Nikes, which I had been saving for an important occasion. Should we win – I was obviously thinking ahead – they might make the trip to The Netherlands. I threw a navy Lacoste rain jacket into the back seat of my car, remembering that the weather forecast was of typical grey clouds in Mancunia, and set off at 10am.

The kick-off was at 4pm and I wanted to be parked-up at my usual place by 2pm. I guzzled a can of Starbuck’s double espresso and pointed my car north, way north. The Depeche Mode CD from Thursday night was still in situ and this took me into Bristol. A Morrissey album accompanied me further north, past the green fields of Gloucestershire and then Worcestershire. I stopped at Strensham and, among the AON clad hordes of “Uni’ed” fans from the West Country, I walked past a chap wearing a classic green “The Queen Is Dead” T-shirt. I had a little smile to myself.

I had only just recently updated my “Facebook” cover with a photograph of myself outside the iconic Salford Lads Club, which I visited before a game at Old Trafford a few years back.

“The Queen Is Dead Boys And It’s So Lonely On A Limb.”

The Buzzcocks accompanied me as I headed north past Stoke-on-Trent. The vibe was good; I was losing myself in the moment, not thinking too much about the game – that would take care of itself – but just kicking back and loving the buzz of travel in itself.

“It’s what I do.”

At Sandbach, it was time for a McDonalds coffee. In the service station, I chatted to The Bristol Four. Talk was of travel to Amsterdam but also of the day’s game. I wasn’t sure of our chances. I felt, for some reason, that the amount of games that we have played this season could haunt us and United could “dick” us. Kev called it right though; it all depended on United’s mind-set really. If they weren’t focused and fired up, we could steal a win. No doubts.

“OK, safe travels, see you in there.”

For a change, I drove in to Manchester via Altrincham and Sale on the A56, rather than navigate the motorway past Manchester Airport. Altrincham were once one of the biggest non-league teams in the country, but the automatic promotion process treated them unkindly. In the time of their pomp, non-league teams needed to be voted in to the Football League. By the time of promotion from the conference to the league eventually came in 1987, Altrincham’s time had passed. Cult Northern comedian Frank Sidebottom – he of the papier mache head – was the Robins’ most famous fan. Sale was the home town of a college acquaintance – Rick – who was both a United fan and Smiths aficionado. His claim to fame was sleeping through the infamous battle between United and West Ham fans on the English cross-channel ferry – the Koningen Beatrix – way back in 1986.

The A56 sped me through the leafy suburbs of Sale and I was soon in familiar territory. The floodlights of the Lancashire cricket ground were spotted and I had a glorious flashback. I saw Morrissey in 2004 here, my favourite gig of all time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXwIOvICyVs

Outside the chip shops at the intersection of the Chester Road and Sir Matt Busby Way, The Bristol Four were tucking into chips, peas and gravy. I quickly zipped around to the base of the North Stand – renamed the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand – and took a couple of photos. The statue is rather tucked away, far from the Munich clock, the Munich memorial, the Sir Matt Busby statue and the United Trinity statue. Make no mistakes, though, this is still Fergie Town. The Mancunian lead grey skies were reflected behind him in the panels of the stand.

It was 3.15pm and time to head inside. I met up with a few of the boys – The Bristol Four, Alan, Gary and Alan – and had a couple of bottles of Singha. With four league games left, two wins would effectively be enough to secure a top four finish. If we finished level on points with Tottenham, our far superior goal difference would see us through.

In such circumstances, Spurs fans would be quite baleful I am sure.

Inside Old Trafford, we took our seats in row 24, in the side section where the 500 or so away season-ticket holders were allocated. There were familiar faces everywhere. Sadly, I soon spotted a section of around four-hundred seats in the away section which had not been sold. I have never known us not to sell our three thousand seats at Old Trafford ever before. It made me angry.

“The fcuking seats are fcuking red.
The fcuking fans are home instead.
The fcuking seats are full of air.
The fcuking seats are fcuking spare.”

As sad a sight as this was, I spoke to Alan about a recently publicised article by Manchester police in which it stated that hundreds, if not thousands, of seats at Old Trafford are empty for games this season. The new habit of clubs announcing tickets sold, and not simply those attending, has meant that games are generally several thousand below capacity. This happens at The Bridge too. Soon into the game, I spotted hundreds of empty seats dotted around all areas of Old Trafford.

I scanned the teams. Robin van Persie was playing but no Chicarito, Wellbeck or Rooney to support him. There was no Rio Ferdinand. We were without John Terry, but Ba was in, playing ahead of Moses, Mata and Oscar. Lampard was paired with Ramires. Along the backline, we looked strong. I hoped for a strong performance from Luiz alongside Brana. It was fantastic to have Ash back.

This was our fifth game against United this season; hell, it was only eight weeks since our amazing second-half comeback at the same stadium in the F.A. Cup. It seemed like five minutes ago.

We began the game well. Within the first fifteen or so minutes, we had amassed four worthwhile attempts on the United goal. The best effort was a delicate effort from Oscar, in the inside-right channel, which Lindegaard touched onto his near post. United seemed to be very lethargic. Cech was only called into action sporadically. Mata cut inside and passed back to Moses, but his shot was high and wasteful.

The Chelsea choir, split into two sections, were in very fine voice. Mixed in with songs about Munich and Amsterdam were ditties about Robin van Persie and several Coronation Street actors who have recently come under scrutiny for the most horrible of reasons.

“Ken Barlow – He’s One Of Your Own.”

A Ba shot fizzed past the far post and Cech was called in to action to swat away a number of crosses from wide positions. This, however, was not the United of old. They seemed to be a shadow of themselves. It was a full thirty minutes into the game that I honestly heard a loud chant from the Stretford End. The best chance of the entire half, though, went United’s way. An inch-perfect pass from the artisan Giggs found the forward run of van Persie. His delicate touch, with what appeared to be the side of his left boot, steered the ball oh-so close, but just evaded the goal.

We heaved a massive sigh of relief.

A late effort from Oscar gave us hope for the second-half.

Downstairs at the break, we agreed that we would be happy with a point, just to keep the momentum going, just to keep the pressure on Arsenal and Tottenham, who had both managed two narrow 1-0 wins on the Saturday.

We again began brightly and, every time that the ball was played up to our attackers, I lifted my trusty camera to my eyes. I was therefore able to see, through my zoom lens, the tug on David Luiz’ shirt by Ryan Giggs. Alas, no foul – penalty or otherwise – was called. The game was a strange one. We enjoyed most of the ball and United’s players seemed wasteful; poor control here, a miss-placed pass there.

Phil Jones broke through our defence, sprinting forward like a gazelle, but his final ball was neither a shot nor a cross to the waiting van Persie. How often have we seen the prolific Dutchman slam those in? The ball dropped past the far post and out of play.

Tombsie was in loud and rumbustious form in the row in front of Alan, Gary and myself.

“Fourteen days to go. Fourteen days of Rafa. Fourteen days of that fat cnut. Fourteen days of Rafa.”

Buttner and Rooney entered the fray, but Benitez, typically, did not fancy changing our personnel. As the game drifted on with chances at a premium, some of our players seemed to tire. We needed fresh legs. Eventually, Benitez made a change, replacing Moses with Fernando Torres, who drew a few boos from the denizens in the United section of the East Stand. Lampard played in a superb ball towards Juan Mata, but he was just unable to get his head to the ball. Instead, it hit Jones and went off for a corner. Three corners in succession then ensued, but we never troubled the United ‘keeper.

A frustrating free-kick from David Luiz was sent wide and we thought that might be our last chance. Tombsie, plus a few others, surprisingly left.

