Tales From The South Bronx

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Paris St. Germain : 22 July 2012.

It was all so different in 1989.

My first trip to North America, almost a year in duration, was in 1989. In some ways, it seems like a lifetime away. In other ways – because many of the memories still remain vibrant and strong – it seems like last week. In September 1989, my college mate Ian (with delicious irony, a Rotherham United fan…and yes, he went to our 6-0 defeat in 1981) and I touched down at JFK. Our flight had been delayed due to an almost calamitous malfunction just before take-off at Gatwick. A tyre had burst as the jumbo hurtled down the runway and had flew up into the engine causing severe damage to the engine and our hearts alike. Thankfully, there was enough room left on the runway for the pilot to slow down. Several passengers were visibly shaken, but Ian – on his first ever trip on a plane – remained remarkably calm. We were delayed for eight hours as an alternative plane was located and this resulted in us not getting to New York until around 10pm. Our plans to travel in to Manhattan by bus were jettisoned and our first real sighting of North America was through the dirty windows of a yellow New York cab as it took us on a rather circuitous route through Queens, with the glistening lights of the Manhattan skyscrapers beckoning us closer and closer to the heart of the city. Once over the Brooklyn Bridge, the slow ascent up one of the north-south avenues of Manhattan is a memory that remains strong to this day. The cab driver seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in telling us that a local had been killed just opposite our hostel near Times Square the night before. I can vividly remember trying to fall asleep on the upper bunk in a youth hostel dorm as police sirens wailed outside. My head was spinning. I was scared and exhilarated in equal measure.

Welcome to America.

I remained in North America until June 1990 and my travels took me to many states. We cycled down the east coast, from Virginia to Florida, and I particularly enjoyed the cities of New York, St. Augustine, New Orleans, San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle and Vancouver. I snorkelled off the Florida Keys, saw basketball in Denver, baseball in New York and Toronto, ice hockey in Vancouver. In many ways, it was the time of my life.

But throughout that entire ten month period, I only ever bumped into one other Chelsea fan. Before heading down to Florida for one final month, I stopped off in New York for my first ever New York Yankees baseball game. On the day after that momentous match in the South Bronx, I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge and chanced upon an ex-pat wearing a particularly hideous umbro Chelsea training shirt.

Ten months, many cities, many states, many people, but only one other Chelsea fan.

Twenty-two years later, things have changed a million fold.

In 1989, I arrived in America with Chelsea as second division champions.

In 2012, I arrived in America with Chelsea as European champions.

Let’s recap on 2011-2012. Of course, it began on an overcast summer day at a downbeat Fratton Park as the previously trophy-less season under Carlo Ancelotti was laid to rest. The very next day, I flew off to Kuala Lumpur for the first game of the Asia tour. Little did I know, but the season would prove to be the most unbelievable and tumultuous season of my life. Mid-way through it, at the nadir of Andre Villas-Boas’ reign, I had visions of our worst finish for twenty years. The team was in a desolate state of health. The spirit – at Goodison Park especially – was horrendous. Even I was at a low ebb. I began to wonder if my support would be tested during the last painful months of the campaign. That the season would finish with tears of happiness in Munich would have been seen as a simply ridiculous and unattainable vision, conjured by some foolish fantasist.

But the resurgence of Chelsea under Roberto di Matteo on the European trail was just one of a plethora of equally marvellous moments.

Back in October, the SayNoCPO campaign defeated the heavy handed desire by a patronising board of directors to loosen the CPO’s hold on Stamford Bridge. Never have I felt prouder to be a Chelsea fan as we exited that EGM, the club defeated, the fans high on euphoria.

We thumped our old enemies Tottenham 5-1 in the F.A. Cup semi-final and went on to defeat our new enemies Liverpool in the final. It was our fourth such triumph in just six seasons. The youngsters again won the F.A. Youth Cup. Arsenal went trophy less of course. Tottenham too. Manchester United – never my most liked of teams – lost the league title in the most ridiculous and heartbreaking of circumstances in the last few minutes of a long season to arch rivals Manchester City. A trophy for Liverpool unfortunately, but there was a certain element of glee in the way that they celebrated their Carling Cup victory against Cardiff City…on penalties…as if they had won the league. My local team Frome Town enjoyed a strong first season at the highest ever level in their history. A new stand had been built in time for the March 31st deadline and more than a few Chelsea friends in America had donated funds to help. Further afield, my favourite European club team Juventus had christened their first season in their new trim stadium with a championship involving not one single defeat.

With victories against Napoli, Benfica, Barcelona and Bayern, Chelsea had become European Champions for the very first time and – in doing so – had relegated Tottenham to a season in the shadows on Thursday nights.

Munich was the best weekend of my life, the best night of my life.

Yes – 2011/2012 was some season.

Our greatest ever season.

In some ways, there was certain reluctance on my part to even contemplate thinking about the next one. My focus, if anything, was for the World Club Championship, way ahead in December. And Munich was but a heartbeat away. This is a familiar comment from me, but I don’t think I was ready for 2012-2013 to start. Yet again, my main focus as I crossed the Atlantic once more was to meet up again with old friends. The football, most certainly, was of secondary importance.

I flew into Boston on the night of Saturday 14 July. For six days, I relaxed at my own pace, basing myself in the historic town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I drove up the Maine coast a few times and also inland to Vermont. I’ve had a pretty hectic period at work and I certainly enjoyed the tranquil change of pace.

I caught a train from Boston to Penn Station on Friday 20 July. After almost a week of – in the main – my own company, I was ready for the madness of New York. The tribes were gathering and, despite a torrential downpour on my arrival in Gotham, my fervour could not be dampened.

I was ready for all that New York City – after Stamford Bridge, maybe my third home – could throw at me.

Here are some highlights.

8pm, Friday 20 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

Down in the cellar of The Football Factory at Legends, a dark but atmospheric epi-centre of football fandom underneath the considerable shadow of the Empire State Building, the first troops were greeting each other with backslaps and handshakes. I spotted Paul Canoville, wearing a brightly coloured shirt and a trademark baseball cap, who I had met on a couple of occasions before. At the South Station in Boston earlier that day, I had bought a copy of the New York Post. An article had made me giggle and I knew that it would amuse Canners too. The former NBA player Dennis Rodman, while on a tour of The Philippines with an exhibition team, had met his father – the wonderfully named Philander Rodman – for the first time since he was a very young child. There was a photo of them greeting each other. Rodman Senior had been living in Manila for many a year, but I was staggered to read that he had fathered 26 children with 19 different women.

Here was a story to share with Canners, who himself had fathered a similarly large brood, with a variety of women. Canners smiled as I shared the story with him and he enjoyed hearing it, no doubt, but there was another tale, which I did not dare to mention, underneath this one.

Canners was separated from his father too, but memorably met up with his dad for the first time since his childhood on the night at Hillsborough in Sheffield when he tore Sheffield Wednesday to shreds in his greatest ever game for Chelsea. We were 3-0 down at half-time, came back to lead 4-3, only for an infamous Doug Rougvie foul to gift Wednesday a late penalty. I didn’t dare ask him if that emotional meeting had inspired him to greatness on that night in 1985. Some questions are best left unasked.

I had seen his first ever game at Stamford Bridge against Luton Town in May 1982. Thirty years ago. That game – our last game in a mediocre season at the second level – does seem like yesterday. Strange how some games drift off into oblivion, but the memory of Paul Canoville, the local boy from Hillingdon, coming off the bench to be met with a mixed reaction from The Shed is a strong one.

It was great to see him in America.

1pm, Saturday 21 July – Chelsea Piers.

As the fans tournament, involving four teams of Chelsea fans from throughout the US, was coming to an end, I was as nervous as I have been for years. I had been chosen to captain the Chelsea team to play in the Friendship Cup game against Paris St. Germain. When I had heard this news a few weeks back, I was very humbled, certainly very proud, but the over-riding feeling was of fear. I hadn’t played for two months and I was genuinely concerned that I may pull a muscle, or jar my once troublesome right knee, or give away a penalty, or run out of gas after five minutes or just look out of my depth. This is typical of my times in various school football teams over thirty years ago when I would tend to be shackled by fear and a lack of confidence in my ability on the pitch.

Once the game began, my fears subsided and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We lead 3-1 at the break, but soon allowed PSG to scramble some goals. At 4-4, I managed to squeeze in a goal and my heart exploded. Could we hang on? In the end, PSG went 8-6 up and there was no Canoville-like inspired recovery at the end. Canners, plus Frank Sinclair, were the refs and what a pleasure it was to be on the same football pitch as them both.

Upstairs in the gallery, no doubt making a few humorous comments, was Ron Harris. When I saw my very first game at Chelsea in 1974, Ron was playing. Now, 38 years later, he was watching me play.

Now that, everyone, is just beautiful.

9pm, Saturday 21 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

As a lot of people know, Ron Harris used to live in the town of Warminster, no more than eight miles from Frome, my home on the Somerset / Wiltshire border. It was with growing pleasure – and disbelief – that a few mates and myself got to know Ron rather well. We used to call into his bar on the way home from Stamford Bridge from 1995 to 2000 and he always made us feel very welcome. To see him in New York, thousands of miles from England, was magnificent. I couldn’t help but sidle up to him and tell him that I saw him play around fourteen times for Chelsea, but I was still waiting to see him score a goal…

He, however, had seen me score for Chelsea that very day.

Don’t worry, I got away from him before he could tackle me.

1am, Sunday 22 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

My mate Millsy – another season ticket holder – had flown in on work (strangely involving trips to NYC, Philly and Miami – wink) and was regaling us all with some of his rough-and-tumble tales from life on the edges of the murkier aspects of supporting Chelsea. His exploits from Rome in 2008 – when I first met him and the legendary mad Scot Davie – had us rolling in the aisles. From punching a transvestite to waking up in a warehouse after a night on the ale in a Rome night club, to staying a few days in a Spanish jail…the stories came thick and fast. I briefly mentioned that I had turned down the chance to attend a “Q&A” with Ron Gourlay at the Chelsea hotel in Manhattan as I was concerned that I might say the wrong thing. Somebody asked our little group, which included Rick “Funchficker” Finch and Boston Ben, what we would say to Ron Gourlay if we had the chance.

As one, both Millsy and Funchficker said –

“Why are you a c**t?”

1pm, Sunday 22 July – Legends, West 33rd. Street.

Despite the game against PSG not starting until 7pm, I had arrived at Legends bang on midday and awaited the arrival of friends. I soon bumped into Tom, a fellow Chelsea home-and-away season ticket holder, who was revelling in his first ever visit to the US. His comment to me struck a chord.

“This is the most surreal experience I’ve had, Chris. This pub is full of Chelsea, but I don’t know anyone.”

Of course, to Tom, this was akin to supporting Chelsea in a parallel universe. I think he was amazed at the fanaticism from these people who he didn’t personally know. For Tom, it must have been unnerving. This scenario is so different to our experiences in the UK and Europe where the close-knit nature of the Chelsea travelling support has produced hundreds of friendships. In Wigan, in Wolverhampton, in Milan, in Munich, there are faces that are known. On this afternoon in the heart of Manhattan, fans kept entering the pub, with nobody leaving. I wondered if it would collapse with the volume of people in both bars. Thanks to my previous travels to the US with Chelsea, wherever I looked, I managed to spot a few familiar faces. I was sat at the bar, chatting with Scott from DC, his brother David from Athens, Phil from Iowa, Mark from England, Andy from California, Stephen from New Orleans. The blue of Chelsea was everywhere. Down below in the basement, a gaggle of around twenty-five PSG fans were singing, but their chants were being drowned by the boisterous chants of the Chelsea fans.