With the game fizzling out, Ramires broke away from the halfway line. I caught his run on film. I also caught his delicate back-heel into the path of Oscar, who had arrived just behind him. We had the extra man. Oscar played in Juan Mata out wide. As our little Spanish magician struck, I clicked my camera. It is very likely that I still had my camera up to my eye when I saw the ball almost apologetically stumble in to the goal off the far post.

The Chelsea section roared.

YEEEEEEES!

I glanced at Alan, who was screaming, his cheeks red, his face ecstatic. I spotted Juan Mata sprint down to the corner flag. It was his moment to tease, torment and tantalise. I clicked away…I was surprisingly cool. After taking around ten photos, my time had come. I clambered onto the seat in front and screamed.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! GET IN!

That was it. It was time for some bombastic, triumphant chanting.

“Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming.
Amsterdam. Amsterdam. I Pray.
Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming.
We Are Coming In The Month Of May.”

Our battle song of 2013.

The Chelsea fans around me were full of smiles and joy and I stood on the seat in front for the next few minutes. I was only vaguely aware of the late red card for Raphael as I was still full of song. I felt my throat getting sore, but this was no time to relent.

“Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”

Despite a few last-ditch United chances, we held on. This was my eighteenth visit to Old Trafford with Chelsea and only the fifth victory. It wasn’t comparable to the pivotal win in 2009-2010, but it was a close second.

I raced back to the waiting car with the United fans moaning away all around me. I listened to “606” on the drive through Sale and Altrincham and Dave Johnstone’s voice was the sole Chelsea voice to be heard. Many United fans were phoning in. A couple of Spurs fans too.

They weren’t happy.

How dare “United” lose a match!

To be honest, I could hardly believe my ears at the ruthlessness of some Manchester United fans. They were irate with Ferguson for playing a second-rate team (I hadn’t noticed) and one chap was so fed up with Fergie’s dictatorial nature that he wasn’t renewing his season ticket next year.

Oh boy.

I drove on. Thankfully, the traffic was remarkably light for a Manchester United home game. I passed a coach with a “Surrey Reds” flag flying in the back seat. I again chuckled to myself.

“Enjoy your trip home, boys. Enjoy your United bedspreads, United fridge magnets, United alarm clocks and United pencil cases.”

I eventually reached home at 10pm, just in time to see the highlights of the game on “MOTD2.”

It had turned out to be quite a day following in the footsteps of the team. After our spirited draw at Old Trafford on Sunday 10 March 2013 and our win at Old Trafford on Sunday 5 May 2013, I was more than happy for every day to be like Sundays like these.

Tales From The Same Old Scene

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 2 March 2013.

At 10am, I collected Glenn from The Royal Oak in Frome and then Andy from The Black Horse in Trowbridge about twenty minutes later. I pointed my car towards The Goose in Fulham. From pub to pub to pub. A football Saturday. A 3pm kick-off.

Bada bing.

Of course, my friendship with Glenn goes back as far as 1977. At Oakfield Middle School in Frome, Glenn’s Liverpool-supporting brother Paul was in the same class as me. Once Glenn joined us at the same school – he is two years younger – it didn’t take Paul long to introduce him to me. My first game at Stamford Bridge was in March 1974. Glenn’s first game was the home-opener with Everton in 1977. Our Chelsea match-going pedigree goes back almost forty years. A chance meeting in The Shed in August 1983 fired up our friendship to a new level and in that most cherished of seasons – the promotion campaign of Dixon, Speedie and Nevin – we accompanied each other to several games. The first game in which we travelled up together was against Newcastle United and we were rewarded with an immense game, a 4-0 Chelsea win and plenty of memories. With each trip to see our heroes, the bonds were strengthened and the friendship grew.

I have known Andy for almost thirty years. I have told the story of how we met before; a chance meeting in The Crown in Frome’s Market Place in the fantastic sun-kissed summer of 1984. I was with a couple of mates. He was with some chaps from Trowbridge. His little gaggle of friends and me were all wearing football schmutter and we tentatively edged around the prickly subject of starting up a conversation. A few glances were exchanged. I looked for clues. There were no small Chelsea pin badges on show. The four Trowbridge lads were obviously wary; they were the visitors to Frome and, at the time, there was a little unhealthy rivalry between the two towns, separated by only eight miles. Fisticuffs between the hooligan-element from Frome, Westbury and Trowbridge was a common occurrence at weekends. However, once I declared myself a Chelsea fan, the barriers fell.

“Yeah, we’re Chelsea too. Where did you get those Nikes mate?”

Unbeknown to me until recently, these four lads were mates with Parky. One of the lads – Laszlo – and I were wearing the exact same blue and white Pringle pullover.

“Of all the bars, in all the towns…”

Why this fascination with that 1983-1984 era?

It’s easy really. It acts as a benchmark. Despite all of our recent successes, I was probably never happier as a Chelsea fan than during the summer of 1984. I can remember, as though it was yesterday, sitting on a low wall, overlooking the river which circumnavigated the dairy where I worked for four months in that summer.

An early morning tea-break. My overalls undone to the waist. The sun already beating down on my back. Thoughts of away days to Arsenal, Tottenham, Liverpool and United. The resurgence of a sleeping Chelsea. And I’d be part of it.

It was always the cause of much glee that in my over-simplistic way of analysing things in those days that a simple eight hour shift at the dairy in 1984 earned me a take-home wage of £15.

£15 happened to be the exact same price as a trip to Stamford Bridge (£8 train ticket, £4 admission £3 for a programme and a couple of pints).

Perfect.

Back to 2013 and the trip up to Chelsea Land seemed to take no time at all. The three of us chatted virtually non-stop as I drove east. After the Rafa Benitez outburst on Wednesday, we certainly had enough to keep us occupied. Andy, who has only been to a handful of games this season, was lured to the West Brom game by the chance to join in the scorn being heaped on Benitez.

As for me, I was less enthusiastic. The thought of Stamford Bridge being swamped in ‘negative noise” just made me weary. This is not to say that there is not a time for protests, but I just felt depressed at the thought of the media scrutinising everything that would be said and sung, booed and hissed later in the afternoon.

In The Goose – Glenn’s first visit since the refurbishment – there was no general consensus about ‘The Benitez Rant.” There were many different opinions. Some were relishing the opportunity to vent further anger on the manager. Whisper it quietly, but several were of the opinion that Benitez was quite correct to call for a cessation of hostilities and for fans to galvanise behind the team. When talk was broadened to talk about the team and the way forward, opinions were equally diverse. Even on the subject of Frank Lampard, views varied. Some wanted a one year extension as a bare minimum, but others were more forthright; that the summer of 2013 would be the time to dispense with not only Frank Lampard but John Terry, too.

Glenn asked a great question; “If Mourinho returns in the summer…takes a look at things…decides that it is time to dispense with Terry and Lampard…would you be OK with it?”

Clear the old guard and start afresh.

Big questions.

There were also discussions about Thibaut Courtois, excelling in Madrid, and some friends were all for jettisoning Petr Cech in favour of the young Belgian phenomenon. I wasn’t so sure.

What a muddle.

The relative merits of other players were also discussed.

I had to smile at Simon’s comment –

“For all of Luiz’ frailties and defensive blunders, I still love him because he’s typical Chelsea. Crap and brilliant in equal measure.”

We all agreed that if the old guard left, other players would fill the vacuum, and new leaders would emerge. We all thought that Gary Cahill was a captain in the making.

“Our best pound for pound signing for ages.”

Talk veered away from the team and a few of us spoke about the Chelsea match going experience in 2013 and how it has all changed and how we have changed with it. More than one person confessed that they are not enjoying it much at the moment. After the heady days of May and our twin cup triumphs, this is of course not surprising, but a lot of us often comment that the match-day malaise set in years ago. I wondered if this was a simple result of all of the games that we have seen; that by nature, fans in our mid-forties are unlikely to be as mesmerized by the thought of Chelsea as we were in our teens. Rob said that he doesn’t feel a bond with the players these days. I admitted the same; or at least to the bond I had with Joey, Mickey, Eddie and John.

Ah, 1983-1984 again.

We then briefly touched on the view that we have become a spoilt fan base. There is – of course – a huge great big dollop of truth in this statement. I’d like to think that, in the parlance of today, that myself and my closest mates try to ‘keep it real”, but there is no shadow of a doubt that increasingly large factions of our support are a complete embarrassment.

I was reminded of the Manchester United banner which quotes the words from a James song.

“If I hadn’t seen such riches, I could live with being poor.”

I took my seat with only a few minutes to spare, just as the teams were about to enter the pitch. I checked with Alan to see if there had been any anti-Benitez protests.

“Nah, nothing.”

Big John and I shared a few words.

“I’m dreading this.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Especially after last season.”

“Typical Chelsea though. When we won the league in 1955, we finished twelfth the next season.”

“Yeah. It was always going to happen. Written in the stars.”

Despite the sense of dismay with what has happened to Chelsea this season (oh, wait – let me check…sorry, we’re in third place…damn those riches), there was another capacity crowd at Stamford Bridge. I was amazed at the lack of venom which greeted Benitez as he took his place on the bench. The verbal onslaught never really materialised. Steve Clarke received a nice round of applause from the home supporters at the start of the game.

“Welcome back Clarkey.”

If anything, there seemed to be more “pro-Chelsea” noise (what a strange concept…as if there is any other type of support) at the start of the game than in recent home games.

The game was played out in bright winter sunshine and the first-half was virtually all Chelsea. Oscar came close on a number of occasions, but it was Demba Ba who broke the deadlock, slamming the ball home from close range after a well cushioned knock back from the head of David Luiz.

Our football was fine in the first half. We enjoyed tons of possession. Even though West Brom defended like Trojans, they rarely threatened Petr Cech’s goal. It was time for one of Alan’s quips –

“This is as one-sided as Heather Mills’ shoe collection.”

The 1,500 away fans hardly sung a note. Our support, maybe in a state of confusion at the current state of affairs, was quiet too.

My favourite piece of football in the entire game was an exciting run down the left by Eden Hazard. Starting from just over the half-way line, is run was full of power and speed, but included a mesmeric shimmy – feinting to go one way, sending the defender off balance, then gliding by. It reminded me of that beautiful feint by Roberto Baggio during the 1990 World Cup. A slight shift of the weight from one side of the body to the other can wreck the best defender’s chances.

I approved of the two attempts by the Chelsea support to honour the recent anniversary of the sad passing of Peter Osgood.

“The King of Stamford Bridge” was lustily sung by the home fans.

Good work.

Our domination of the game continued but a second goal was not forthcoming. Oscar continued his fine run of form. He looks more and more the complete midfielder. His touch is magnificent.

The funniest moment of the entire game took place when the ball was hit out of play and ended up in the sweaty hands of Benitez. Up until that time, the anti-Rafa songs had virtually died out. Touching the ball was the last thing that Benitez needed. He slammed the ball back towards a Chelsea player. With that, the Matthew Harding Lower sprung to life and the stadium echoed with a few songs aimed at the much-disliked manager.

“Stand up if you hate Rafa.”

“You’re not wanted here.”

There were a few choruses in praise of a much-loved former boss too.

“Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho.”

As the game reached its completion, tension in the stands grew and grew. I was convinced that the visitors would score a late equaliser.

We all were, right?

Thankfully, the danger passed.

This was clearly a game which wouldn’t live long in the memory, but those three points were all that mattered.

No jaunt to Bucharest for me on Thursday, so Old Trafford next.

See you up there.

Tales From A Wake-Up Call

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 2 May 2012.

As I drove from Chippenham to London with Parky, I was well aware that there was a feeling of impregnable invincibility in the air. After the flurry of our recent results, the goals and the glory, I honestly felt that we could make a good stab at winning all five of our remaining games in this roller-coaster of a football season. I was confident of winning the next four, at least. The last one, our sixty-sixth game of the season – and my fifty-eighth – might be beyond us, but I was gung-ho about the others. Yes, I know what everyone is thinking; this unfamiliar optimism was most unChelsea, but it is amazing what a run of success brings to the zeitgeist around any football club. Football is surely all about confidence.

This would be my last midweek venture up the M4 motorway this season. I commented to Parky how different the midweek games are compared to the weekend ones. I prefer the weekend games, but I must admit there is no better feeling than heading out of Chippenham on the A350 with the stresses of a working day behind me and Chelsea in my thoughts.

It is very fortuitous that I work in Chippenham. Admittedly, the daily commute is 45 minutes in length, but Chippenham is but a mere ten minutes from junction 17 of the motorway. Once on that road, I can hurtle along and be parked up on a good day in two hours. Just right for a Carling Cup game, a Champions League game or a midweek league game. If I worked 45 minutes to the south or west of my home down in Yeovil or Langport or somewhere, the midweek scramble to Stamford Bridge would be almost impossible. So – I’m a lucky chap.

And this was a good day. I collected Lard Porky at 3.45pm and we strolled into The Goose at 5.45pm. On the drive to London, we briefly chatted about plans for those remaining games of the season. It’s hard to believe that 2011-2012 is nearing completion. It seems only yesterday that we were down at Fratton Park for that celery-ridden friendly back in July.

I was surprised to see a smattering of black and white Newcastle shirts in the boozer, but I wasn’t bothered. I must admit to having a slight soft-spot for Newcastle United and I think I have alluded to this in the past. My first ever Chelsea game took place on a sunny March afternoon in 1974 against The Geordies and our paths seemed to cross all the time in my youth and on into my twenties. Our time in the second division from 1979 to 1984 provided some gorgeous memories (I saw three Chelsea vs. Newcastle games in this period) and set the trend for our magnificent home record against them which has continued on ever since. Our last home league defeat against the Tynesiders was in November 1986.

Although I remember a lot of “Chelsea stuff” without the need of memory aids, let me dip into my diary once again to pick out a few salient points from that Chelsea vs. Newcastle United game on Saturday 22nd November 1986. That particular game was my 91st Chelsea game, but already my 7th game against The Geordies. By the way, Newcastle have only been called The Toon (outside of the North-East, at any rate) since around 1990. Back in those days, they were simply Geordies. It’s funny how nicknames come and go. Insert “The Chels” reference here.

I travelled down by train from Stoke-on-Trent to London on that November morning. At Euston, I noted that a mob of Manchester City casuals jumped over the barriers at the tube station down below the mainline station en route to Highbury. Although City’s firm were called “The Guvnors” back in those days, I’m pretty sure they used to have a splinter faction called “The Maineline.” It was often the fashion for followers of teams in the north-west to travel down to London on trains with no train tickets and attempt to “blag” their way south. The bundling over the tube barriers was just a manifestation of this. Pre-match was typically spent wandering around the clothes and record shops of the West End. On this particular day, I spotted a new Cocteau Twins album and I purchased a lime green Marc O’Polo sweatshirt from their flagship store at Covent Garden. Marc O’Polo, a German company, was well-favoured by the football lads around this time. It died out at football around 1990, but I’m always tempted to get some more of their gear. Who wants to join me? Football fashion had gone from lurid sportswear in 1983-1984 to a more mature look in 1984-1985. In 1986-1987, it was all black leather jackets, Reebok trainers, Hardcore jeans (remember them?) and Armani pullovers.