It dawned on me that, unlike in 1989, the Chelsea fans that I would be encountering were not just English ex-pats or not just Americans of English extraction, but Americans with ancestors from every part of the world. Just the previous week in Portsmouth NH, I had met a young lad who had seen me wearing a pair of Chelsea shorts and had declared himself a massive Chelsea fan. His birthplace? Turkey. I asked him if he was a fan of Galatasaray, of Besiktas or of Fenerbahce, but he said that Chelsea was his team. This frankly amazed me. It confirmed that Chelsea has truly gone global.

The simple truth in 2012 is that people like Tom and me, plus the loyal 5,000 who make up our core support at home and away games in the UK and Europe are in the massive minority amongst our support base. For our millions of fans worldwide, the typical scenario is just what Tom had witnessed at first hand in NYC; a pub in a foreign land, bristling with new Chelsea fans, fanatical for success.

I found that quite a sobering thought.

4.45pm, Sunday 22 July – New York Subway.

I travelled up to the game at Yankee Stadium with Scott and David, plus Josh from Minnesota and Stephen from New Orleans. The idea had been to get the subway bouncing with Chelsea songs, but there were too few of us to kick start this idea. Stephen contributes to the official Chelsea website as “A Blogger From America” and I first met him in Texas in 2009. He is full of football anecdotes and very good company. We swapped humorous tales from the world of football. He spoke of a game in Romania between club sides from Romania and Bulgaria. During the pre-match kick-in, the players heard music being played. The Romanians thought that it was the Bulgarian anthem and so stopped in their tracks and stood still. The Bulgarian players saw this and presumed that the music was of the Romanian national anthem. Both sets of players were stood perfectly still.

The music was from a Coca-Cola commercial.

I had recently seen a similar video. Two teams were lining up at the start of a game, facing one way, as a national anthem was being played. A TV cameraman was jostling for position, holding a huge camera in a hoist around his waist. He lost his footing, stumbled and fell. He lay motionless for a few seconds. As the national anthem played on, a team of medics attended him and he ended up being stretchered off, the two teams trying their hardest to stifle some laughs.

5.30pm, Sunday 22 July – Stan’s Sports Bar.

My friend Roma and her two children Vanessa and Shawn were on their way to find a parking spot near the stadium and so I had told Roma to meet me in “Stan’s”. I have known Roma since that very first trip to America in 1989 and she has been ever-present at all of the Chelsea US tours since 2004. They travelled up from North Carolina on the Saturday and had stayed overnight in New Jersey. Well, knowing Roma and her infamous logistical planning, “New Jersey” could mean anywhere on the eastern seaboard of America.

Roma had briefly called in at “Legends” at about 4pm, but had simply parked her car outside Penn Station. I had told her to rush back in case it got towed. Since she left New Jersey at around 11am, I struggled to understand where she had been for five hours. However, at least she was in New York City. It was a start.

As I waited for them to arrive, I enjoyed a few beers with Josh. “Stan’s” is my bar of choice when attending games at Yankee Stadium. I first ventured inside its cramped, yet atmospheric, interior in 1993. It was then that I became friends with Lou, the owner. I had seen him featured on a sports programme from 1991 when the Yankees were at a low ebb and a TV crew entered a deserted “Stan’s” for opinions. I had recorded the programme on tape – such was my passion for baseball in those days – and I arranged to get a copy sent over for Lou. Ever since that day, I always stopped by for a few words on each visit and I often brought him Chelsea stuff as gifts; a pennant here, a t-shirt there. I forget the number of free bottles of Rolling Rock I have had on the back of this.

Lou now lives in Santa Barbara and flies over for most home stands. I last visited “Stan’s” in 2010 when I was over in the US with my mother. On that occasion, I was so annoyed that I had just missed him. On this occasion, I was so pleased to see him behind the bar and we had a chat about Chelsea playing in Yankee Stadium.

Yes, that’s right.

Chelsea at Yankee Stadium.

When I first heard about this game, I was overcome with happiness. For my favourite team to play at the home stadium of my second favourite team is – to be honest – beyond description.

My trips to the US have been truly blessed. This one would surely top the lot.

Inside “Stan’s,” it didn’t take me long to meet up with three young girls – one dressed in the blue of Cruzeiro – who had obviously done their research and had brought their own little plastic sealed bag of celery. Now, this was a photo opportunity which was too good to miss.

My goodness, it wasn’t like this when I first set foot in New York in 1989.

Chelsea fans. Girls. Celery.

Pass me the smelling salts please, nurse.

My good friends The Bobster, Lottinho, Captain Jack and Speedy arrived and joined the merry throng inside “Stan’s.”

“Where’s Roma now, Chris?”

“Bunker Hill, maybe.”

I had almost given up hope on Roma reaching “Stan’s” in time. It had reached 6.30pm and I promised myself that I wouldn’t be late for the pre-game singing and the anthem. In Baltimore in 2009, Roma arrived fashionably late for the Milan game and I missed Drogba’s goal as I waited outside for her. I had been selected as one of Chelsea’s “fan photographers” for this trip and so I was worried that I might miss some great photo opportunities. I was literally in the process of handing over the envelope with Roma’s three tickets for Lou to take care of until she arrived when Vanessa tapped me on the shoulder.

“Oh boy. Am I glad to see you?”