Pre-match was spent in “The Crown & Sceptre” near “Harrod’s” and I then walked down the Fulham Road before a pint in the more working class “George” at Chelsea. I chatted to a few members of the Yeovil supporters’ group before meeting up with Alan. He too had seen the new Cocteau Twins’ album. It must’ve been the “Victorialand” album; a more ambient sound, subtler, gentle and soothing. Alan and I watched from The Benches, along with our friend Leggo, who sadly doesn’t go anymore, and Mark, who does (he got a mention in the Barcelona report last week.) The gate of 14,544 included around 1,000 Geordies. Gordon Durie gave us a 1-0 lead, but Newcastle came back strongly to win 3-1. The crowd were baying for the demise of manager John Hollins at the end and Alan’s opinion was that he would resign. He lasted until the Spring of 1988, in fact. Alan, Mark and I have lasted considerably longer.

Little did we know that the 3-1 defeat handed out to us by the likes of Peter Beardsley and co on that day in 1986 would be the last league defeat for years and years and years…

No wonder I like Newcastle United.

Parky and I grabbed some pints and wandered off into the beer garden in search of some mates. For the first time that I can recall, a bloke was set up to sell T-shirts and friendship scarves for the European Cup Final in Munich. Amongst the little gaggle of friends, Munich was unsurprisingly garnering all of the attention. One chap from Bristol – Clive – had already collected his ticket from the box office; he opened up his wallet to allow me a slight peek. Unlike the red of the Moscow ticket, I am heartened by the blue, white and yellow of the 2012 edition. It got me thinking about Munich. Bayern are not the only team in the city. The suburban team of Unteraching have recently played in the Bundesliga, but the “other” team in the Bavarian city is TSV1860, a famous old team, who share the Allianz Arena with Bayern, just as they used to share the Olympic Stadium previously. TSV’s colours of light blue and white match the colours of the Bavarian flag and I well remember that during our over-achieving ECWC campaign of 1994-1995, a few 1860 fans followed Chelsea to stadia in the Czech Republic, Austria, Belgium and Spain. On one of my two visits to Munich’s magnificent Oktoberfest, I remember chatting in very broken German to an old Polish guy from Munich who was an 1860 fan. Ironically, I think this alcohol-fuelled chat took place in the Lowenbrau tent and, of course, the Lowenbrau logo features the blue and white diamonds of the Bavaria crest too. Daryl has already carried out some reconnaissance work on Munich for 19 May and we spoke briefly about a beer hall which could act as our base camp for the day’s activities.

Two guests from across the pond soon arrived. Chris Cruz – aka captdf – and Ben Horner – aka NUhusky13 – spent a very enjoyable hour or so with us in the beer garden. I had met Chris in 2008-2009 and Ben in 2010-2011 and it was a pleasure to welcome them back into the bosom of Chelsea Football Club. Chris explained how his daughter Ava had enjoyed her first ever match at The Bridge – the humiliation of QPR on Sunday – and that it is a wonderful feeling to witness the attractions of a foreign city through the eyes of a child. I will no doubt feel the same with Glenn in Munich.

“Look Chris – a big glass of beer!”

“Look Chris – a hot dog!”

Ben, newly arrived from Boston mid-morning, was holding up well in spite of a little jet lag. There was the usual pre-match banter, but typically no talk whatsoever of the game.

“I respect the etiquette” said Ben, who was sporting a natty Boston Blues / CIA top.

The time flew past and it was 7pm. I had to shoot down to meet Steve outside the tube. I waited for him by the CFCUK stall and I spotted more red and blue scarves for Munich. Bizarrely, Mark had a replica of the European Cup on his stall. Steve soon arrived and we were off.

It was a pretty mild evening, but with horrible drizzle and a blustery wind. Inside The Bridge, there were 1,500 away fans and two away flags. Newcastle, despite some legendary numbers in that 1983-184 season, have not brought more than 1,500 down to a league game at Chelsea for ages. I always note away followings. I think it is a true sign of the size of a club, perhaps more so than home attendances. Who regularly fills out the maximum 3,000 at Chelsea? The usual suspects. Manchester United, Liverpool, Tottenham Hotspur, Arsenal and West Ham United. No more than these, season after season. Aston Villa? Everton? Manchester City? Leeds United? Sunderland? Forget it. They only bring 1,400 or 1,500. And yet I’d suggest that Chelsea regularly take maximum amounts to 90% of our away venues. I’d say that we are up there alongside United, Liverpool, Arsenal and Spurs as the top five supported clubs in England away from our home stadia.

And I love that. I love our away support. It helps define us as a club, more so than the thousands who turn The Bridge into a morgue at times. I remember the abuse that Evertonians and Manchester City fans gave us this season when we didn’t fully fill our 3,000 allocations. And yet, as I have pointed out, when was the last time either of those “massive” clubs ever brought the maximum down for a league game? City may win the league this year, but they only brought down 1,500 in December.

And these things count to me and people like me.

Football is all about showing up.

Another 41,500 showed up for this game and we were hopeful that di Matteo’s team changes would result in another win, a few more goals and another three points.

To be truthful, Newcastle United – still smarting from their heavy defeat at Wigan – were excellent and caught us off-guard, out of shape, lacking in desire and bereft of attacking nous. The insipid first-half was pretty dire, despite a strong start from the Boys In Blue From Division Two. A couple of half-chances for Chelsea and then a bicycle kick from Demba Ba threatened our goal. Ba impressed me for West Ham a year ago, but his season has been eclipsed by the arrival of Papiss Cisse, the Senegalese striker. The skilful Ben Arfa set up Cisse on 19 minutes and the Toon Goal Machine walloped the ball past Cech from 15 yards. It was a fine goal. He celebrated down in front of us and I was beginning to re-assess my friendliness towards Newcastle United.

Chelsea laboured against a resolute Newcastle defence and the crowd were not happy. It took until the 37th. minute for our next real chance when the always industrious Torres advance down the right and sent in a superb whipped cross towards the head of Florent Malouda, but the effort whistled past a post. From the resultant corner, Meireles lofted the ball into the six yard box but Ivanovic thundered the ball over from a position almost under the bar.

Then it was Newcastle’s turn. Ba wriggled away from his marker and struck low, but the lunging Cech managed to get a fingertip to the ball and divert it past the far post. Just before the half-time whistle, Ba hit the crossbar. This was clearly a tough Newcastle team and we were in for a massive fight to even get a draw, let alone a win. With so many team changes, our play struggled to flow. Malouda and Sturridge were especially poor.

At the half-time whistle, I listened for the boos and one fellow fan did not disappoint. The mean white haired bloke in his early ‘fifties who sits and bellows behind Gary could be heard booing as the teams traipsed off the pitch. He then mouthed an obscenity and I just looked at him with despair. I have mentioned him once before this season and I popped down to mention him to Big John and Young Dane. They both were aware of him. One of these days he’ll get a mouthful from all three of us.

He was a picture of festering displeasure and he acts as a totem for all that is wrong with our spoilt and blasé support in 2012. My late gran would comment, I am sure, that he had a face “like a hen’s ass.” He had the scowl that would curdle milk.

And one of these days, he’s going to get it.

Gus Poyet – he of two F.A. Cup semi-final goals against Newcastle in 2000 – was the guest at the break. I loved Poyet, but still haven’t fully forgiven him for moving to Tottenham, kissing their badge against us and then coaching at Tottenham.

Juan Mata came on for the woeful Sturridge at the break and we lived in hope. After a quiet opening, Malouda was replaced by Didier. Di Matteo was making all the right moves. An amazing “reverse-cross” from Torres was the first talking point of the half, but nothing came of the ball into the box. The impressive Tiote fell awkwardly from a jump alongside Mikel and there was concern when he stayed on the pitch for many minutes. It is always sad to see a stretcher appear. He was warmly applauded as he was taken off the field.

All eyes were on the scoreboard as updates from the Wigan vs. Spurs game came through, but with each goal, more moans. Fourth place was looking as likely as a Mikel goal. Another change; Frank Lampard for Raul Meireles. Meireles was undoubtedly one of the heroes in Catalonia but was now reduced to chasing shadows in SW6. The crowd were buoyed by the presence of the three big substitutions, but we still struggled. Hardly any effort of note troubled Tim Krull, who was eventually booked for continual time-wasting at goal kicks. In the 87th minute, a towering JT header from a corner was goal bound but Santon managed to head clear.

The fourth official signified a further ten minutes in light of the injury to Tiote. With Tottenham now enjoying a 4-1 win, our league season plunged into darkness when that man Cisse struck a swerving, dipping shot past the dumbfounded Petr Cech and into the Shed End goal. It was an amazing goal and I almost…almost…applauded it.

With that, thousands of Chelsea fans shamefully did a Tottenham and vacated their seats.

The Geordies were now in full voice.

“ E I E I E I O – Up the Premier League we go.”

“With an N and an E and a Wubble-You C, an A and an S and a T, L, E – U, N, I, T,E, D – Newcastle United FC.”

“Ah me lads, ye shud only seen us gannin’,
We pass’d the foaks upon the road just as they wor stannin’;
Thor wes lots o’ lads an’ lasses there, all wi’ smiling faces,
Gawn alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

So – our first home league defeat to Newcastle since I was 21.

Only John Terry really bothered to applaud us at the end. It had been a lack-lustre performance by the boys for sure and Newcastle deserved the win. It will surely act as a reference point for our game with Liverpool on Saturday. No win is gained without due attention and effort. We must improve and surely will.

Outside, the supporters made a subdued walk past the hot dog stands and the souvenir stalls.

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

The mood was somber, but with no real malice. We had bigger fish to fry this season.

After a slow trudge along the North End Road, Parky was waiting for me by the car. The rain fell as I ate up the miles on my return trip to the shires of Wiltshire and Somerset. I eventually reached home at 1pm and I soon searched the internet for footage of Cisse’s second goal.

Oh my.

It was often said, in jest, with irony, with sarcasm, that whenever Chelsea were knocked out of the FA Cup each year, we could at least “concentrate on the league.”

How ironic then, that as our faltering pursuit of the cash cow that is fourth place comes to an end, we can now utter the words – and truthfully, too :

“Oh well – we can now concentrate on the cups.”

Four games left. Two Cup Finals.

Who are we? We are Chelsea. Let’s go to work.

Tales From Stamford Bridge

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 October 2011.

A fortnight ago, we won at The Reebok and all was well with the world. The day after, Chelsea Football Club announced their proposal to buy the CPO shares and the subsequent ramifications of this has dominated my thoughts ever since, like some never-ending stream of consciousness.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I crawled out of bed on Tuesday 4th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was sat at my desk at work on Wednesday 5th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I drove into work on Thursday 6th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was watching England on a scratchy streaming site in the evening on Friday 7th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was doing some ironing on Saturday 8th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it while I was getting changed to play five-a-side on Sunday 9th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about when I was shopping in Bradford-On-Avon on Monday 10th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was in a meeting at work on Tuesday 11th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was filling up with petrol at Beckington on Wednesday 12th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was listening to a work colleague bore me with talk of cars on Thursday 13th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was trying desperately to get to sleep on Friday 14th. October.

I know this – I was in no mood for a Chelsea game last weekend. I needed time to ruminate over the severity of the situation that we found ourselves in and I needed time to reflect on the way forward.

My preparations for the game with Everton were dominated with thoughts about the CPO vote and the future of football at The Bridge. As I collected Parky at 10am, I was pretty sure that other thoughts – our line-up, the threat of Everton, the other games, the drinking, the pre-match, the coming games with Genk and QPR – would be pushed to one side. All along, this didn’t seem like a normal Chelsea Saturday.

Above us, clear blue skies and this incredible October was continuing…the weather was magnificent. We dipped into Swindon en route to London in order for a little retail therapy, stopping at the Designer Outlet. This is an oft-visited site by me over recent years and it is housed in the former engineering sheds of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s famous Great Western Railway, sympathetically making use of an otherwise potentially redundant location.

Purchases were made at two stores, but as Parky and I circumnavigated the outlet, it soon dawned on me how certain labels have always been “in” for football and how many have always been “out.” Of the thirty-six stores listed under “fashion” in the Swindon shopping guide, we have the following breakdown –

Yep.

Aquascutum.
Henri Lloyd.
Hugo Boss.
Lacoste.
Polo Ralph Lauren.
Timberland.

Nah.

Bench.
Cotton Traders.
Gap.
Petroleum.
Tommy Hilfiger.

We stopped at Reading Services for a coffee and we reached Chesson Road in deepest Chelsealand bang on 1.30pm. A text from Rick in Ohio alerted me to the fact that the Liverpool vs. Manchester United game was a dour affair but, to be brutally frank, I had completely forgotten that it was on. If I was having trouble focussing on Chelsea vs. Everton, all other games were certainly off the radar.

The Goose was surprisingly quiet as we made our way out to the sun-drenched beer garden. However, it soon dawned on me that we were still four hours away from kick-off. The old place soon filled up and our little group, growing steadily, out in the far corner grew to around fifteen in total by 3pm. Rob had a few hundred round “SAY NO CPO” stickers and we saw a few others arrive with fliers throughout the afternoon. A few were wearing black “SAY NO CPO” T-shirts. There was a sense of rebellion in the air and I loved it. It has often troubled me that due to the many Chelsea fan groups and the inherently spatial diversity of our support, we might struggle to unite together under one umbrella should the need arise to muster troops for any particular grievance. I need not have worried. The meeting on Monday allayed that fear with representatives of the CSG, CFCUK, CFCNet and even the original CSC combing forces to fight the cause.

Of course, the debate about the future of Stamford Bridge dominated our pre-game conversations. A couple of protagonists knowingly played devil’s advocate to ruffle a few feathers and stir up some emotions (if anybody knows our little firm, they will know exactly who these two were likely to be), but I was generally calmed by the noises emanating from my mates’ mouths. There was a general consensus which aligned itself to the views stated by the SayNoCPO lobby.

At about 3pm, Tuna arrived on the scene clasping a pint of Guinness and The Youth’s boisterous son Seb quickly stuck a SayNoCPO sticker on his leather jacket. Over the past few years, Tuna has got to know most of the lads that I regularly drink with at Chelsea and there was the usual banter on his arrival. He then proceeded to regale us with a story about a bear which confronted him up while he was on a shooting trip up in the mountains of Georgia. Not the sort of story we usually hear in The Goose, to be honest.

I couldn’t help but notice that in our little corner of the beer garden – a group of around fifteen to twenty like-minded souls…let’s see…Andy, Woody, The Youth, Seb, Rob, Parky, Daryl, Neil, Chris, Matt, Gary, Alan, Mark, Simon, Milo, Ronnie, Fiona, Barbara, Tuna and myself…the only one wearing colours was young Seb. And he was making up for the rest of us by wearing a Chelsea home shirt over last season’s black and orange away shirt.

Maybe he was finding the cold, bless.

It was no good. I had to move on at around 4.15pm. I wanted to saunter down to the ground to judge what the mood of the nation was. I bade my farewells – “see you Wednesday” – and walked down the North End Road, the sun still blazing overhead. What a gorgeous day. There was not one single cloud in the sky.