Finally, I could relax. We headed off into Yankee Stadium to see the European Champions.

More smelling salts please nurse.

7pm, Sunday 22 July – Yankee Stadium.

This was a game in which I needed to be in many different places at once and to be able to do many different things at once. I wanted to be able to meet friends, take photographs, sing songs, concentrate on the game, analyse the behaviour of fellow fans, kick back and relax, compare to previous visits to see the Bronx Bombers and compare to previous Chelsea games in the US.

In the end, it was one glorious blur. It was simply too surreal for me to say too much about to be honest.

However, I see these Chelsea players every ten days back home during the regular season and so it is always my main goal on these trips to look instead at the faces in the stands, the fellow Chelsea in my midst.

What were my findings?

The hardcore of the Chelsea support – maybe 2,000 in total – were spread out along the first base side, like different battalions of confederate soldiers at Pickett’s Charge in Gettysburg, ready to storm the Yankee lines.

Down in the corner, behind home plate, were the massed ranks of Captain Mike and his neat ranks of soldiers from New York. Next in line were the battalion from Philadelphia and the small yet organised crew from Ohio. Next in line were the wild and rowdy foot soldiers of Captain Beth and the infamously named CIA company. On the far right flank stood the massed ranks of the Connecticut Blues who were mustered under the command of Captain Steve.

It was really fantastic to see our section fully adorned with the four official banners which Steve had arranged to bring over from Stamford Bridge (Peter Osgood, Matthew Harding, John Terry and Frank Lampard). They don’t go for banners in American sports in the same way do they?

Within the CIA ranks, where I watched the first-half, the stars were the songsters from Captain Andy’s OC branch, with Steve-O leading the singing with a perfectly pitched “Zigger Zagger.” Nearby, Ben, Shawn and Nick from the Boston branch were ably assisting the support of the team.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9j_6q…&feature=g-upl

However, as the play developed on the pitch in front of us, quite a few noticed that the singing was rather intermittent and there were pockets of Chelsea fans that were quite happy to sit and keep still and keep silent.

More than a few of us sung the sadly truthful “our support is fcuking shit” fighting song in an attempt to shame the silent ones into belated action.

On the pitch, a deflected shot gave Paris St. Germain a narrow 1-0 lead at the break.

I had told Roma to head up to my section as soon as she could, but there was no sign of her. At half-time, I wandered down to see if I could spot her. Thankfully, despite stringent ticket checks by an over-efficient Yankee steward, I managed to sneak in alongside Roma, Vanessa and Shawn who were sitting, unknowingly, very close to Ron Harris and Paul Canoville among the New York Blues. This was the first time that I had met Shawn, who has the curly locks of David Luiz and a wonderful personality. He is only five. I even caught him singing “Chelsea” a few times. That boy has a great future ahead of him.

I was now able to take photographs from a different perspective; two views for the price of one.

In truth, the game wasn’t fantastic. With our players attacking the goal in left field, underneath the 500 PSG fans, I found it even more difficult to concentrate on the game.

It was fantastic to see John Terry back on the pitch. I took several photos of him adjusting his armband after taking over from Frank. The noise which greeted him was the loudest of the night.

The stadium was nowhere near full. The new stadium holds just over 50,000 and the attendance was given as just 38,000. However, I think that this was total ticket sales. I honestly think that the actual number of attendees was only around 30,000. Compared to 71,203 in Baltimore in 2009, I’d imagine that Chelsea will be disappointed. However, the vast majority of spectators inside were favouring Chelsea. And PSG aren’t Milan.

As the second half continued, the Chelsea fans in the seats along the third-base side (the area not dedicated as being solely Chelsea), mustered a chant of their very own. It mirrored the chant – the bog standard US sports team chant – which we witnessed in Arlington in 2009.

“Let’s Go Chelsea.”

I know I grumbled about this in 2009, but I was more favourable this time around. I couldn’t fault their desire to get involved. However, I just hope that there were a few neutrals or a few new Chelsea fans who had been inspired by the singing of the massed ranks on the first base side.

Apart from the players putting on a show, it’s just as important that we, the fans, put on a show too.

To this end, mid-way through the second period, I screamed out a blood-curdling “Zigger Zagger” of my own which got everyone singing and which elicited a wide grin from Canners to my left.

A neat finish from substitute Lucas Piazon gave us a share of the spoils, for which we were so relieved.

At the end of the game, Paul Canoville kindly posed for a few photographs with Roma, Vanessa and Shawn.

It was the perfect end to an amazing few hours in the South Bronx.

Late night, Sunday 22 July – Manhattan.

Roma had to race off to collect her car and I joined up with Captain Jack, Lottinho and Speedy as we caught a slow-moving train back to Manhattan. In our carriage, we chatted to a few Chelsea fans from Toronto who were in the middle of a crazy footy and baseball road trip.

Back at Legends, I realised that my voice was fading. I devoured a few more beers as I chatted to more friends before heading off with Lottinho and Speedy for a late night snack at a classic American diner.

In the city that never sleeps, it was time to get some shut-eye.

Tales From A Different Angle

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 26 November 2011

Well, I won’t lie. After all of the travelling to and from Germany, I would have preferred the League game with Wolves to have been taking place on the Sunday. Saturday was just too quick. Too soon. I think that my head was still over in Germany. You know how it is when you go away on holiday. It takes a while to adjust and get back to normal. Then there was the dark cloud hanging over everyone at Chelsea. The fact that we are going through a dip in form certainly did not help.

The alarm sounded at 6.30am and I struggled to get out of bed.

“Here we go again.”

I called for Lord Parky and we were on our way. I told him of my malaise and he knew how I felt. He was under the weather with a head cold and we both spent the first few minutes a-mumbling and a-grumbling about our recent run of poor form.