I quickly chatted to Mark at the stall and picked-up the latest issue of CFCUK. It’s a fantastic edition, actually, with great contributions throughout. It has always been a slight moan of mine that the same issues get written in each edition, but on this occasion I did not object to the plethora of valued articles devoted to the NO campaign. Cliff from the CSG introduced me to Tim Rolls, who has played a major role in the supporters’ voice against the proposal and he was surrounded by well-wishers. I quickly mentioned that I would be the proxy voter for a substantial number of loyalists from across the pond and I thanked him for his time and efforts.

I had time on my hands and slowly ambled on up towards the stadium, past the infamous Loudhaler Man (who even has a Facebook page devoted to him, albeit from an irreverent and mocking perspective), asking for us to stop and think about a few religious ideas. He made a few topical references to “the pitch, the team ” and I hope somebody stuck a SayNoCPO sticker on his jacket.

I took a few photographs of the stadium as I circumnavigated it, hopefully capturing a few new angles. At the main gates, opposite the pub where the club was formed in 1905, I spoke to Trizia from the CSG as she handed out a few more fliers. She had heard that I was voting as a proxy for a few fans in America and – you know what? – I got a tingle knowing that I was doing my little bit to assist. It also made me realise how close-knit we are as a club. We may have upwards of 100 million fans worldwide, but there is a very tight little community amongst the regular match-goers at Chelsea. That is something to be lauded.

This was new for me, being outside the hotel with about 45 minutes to go before kick-off. I continued my walk around the stadium and I walked past around 15 Scousers. The thing was – none of them were wearing colours, but I just knew that they were Evertonians. Their predilection for tracksuit bottoms, plus their general appearance (gaunt faces and suedehead haircuts) easily gave the game away.

I walked down past the East Stand, past the players’ entrance and I remembered the time that my mate Glenn and I had to assemble there at 2.45pm, just ahead of Glenn getting presented with his CPO certificate on the pitch by Wisey against The Geordies in 1995.

Further on round, on the corner with the Matthew Harding Stand, I remembered “Drakes” which was the first real bar at Stamford Bridge for normal fans. It is now re-labelled “Champions Club” or something and presumably hosts corporate clients these days. “Drakes” was a lovely little bar and for the first season or two, it was restricted for CPO shareholders only. It then opened-up for season-ticket holders only. We met the 1970 team there in 1995 and I have photos of Glenn and I with Ossie, Chopper, Charlie, The Cat and a few more. Often, Alan, Glenn and I would often meet there for a reasonably-priced pre-match meal and a pint of Coors. Those days now seem long gone. As I walked past the new Chelsea Museum, the sun was reflecting off the stand supports and the sky was still brilliantly blue. I can’t overstate how wonderful the weather was. As I strode past the crowds waiting to enter the MHL, I again thought back to the mid-nineties, when Glenn and I were up at Chelsea dead early and spotted Ruud Gullit walking down from the car park to the changing room. I took a photo of Glenn, looking shell-shocked, next to Ruud, who had a pink Gazzetta Dello Sport tucked under his arm.

Memories, memories.

Up in the Matthew Harding Upper, Alan and I were joined by Simon, a chap that I have known since that iconic 1983-1984 season, when we would assemble early (often as early as 1.30pm) on our favourite spot on The Benches. Back row, half-way line and woe betide anyone who got there before us.

Fantastic stuff.

I didn’t see Simon at all from Hillsborough 1985 to Molyneux 2003 and I think he stopped going regularly for a while and travelled a fair bit. I know he is a keen snowboarder. For anyone who has seen it, Simon is the Chelsea fan featured in his brother Andy’s famous video from the momentous Champions League game at Highbury in 2004. It is Simon’s face which is seen at the end, holding his ticket, close to tears, revelling in that fantastic win after all those years of drought.

Simon is from the St. Albans area and, by some quirk of fate, Frome Town had been playing up at St. Albans during the afternoon. Unfortunately, my mate Steve texted me to say that Frome lost 2-1. Ex- Chelsea forward Paul Furlong still turns out for St. Albans, in fact, and came on as sub for the last twenty minutes. I am looking forward to seeing him play down in Frome in the New Year.

On the pitch, I was in early enough to see the last few minutes of the lads going through their routines, just as a seminal song from The Clash was being aired on the PA.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/video/vi…50412502597658

I noticed that the yellow “The Only Place To Be Every Other Saturday” banner, which usually flies to the left of me in the MH, had been centrally positioned in The Shed. I hope Roman saw it. I spotted Steve…or was it Daz?…no, it was Steve, to my left and helped him raise the blue flag above the heads of the supporters in the MHU. Over in The Shed Lower, a twenty foot square banner was passed over the heads of the fans and it simply said

“THIS IS OUR HOME.”

It continued on through the West Lower and I’m glad it made it that far. I would hate to have seen it confiscated after a few seconds by over-zealous stewards.

It was a full house. Our first game at home in three weeks.

To be honest, despite a few Everton half chances which skidded across the box in the first twenty minutes, we never looked troubled. However, it took us a full twenty minutes for us to register a shot on goal, a long-range effort from Bosingwa. On 31 minutes, Mata (who seems to have complete licence to drift in from the left whenever he feels the need) spotted Ashley in an advanced position and delicately lobbed the ball into his path. Ash only took one touch and dinked the ball towards the on-rushing Sturridge and 1-0 to Chelsea.

Simon, who usually sits right below me in the MHL was loving the view from the Upper Tier. Unbelievably, it was his first ever visit. He was shocked to see that we get a bigger choice of pies in the upper, plus internet access on our phones.

“Not only that, but they’ll be round with hors d’oeuvres at half-time, Si.”

However, Simon was disappointed by the lack of noise coming from our section and, to be honest, the place was pretty subdued. Just before half-time, with a free-kick out on our left, I commented to Simon that “now would be a pretty good time to score.”

Frank whipped the ball in, JT rose, 2-0 Chelsea.

Hugs and backslaps.

I watched JT slide towards the SW corner and his smiling team mates soon joined in.

At the break, Peter Bonetti – now seventy – was paraded by Neil Barnett and the MHL sang his name. Out in the toilets at half-time, I saw the sun set over West London, past the Empress State Building and beyond.

Simon and I spoke about the lack of atmosphere.

“Go back twenty-five years, mate…imagine if they had said about a kick-off on a Saturday at 5.30pm…in the pub since midday, plenty of booze, The Bridge – all close to the pitch – would be rocking…we’ll have some of that!”

Instead, it was like a morgue.

Alan chipped in…”don’t worry, we’ll soon be playing in front of sixty thousand who don’t sing.”

Soon into the second period, Leon Osman struck the base of Cech’s right post, but Everton were never in it for the rest of the game.

After a few more minutes, the night had fallen and the sky was black. It was still warm though and I, like many others, watched the entire game in our shirtsleeves. At last – on 55 minutes – the first “Carefree” which united both ends of the stadium. At times, however, only the three of us were singing.

Alan jibed…”we’re the three tenors – which one of you fat fcukers is gonna be Pavarotti?”

I captured the cross from Mata – our best player – which lead to our third goal on film and there was Ramires to prod the ball in from close range. It had been a fine move…Mata to Drogba to Mata to Ramires. Drogba had endured a quiet game, though, and a long shot from distance towards the end was his only effort of note.

The MHL now responded with a prolonged version of a nice old favourite, which I think I am safe to say is Chelsea’s and Chelsea’s alone…

“You are my Chelsea –
My only Chelsea.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You’ll never notice how much we love you…
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA – OOH! – LA LA LA LA LA – OOH!
OOH OH OH OH OH, OH OH OH OH
OOH OH OH OH OH, OOH OH OH OH OH
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Good stuff.