Parky has such an infectious personality though – don’t tell him I said so – and so it didn’t take us long for the melancholy to subside and for us to get back into our stride. We were soon making silly quips and puns as I drove to London. I relayed a few stories from my few days in Germany, too. The time soon passed.

Straight into the Yadana Café on Lillee Road and a Super Breakfast. Then, around the corner to The Goose. We heard on the grapevine that there were loads of spare tickets floating around for the game. The pub, actually, seemed quieter than usual.

There was quite a showing from the North American continent in The Goose. Beth, Josh and Andy were in already – plus the four Beltway Blues who had travelled to Leverkusen; Stephen, Lizabeth, Allison and Cassie. Mike and two of his members from the New York Blues suddenly appeared out of nowhere and then none other than Gumby joined the fold. I limited myself to just two pints as I was driving. The days of having five or six pints before games seem a long way away.

Oh well.

I made my way to The Bridge and walked towards the turnstiles for the Matthew Harding, with the montage of the West Stand wall to my left.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50479273207658

My good mate Andy often goes to watch Rangers north of the border. The reasons for this are many and varied, but I remember his comment that the game in Scotland still exudes a working class feel, with allied atmosphere and noise levels. Andy goes up to Ibrox around five times each season and has got to know several Bears. He had contacted me about freeing up my mate Glenn’s season ticket for the Wolves game for one of his Rangers mates. Part of the deal was that I watched the match from the opposite corner of the Matthew Harding, while Andy sat with Davie alongside Alan in The Sleepy Hollow. I didn’t mind that at all.

In fact, I jumped at the chance to see the game from a different perspective.

I took my seat in Gate 15 – two rows from the back, just in front of Daryl and his mate Chris from Guernsey – just as the Chelsea flag ended its course of travelling above the heads of the spectators in the Upper Tier. I quickly zoomed in on the Upper Tier of The Shed and took a photograph of the Americans and Canadians in Gate 4, just above the goal defended by Wayne Hennessey in the Wolves goal.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?f…type=1&theater

Yes, there was a substantial amount of surprise in the ranks that Drogba was again starting ahead of Torres. Lampard was on the bench too. The mood amongst the nearby supporters was of typical Chelsea cynicism at the start. I had said to a few friends that the game might turn out to be as enjoyable as a trip to the dentist’s.

We opened brightly and a spirited dribble from Ramires after just five minutes resulted in a low shot which Hennessey did well to turn around his right post. From the corner in front of the 1,500 Wolves fans in the south-east corner, John Terry rose and headed the ball down and in to the Wolves goal. I clicked away as the captain was joined by several team mates and watched through my lens as he raced towards the Chelsea bench. He stopped short of the manager, though. I noticed that Villas-Boas was almost ignoring the advancing players and was instead gesturing across to other players, concentrating on the job in hand.

Soon after, a low cross from Ivanovic was met by Juan Mata but the effervescent Spaniard blasted over. A great move down the left resulted in Mata skipping past several lunges from desperate Wolves defenders. He slotted a low ball across the six yard box for Daniel Sturridge to slam home from close range. It was a goal reminiscent of Studge’s equaliser against the Scousers – although it was not celebrated quite so wildly. Sturridge then had a drive which was palmed over.

I admired the way that Drogba controlled a high ball on the halfway line. He then advanced before pushing the ball back to Ashley Cole who swept the ball into the path of that man Mata. A crisp and instinctive finish and we were three up and coasting.

Crisis? What crisis?

To be honest, it was all Chelsea in the first-half and the visitors were unable to ask many questions of our under-fire defence. From my viewpoint high up in the corner of the MHU, I was able to see how John Terry often played the ball through to Mata and Cole. Our best moves often came down the left. In the middle, the composed Romeu looked settled and put in a fine performance. It was noticeable how often Mata left his left-wing berth and came inside in search of the ball.

I met up with San Francisco Pete at half-time and – for once – there were no moans. We both agreed that we would quite happily take the 3-0 scoreline. We both realised how important it was to keep a clean sheet.

Every great journey starts with a single step.

Despite the pleasing performance in the first-half, the atmosphere in the Matthew Harding was pretty woeful. To their credit, more noise seemed to be coming from the opposite end, and the Shed Lower appeared particularly animated. Down in that fat corner, Parky and Andy Wray were but 15 seats apart.

I was enjoying being able to watch a Chelsea game from a different part of The Bridge. I had watched a few games from that corner before. I was able to take plenty of photographs of the game, but I was also able to pick out new angles of the four stands too. I could hardly believe how many seats were not used in the expensive tier in the West Stand. I noted all of the differing supporters’ club banners in the West Stand.

Ramires tested Hennessey after 50 minutes with a looping effort from the inside-right channel. Our little Brazilian gem was having a fine game; tons of energy and enthusiasm. On 52 minutes, David Luiz seemed flat-footed and allowed Stephen Ward a shot on goal, but Cech was untroubled. Daniel Sturridge then made a super run from deep right down below me and advanced to within eight yards of the goal. His final pass across the goal was awful, though.

With Fernando Torres warming up in front of the family section, the Stamford Bridge crowd were baying for his appearance –

Torres! Torres! Torres! Torres!

Wolves had a little spell of possession and forced Cech to scramble two efforts away within five seconds. It would be there last real efforts on our goal. Villas-Boas rang the changes with Lampard coming on for Meireles and then Bosingwa and Torres replacing Ivanovic and Drogba. The Torres one we understood. The Bosingwa one not so.

Oh well. He’s the manager. It wasn’t as if the game was on the line.

Torres looked keen in the final fifteen minutes and we certainly willed him on. But he still looks leggy and low on confidence.