How on earth did Everton score their goal? That was just shoddy defending and it annoyed us all that we can’t keep clean sheets, especially at home, this season.

Good to see Frank getting back towards his better form and only a miss-placed pass early on sticks in my mind. Mata was the boy, though – I love his movement and his eagerness to get involved, to say nothing of his touch and awareness.

Superb.

We flicked on “606” as we joined the slow-moving procession of match-going traffic out of Fulham, but a moaning Chelsea fan (“Drop Drogba – he hasn’t scored in two games”) made me fume.

Should we move to a new pad, I have a feeling that there will be a few more idiots like him, too.

Tales From The Caffeine Express

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Bolton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 2 October 2011.

This was a long and tiring excursion into deepest Lancashire, but yet another hugely enjoyable day following the boys in royal blue. With victories for both Manchester clubs on a sun-drenched Saturday, it was imperative that we stayed in touch with then by winning at The Reebok. Historically, Bolton Wanderers are a tough old team, but our record at Bolton’s stadium is almost perfect, with a series of highly convincing victories and not a single defeat. As I left my slumbering Somerset village at 7.45am, I was confident of a positive outcome.

I sipped at a coffee as I drove through the Somerset lanes and then headed through the winding and narrow streets of the Wiltshire town of Bradford-On-Avon. My mates Alan and Gary were already heading north on one of the official Chelsea coaches from London. I wondered how many we would take up to Bolton. It’s always a concern that our club isn’t embarrassed by a smaller than expected away following. As the coffee hit the spot, I became more and more tuned-in to the delights of the day ahead. However, my early progress was temporarily halted by some Sunday cyclists and a Land Rover pulling a horse box. I eventually collected Parky at 8.15am and then retraced my tracks, heading west and then north up past Bath and onto the M4. We were expecting another blisteringly hot day and the early morning sun was burning up the mist in the valley where Bath was nestled. Above, several hot air balloons were clearly visible in the pristine blue sky.

What a great feeling. A day of football and a day of Chelsea. Can’t beat it.

As these Chelsea trips north come and go, as these sorties up the M5 and the M6 follow on relentlessly after each other, I was well aware of how desperate I am for fresh fields and fresh destinations in order for new routes and experiences to befall me. Thank heavens for the much-anticipated jaunts to Swansea and Norwich this season. If these away day match reports start to feel eerily familiar, it only goes to illustrate the relentless nature of following football 24/7. However, I’ll never tire of an away game at Bolton. It will always be a special place in my heart. Need I mention April 30th. 2005?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3YThWPPAIo

I refuelled at Strensham services and we then had a grotty Burger King coffee at Stafford services. As I travel around the motorway network, I have developed a nerdish knowledge of service stations and it’s not something I am proud of.

“There are always long lines at the Costa Coffee at Strensham, no breakfast menu at Burger King at Frankley, there’s an M&S at Keele. No KFC until Knutsford”

In order to save ourselves some money, Parky and I have started taking our own food for these away trips around England; with ticket prices higher than ever, it’s one way we can attempt to save some money in order to keep going to football. Over the course of a whole season, it will hopefully save us some money for a few more tickets.

As we headed north, the sky grew greyer and clouds became thicker. This was pretty surprising as the weather down south on Saturday had been magnificent. By the time we were headed over the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal at Thelwell, the weather had deteriorated further. I know I have mentioned this many times before, but the view atop this bridge is one of my favourite football vistas. To the west, the Runcorn Bridge and the city of Liverpool and its twin clubs, to the east, the skyscrapers of central Manchester and United and City, with the moors beyond. And due north, Winter Hill and The Reebok (though out of sight) nestling below it. However, not on this day; the overcast weather meant that Winter Hill was not visible. I was making great time and before I knew it, I was heading east on the M62 and Bolton was just 16 miles away.

We veered off the Manchester orbital and then headed north on the M61. It is always a surprise for me how far out – and isolated – The Reebok Stadium is from Bolton city centre. It is located off the motorway at Horwich, adjacent a large shopping and entertainment complex. The rain was spitting as I headed east, with the floodlight pylons and roof supports of the stadium visible in the autumn sky ahead.

https://www.facebook.com/permalink.p…50395178992658

The sight of this most unique stadium always brings a smile to my soul.

Four hours – to the dot – since setting off in the waking Somerset morning, I was parked up in the drizzle of a Lancashire stadium car park.

It’s grim up north.

Alan and Gary had just arrived and we joined them by the entrance to the main reception area, in preparation of the arrival of the Chelsea coach. Within five minutes, I had taken a few up-close-and-personal photographs of Petr Cech, Frank Lampard, Raul Meireles and Nicolas Anelka, though only two photos proved to be worthy of keeping. I managed to get a nice one of Frank, just after he had signed a few programmes and had had his photo taken with an eager fan. Amongst the throng of Chelsea fans, I noted a few northern voices. Parky was keen to head inside for a beer, but I fancied a mooch around the adjacent retail park. I didn’t fancy any beers as I had a long trip home. I needed to keep my head fresh. Parky’s ticket was for the lower tier, so I swapped my ticket for his; this enabled His Lordship to partake in a few pre-match bevvies with Alan and Gary in the Upper Tier bars.

As I slowly walked around the outside of the stadium, I spotted several slogans declaring “Bolton Central – Everything Wanderers” and this is typical of recent branding exercises at clubs these days. At Everton, there are signs declaring itself “The Peoples’ Club” and there are of course “Our City” signs everywhere at Eastlands.

I made a bee-line for the “Hurleys” shop, just a hundred yards or so away. I bought a pair of Henri Lloyd jeans there on my last visit and I spent a good few minutes examining the gear on show. The first “Hurleys” began in Manchester ages ago and there are a few dotted around the north-west. It’s a well-known mecca for football gear and I wasn’t disappointed; I flicked through a few rails of Lacoste, Fred Perry, Boss, Paul & Shark and Henri Lloyd. There were also a few items of Pretty Green, the label which Oasis front man Liam Gallagher has developed recently. Lots of shirts with button-down collars, lots of check patterned shirts, lots of polos, lots of heavy pullovers. I seriously considered getting a royal blue Paul & Shark polo – but the price tag was a hefty ₤75 and I had to seriously consider it. I headed opposite and had coffee number three of the day at a local “Starbucks.” After fifteen minutes, I had dismissed the idea and was annoyed with myself for even considering such a crazy notion.

What I want – of course – is a Bolton away game to coincide with the January sales. Can we play them away in the FA Cup in 2012 please?

Time was moving on now and I retraced my steps back around to the away entrance. I had a chat with a few familiar faces and was soon inside. Parky’s ticket was perfect; centrally located behind the goal and next to an aisle. I took a few photographs of the team doing their pre-match drills and noted plenty of smiles and laughter. A few shots on Petr Cech then followed. I had to laugh when David Luiz took a couple of shots but looked away right at the last minute. Typically Brazilan, eh? I think I saw Ronaldinho do this during an actual match once – and score. Heaven knows what would happen if I had ever attempted that.

By this time, the team had been announced and I was abuzz with news that Frank Lampard had been picked. I focussed on him with my camera and he did look energised.

Amidst a flurry of texts just before the kick-off at 1.30pm, I sent a simple message to a few friends which simply said –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

I had an inkling that this would be a game where Frank would shine; such is his record at The Reebok.

It seemed that the entire Chelsea contingent had similar thoughts as we serenaded our beloved number eight with a hearty rendition of “Super Frank” at the kick-off. Bolton had a quick attempt on our goal, but a lovely ball from an advancing David Luiz inside the left back found a rampaging Jose Bosingwa. I was right behind the path of that ball; it was a joy to watch. A cross from Bosingwa was turned behind for a corner and, from the centre, none other than Daniel Sturridge headed down and in to the Bolton goal.