I hope he starts on Tuesday.

The most bizarre part of the day’s play was John Terry taking ages for a throw in over on the far side. He was unsurprisingly booked and I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed. With hindsight, it appears that it was all very intentional.

Tut tut.

On the drive home, Parky and I both admitted that Wolves had been poor, but we were just so grateful to evade our first three-game home losing streak since 1993. We are not out of the woods yet, but let’s build on this. As I raced home, we listened to some classics from Kraftwerk, that seminal band from our youth. It was quite clear that Germany was still lingering in my thoughts.

The games are coming thick and fast with hardly a pause for breath.

Liverpool next – and there is revenge in the air.

Tales From The Sunny Side Of The Street

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Swansea City : 24 September 2011.

This was another home win and a further step in the redevelopment of the new Chelsea. It was a lovely day out in London Town, with friends old and new. A great Chelsea Saturday, in fact.

I had a later start than usual, picking up Glenn in Frome at 9.30am and Lord Parky in Holt at 10am. Knowing that our pre-match would be squeezed, we had a McBreakfast on the hoof and I made good time as I headed east. I passed a few Swansea City cars on the way. This would be my first ever sighting of Swansea at a Chelsea game. Our two paths haven’t crossed in any competition since that memorable 1983-1984 season, that most beloved of seasons from our past.

As I have mentioned before, for some reason, season 1981-1982 has been in my thoughts recently. I always remember our opening game in that season was a 2-0 win against Bolton, but the biggest news story on that day was newly-promoted Swansea’s 5-1 annihilation of Leeds United. I can still picture the mixed emotions of the two sets of fans on that blisteringly hot day at the Vetch Field. Swansea’s big win definitely got a loud cheer in The Shed that afternoon. I became good friends with a Leeds fan at college, who had travelled down to South Wales on that day and he told me that it was one of his worst ever days as a Leeds fan. Leeds took thousands down and I can still see the silent and shocked reactions of the Yorkshire hordes every time Swansea scored. Swansea, in fact, finished in second place in the old first division in 1981-1982 – an amazing achievement – but were then relegated in 1982-1983. We met in 1983-1984, but our paths then took very different directions. I actually saw Swansea at Yeovil in 2005 – a Yeovil team which included JT’s brother Paul – and for the best part of the past thirty years, they have been mired in the bottom two divisions. Credit to them for clawing their way back to the top flight.

Glenn and Parky darted off inside The Goose, but I had other plans. I raced down the North End Road as I had friends to meet down at the hotel. The weather was surprisingly warm and I quickly peeled off my zip-up top. Underneath, I was wearing a bright “Clockwork Orange” T-shirt (picked up in Bangkok for about £5) and I soon realised that Swansea’s away colours were also orange.

Oh well. I wasn’t worried. As I wasn’t sporting a moustache, I knew I wouldn’t be mistaken as a Welshman.

Another Chelsea game, another CIA visit. This time, it was Damian (Trojan Man) and his lady Laura. I dipped into “The Butcher’s Hook” to collect them and took them over to the hotel, where I knew other friends would be waiting. We had a lovely pre-match, albeit a rather short one. I met up with Mick, who had managed to get me a few of my Asia tour programmes signed by Terry, Lampard, Drogba and Torres. The original idea was to sell these on Ebay, but I soon decided to give these away to a few close friends. Gill, Graeme and Ferdi were in the hotel bar (Gill had managed to get a photo with JT an hour earlier) and Mike from NYC was there too.

Two pints of Singha – thanks Mike, thanks Damian – and a nice time chatting about the entire gamut of Anglo-American sport culture with my two Southern Californian guests. As his CIA handle would suggest, Damian (and Laura) are fans of the USC gridiron team and we spent quite a while chatting about NCAA fandom, rivalries, ticket prices, match day routines and rituals.

Mike had brought me a recent copy of the NY Post which featured a few articles about Mariano Rivera’s historic 602 save. Damian, with a pained expression, enquired why I was a Yankee follower and I’m getting used to this now. I batted the question away with aplomb, like a cricketer driving a ball through the covers. I always used to say I wish I had £5 for every time someone asked me why I was a Chelsea fan. It’s getting that way with the Yankees now.

Mike told Damian that his wife was from New York and that they met at college. Damian enquired which college and Mike replied “UCLA.”

Damian’s face was a picture.

But Mike added – “UCLA – the university at the corner of Lexington Avenue.”

I felt Damian’s relief sweep over him.

For a Chelsea fan, it must have hurt to see us train on UCLA’s campus during the summer tours of 2006 and 2007.

That must have been awful for him.

We were stood by the window at the front of the hotel bar area on the first floor. We had a lovely view of the forecourt area, with the busy Fulham Road in the distance, the “Butcher’s Hook” pub on the corner. We spotted six Chelsea pensioners being dropped off and making their way through the match-day crowds. They are always a lovely sight. They continue to be a wonderful reminder of our history, our proud past and long may they continue to be a part of our identity as a club. Damian asked me briefly about our continued presence at Stamford Bridge and if I favoured a move away.

To be blunt, I want us to stay at Stamford Bridge forever. Just looking out at that forecourt area was enough for me. Photographs of thousands flooding that area for the Moscow Dinamo game in 1945, grainy film of the team playing five-a-side amongst the portacabins and parked cars every Friday morning in the late ‘sixties, personal memories of me looking up at the monstrous East stand for the very first time in October 1974 (this still gives me goose bumps), scary memories of Millwall in 1977, memories of West Ham in 1984, gorgeous memories of getting Pat Nevin’s autograph outside the old club shop in 1984, my mate Glenn chatting up a girl in the programme hut in 1983, memories of the ivy on the wall of the old offices, memories of getting Ray Wilkins’ autograph in 1978…memories, memories, memories.

What I fear is my club playing in a soul-less stadium five miles away in 2025…what will we have lost?

At 2.20pm, I reminded Laura and Damian that the players would soon be going through their pre-match drills and so I quickly escorted them out of the hotel and towards the entrance to the Shed Lower. To our right, we saw a cluster of fans around a bald gentleman and I soon realised that it was Ray Wilkins.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.ph…50384222707658

I told the two Californians to “get in there” and I grabbed Laura’s camera. While Damian quickly spoke to him, I said “thanks Butch” and I had this horrible feeling that he might have thought that I was taking the Mick.

He replied –

“Cheers fella. Nice T-shirt.”

I said my goodbyes to the Trojanistas and made my way to the MHU turnstiles. It made a nice change to be inside early for once. I was at my seat at 2.30pm and Stamford Bridge was looking gorgeous. Pre-match chat focussed on how well we played at Old Trafford.

The 3,000 Swansea fans were in good voice and treated us to the Welsh standard “Hymns And Arias” (aka “Land Of My Fathers”).

The Swansea team featured two players born within 12 miles of my home town; Scott Sinclair from Bath and Nathan Dwyer from Trowbridge. Parky’s mate Kris used to play footy with Dyer in a Trowbridge park and, even at a young age, he was special. My home area is not known for producing professional footballers.

Whatever happened to Shagger Lambert from Farrington Gurney, Nasher Ruddock from Midsomer Norton and Crapper Lacey from Buckland Dinham?

The football world is a lesser place with their absence.

No real surprises with AVB’s team selection, with Anelka in for Daniel Sturridge. Ominously, Frank Lampard was on the bench, but this was not a surprise. He faces new challenges this season.

The game began quietly, with the highlight being a lovely dribble along the by-line by Juan Mata and a ball back for Ramires to fire goal wards, but the shot was blocked. The opening period also featured two horrendous crosses from the not-so-trusty right foot of Jose Bosingwa. Swansea had a few attacks, but were not causing us huge concerns. I was getting a little annoyed with Torres coming deep to search for the ball. I wanted him to stay on the shoulder of the last man.

On 29 minutes – just after I had said “Come on Torres, move!” – Juan Mata chipped a fantastic ball over the Swansea defence and the ball fell right at the feet of Torres, who had nimbly lost his marker. A deft touch and the ball nestled inside the far post.

“YES!”

I took some photos as the team joined Nando down in celebration corner, and I hoped that Laura had some good shots, too.

This was the quintessential New Chelsea Goal; Mata the creator, Torres the finisher. May there be many more.

Shortly after, a lovely searching ball found Ramires who advanced and despatched a low strike through the legs of the Swansea ‘keeper and it was 2-0 to Chelsea. More photographs of the team, smiling away down in the SW corner.

Coasting.

Then, a crazy calamity. We all knew that Torres’ ridiculous challenge warranted a red card. That was obvious. Slightly less obvious was why Nando needed to make that challenge. It wasn’t in a threatening position. I guess – I’m just rationalising – after Old Trafford’s highs and lows, after his goal, after his nice contribution to Ramires’ goal, his head was buzzing.

But he needs to learn from this. I’ve noticed before how he makes rash challenges.

My comment after the Manchester United game (“what next in the chequered Chelsea career of Fernando Torres?”) came into my mind as we discussed the tackle in the last few minutes before the break. The poor chap seems fated.

At the break, Neil Barnett spoke about the sad incident recently which resulted in the deaths of four Swansea miners and passed on our deepest sympathy to the Swansea fans. This was a nice touch and both sets of fans applauded. Additionally, Neil mentioned that there had been collections throughout the day and Chelsea would match the funds raised and give all the money to the families of the bereaved.

A class act.

The Swansea fans applauded this.

Good stuff.

Anelka was deployed as a sole attacker ahead of the infamous “two banks of four.” However, Swansea sensed the initiative and Dyer let rip with a shot which was deflected off the outstretched leg of Mikel and dipped wildly onto the bar. A Swansea effort was then hacked away off our line. These were tense moments.

Florent Malouda replaced the bubbly Mata on the hour. Fresh legs for the team. For the second game in four days, ten men were being asked to do the work of eleven. Anelka found himself surrounded by four defenders, but with no support to be found anywhere. In a classic piece of football, he shrugged his shoulders, went on a run and clipped a heavenly strike against the bar.

What a goal that would (could? Should?) have been.

Down below me, Ashley Cole stretched and blocked an attempted clearance by Routledge, then narrowly shot past the far post. He was roundly applauded.

On 75 minutes, I disappeared off for a toilet break and returned just in time to see a ball played into Ramires’ path, a shimmy and a cool finish.

That was really unexpected – we had been playing a containment game really, but this goal killed the game…time to celebrate? Not really. The Bridge crowd cheered the goal, but there was no continued barrage of noise.

Didier on for a great Anelka, Josh on for Meireles.

We then let in a “typical Chelsea” goal from a wide free-kick. An unmarked leap at the far post and we all knew what was coming…the ball crashed down and into the corner of Cech’s goal. We had two late chances…a Malouda shot blocked and then, with Ramires on a deserved hat-trick, he unfortunately drilled his shot wide.

At the death, a sweet turn and a deft finish from Didier.

4-1.

Easy.

I left the Barons Court area at 5.45pm and we listened to “606” on the drive home. Mark Chapman, who I neither like nor dislike, tried his damnedest to get Chelsea fans to ‘phone in and comment on the Torres sending-off (not his goal, I hasten to add), but I was very contented when nobody could be bothered to do so.