And this was after just a couple of minutes.

The Chelsea end roared.

Alan, up above me in the upper tier texted me –

“THTCAUN.”

And I quickly replied –

“COMLD.”

We were in great voice at the start of the game (indeed, for quite a while before, too) and this opening goal gave us more reason to bellow our support of the team.

In the early part of the game, David Luiz had tons of space in which to roam and play balls through to various team mates. Daniel Sturridge, buzzing from his first goal back at Bolton after his loan spell, was playing with great spirit on the right and his great ball found Frank on seventeen minutes. Frank easily despatched the ball into the Bolton goal and how we celebrated.

I repeated the text I had sent at 1.26pm –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

On 25 minutes, Studge found himself wide on the right once again. I was wondering if the Bolton left-back had gone shopping in the retail park, such was his continued absence on the pitch. Maybe he was sat in “Starbucks”, mulling over a purchase. Studge whipped in a quick shot which beat the flailing dive of the cerise-shirted Bogdan and the net rippled.

3-0 to Chelsea. Phew.

I had struck up a conversation with the chap behind me about how I hoped that Bolton would stay up this season. Again, the memories of 2005 are the main reason for this. I always remember going back to The Reebok in April 2005-2006 – around the same time of the year as in 2004-2005 – and driving along the M61, just as I had done an hour or so previously. I always remember looking over to my right and spotting the bright white supports of the stadium roof in the distance and getting quite – ahem – emotional. There – on April 30th 2005, Chelsea Football Club had been crowned Champions of England for the first time in fifty years. And little old me – a Chelsea fan from the age of five, a Chelsea fan through the ragged ‘seventies and the false dawns of the ‘eighties, the renaissance of the late ‘nineties and beyond, a follower through thick and thin, good times and bad, from Stamford Bridge to Wembley – had been part of it.

It’s making me quite emotional now, six years on.

That day in 2006, we again triumphed 2-0…JT scored with a header in the first-half and then…of course…Frank Lampard drilled one in during the second period in front of us all. He ran towards us and – deliberately – found himself on the exact same piece of turf as the two celebrations the previous season. He beamed at us and pointed down at the pitch…

“Here!”

It’s one of my favourite memories from that second championship season…and I have both the shot and celebrations captured on a couple of photos.

So – in a way, memories of 2004-2005 and 2005-2006.

For these reasons, I hope we play at The Reebok every season from now to eternity.

Back to 2011. Bolton were in disarray and fell further behind when Sideshow advanced for what seemed like miles. His shot from way out was fumbled by the hapless Bogdan and who else but Frank Lampard pounced.

The text was repeated once more –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

At half-time, I had a look around the fellow citizens of the East Lower. I have to admit I didn’t recognise anybody. All of my acquaintances were obviously upstairs, where the 500 members of the away scheme were based. I spotted a row of around twenty identically track-suited Africans, all wearing red bobble hats. I was reminded that I had spotted these fellows way up in the East Upper last weekend against Norwich (I presumed it was the same chaps). My guess was that they were linked to an African club and maybe Chelsea were their hosts for a week or two. I’d like to have known what they thought of Lancashire.

Behind me, I spotted the Rangers captain David Weir, sat quietly with his young son amongst the Chelsea supporters. It took me a while to convince myself it was him…but then had this confirmed for me when I saw a Chelsea fan go up and ask for a photograph. I did the same – but I really didn’t want to take up too much of his time and certainly didn’t want to overly draw attention to the fact that he had been spotted. I presumed that his boy was a Chelsea fan and had gone through normal channels via the club for tickets. I know that he still lives locally – in Warrington – after his spell with Everton.

I quickly texted a few mates in the ground and elsewhere who favour the ‘Gers. It was quite surreal to be honest. It was nice that he was with us and hadn’t asked Bolton for executive seats in a box. Fair play to him. I saw him on the ‘phone a few times; maybe hearing from a mate that Celtic were losing at Tynecastle.

I missed the Bolton goal – I had arrived back from the loos at the break and was just settling myself.

I wondered how the second-half would play out. Just after the Boyata goal, the home supporters got behind the team for the first time in the game. To be fair, they made a fair racket, but it soon subsided. The Reebok is a funny stadium as the end opposite us never seems to make too much noise. Just a few Herberts to our right along the side. We ridiculed them with –

“Sit Down If You’re Going Down.”

To be honest, we were all hoping for a few more goals, but were only rewarded with one more. On the hour, a lovely move involving Frank and Didier resulted in a simple strike from Lampard which evaded the despairing lunge of the ‘keeper. Here we go again –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

For the rest of the game, it resembled a bit of a training session, and Meireles and Mata continued to impress. They couldn’t seem to tame Mata the entire game. At times, it was difficult for me to work out the formation as the fluidity of the players meant that Luiz would often go on mazy dribbles, Mata would come inside, Lampard would burst forward, Bosingwa and Cole too. OK – Bolton were poor, but we played some nice stuff. We could have scored a few more, but shots from Mata flew over, Drogba was blocked and Sturridge drifted wide.

Bizarrely, an Ivanovic clearance off the line and a Cech save which was palmed onto the post saved us from conceding a couple of goals.

It was nice to see Nicolas Anelka get a lovely and sustained round of applause from the home fans when he came on as a substitute, though I suspect that the Trotters were thinking –

“Bloody hell, two goals from Sturridge and now Anelka comes on.”

The Chelsea fans around me were stood the entire game – of course – and we enjoyed a particularly loud and boisterous “One Man Went To Mow.” As the fans joined in with each verse, it dawned on me that this famous Chelsea chant has subtlety altered over the years. Originally, everyone would slow down at eight and make the last three versus even more defiant. These days, the tempo stays the same.

It had been a fine afternoon in a special stadium. We will get sterner tests this season for sure, but let’s enjoy the good times, let’s enjoy the goals.

With the rain still falling, I headed back to the car and Parky soon joined me. Unfortunately, we didn’t move for ages and it was a full hour before we left the car park at 4.30pm. We then hit some awful weather and some slow-moving traffic on the road south…it was very frustrating and I could hardly believe that the weather being reported on the radio at White Hart Lane was of gorgeous sunshine.

On the M6 just south of Manchester, the rain was now bucketing down and I was finding it tough-going. I pulled into Knutsford services for a revitalising Costa Coffee and then ploughed on through the wind and the rain.

Parky put on his Big Country CD at Stafford and this kept our spirits up, along with the requisite supply of awful jokes and silly quips. At Walsall, we spotted an ice-cream van blocking an exit slip road.

Parky – “Best get hold of the police. Best dial 99.”

Chris – “The police are looking for a bloke who has covered himself in nuts and chocolate sauce. They reckon he has topped himself.”

And so it continued.

At Stensham, the last coffee of the day; a McDonalds cappuccino apiece. As I headed south through Gloucestershire, 612steve was sending me score updates from the American League Divisional Series, but there was no Chelsea / Yankee win double on the cards. I had hoped to have reached home to see the game against Detroit on my laptop, but the delays and inclement weather had destroyed that idea.

As we skirted Bath, the roads bizarrely dry, we were listening to some New Order and these classics kept us going for the last few miles.

“I feel so extraordinary; something’s got a hold on me.”

I eventually dropped Parky off at 9.15pm and I eventually got home at 9.45pm, some fourteen hours after I had embarked on the trip north.

Bolton 1 Sturridge 2 Lampard 3 Chelsea 5.

Job done.

CHELSEA/esque

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