Good. Let’s concentrate on the positive (two goals in 135 minutes) and not get sucked into this Torres bashing session. As I came off the M4 at Chippenham, all three of us “whooped” at the news of good old Stoke’s draw at home to United, who – in my book- are the team to beat.

Another positive.

It had been a good day.

Tales From A Day Of Blackouts And Blowouts

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 23 April 2011.

A quite magnificent day.

This is a good week for us here in England; Good Friday and a day off work, Chelsea at home on St. George’s Day against West Ham, Easter Sunday, Easter Monday and another day off work, then just three days of toil before the Royal Wedding – another day off – and finally the second home game of the week against the old enemy, Tottenham. All of that, plus the added bonus of tons of American visitors in town to share this great week with my usual match day companions.

The Easter weekend began on Friday with another visit to nearby Rowde for a Chelsea Legends night. Back in November, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke were down in the West Country. This time, it was the turn of Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling to accompany Chopper. Our two highest appearance makers and our highest ever goalscorer.

It doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

Suffice to say, we had a lovely time and I particularly enjoyed talking to Bobby Tambling out in the sunny beer garden about a variety of football-related topics. He is from Hayling Island, down near Portsmouth, and he told me the story about the 1953 F.A. Cup Final. He was a boyhood Blackpool fan, lured by the two Stans Matthews and Mortensen. In probably the most famous F.A. Cup Final of all, Bobby told me that he watched the game through a shop window and was mortified to see Blackpool losing 3-1. He decided to cycle back to his house but was met by the news that Blackpool, inspired by typical wing-wizardry from Matthews and a hat-trick from Mortensen, had turned it around to win 4-3. He had mixed emotions; happy his team had won, but deeply frustrated that he had missed the comeback. It was lovely to hear him recount this story, his boyish enthusiasm shining through. Bobby now lives in Cork in Ireland with his lovely wife Val and he told another football-related story. He was recently coaching some youngsters and he decided he needed to illustrate his teachings with some practical illustration. He took aim and chipped a ball through for the kids, but felt immediate pain in his groin. Val was still giving him loads of grief for this “silliness” but I just had to admire his love of the game. I hope that I am still playing at the age of seventy.

I collected Lord Parky at 10am. To celebrate St. George’s Day, we listened to the light and breezy English pop of The Sundays’ 1997 album “Static and Silence.” I first became a fan of this band way back in 1989 when they brought out the gorgeous “Can’t Be Sure” single. This has some lovely lyrics, laced with humour, and almost Smithsesque in their content.

“Give me a story and give me a bed.
Give me possessions.
Oh love luck and money they go to my head like wildfire.
It’s good to have something to live for you’ll find.
Live for tomorrow.
Live for a job and a perfect behind, high time.
England, my country, the home of the free, such miserable weather.
But England’s as happy as England can be.
Why cry?”

By 12.15pm, the two of us had walked down the North End Road – warm weather, getting warmer – to “Lloyds” at Fulham Broadway and had met up with The Wild One, plus three first-time visitors from across the pond; JR, Dennis and Anna, all from Michigan, all members of the Motor City Blues. JR kindly bought us pints and soon began questioning me on a few Chelsea topics. Beth had warned me that she had a “little gift” for me, but with increasing disbelief, I was swept away with the contents of her Chelsea carrier bag.

I was presented with two magnificent bespoke bounded albums containing all of my various match reports from seasons 2008-2009 and 2009-2010.

Oh boy – I was speechless.

So, a fantastic gift from you to me and I thank you all. I began posting on CIA in 2006 at the time of my trip over to Chicago for the MLS All-Star Game and immediately felt “at home” on CIA. This has always been a two-way street; I love sharing my passion for this wonderful club and, in turn, I get a massive buzz from all of your enthusiasm too.

We toasted each other – “Friendship and Football.”

We spent a nice relaxing time at “Lloyds” before it got too busy. We were joined by Gill and Graeme, who I know get just as much satisfaction out of their new trans-Atlantic friendships as me. Parky and I wolfed down a burger and chips as the American guests flitted around, buying CFCUK fanzines and St. George pin badges.

Another pint.

Then, we moved on to Stamford Bridge. The weather really was heating up now and many fellow fans had decided on shorts. I took a few candid shots of the three Bridge virgins as they rounded the corner and set eyes on the West Stand for the first-ever time. I remember my first sighting in 1974. These are magical moments.

Then, some photos of The King, Peter Osgood, bathed in sunshine, standing proudly outside The West Stand. A lovely time.

Our next port of call was – of course – the hotel bar area where we met up with Bobby and Val Tambling again. Bobby just chatted away to JR, Dennis and Anna as if they had known each other for years; he is a naturally charismatic fellow and a lovely ambassador for our club. Ron Harris then appeared and also gave the American guests some lovely memories with his friendly comments and humorous asides. Of course, these two Chelsea greats (Mister 795 and Mister 202) posed with JR, Dennis and Anna for some photographs.

Another pint.

In the background, the Manchester United vs. Everton game was on a TV, but I was ignoring it in the main. There were a few “oohs” and “ahhs” but the game was scoreless. Then, Parky uttered the horrible words “they’ve scored” and the jolly pre-match atmosphere changed. I had ironically predicted that “United will probably score in the last five minutes” and I wasn’t too far out. So, that makes our task even more difficult this season but let’s not get too downhearted.

Gill had just bumped into Frank Lampard and was all of a shake. The manager was having his pre-match team talk in an adjacent meeting room and a few players were flitting about. One day I’ll provide a plan of all the rooms, walkways and hidden nooks and crannies of the hotel for you all. The daily pre-match routines do tend to vary a bit each game, though. Frank had even given Gill a quick kiss and I joked with Graeme that I would soon be on the ‘phone to the “News of the World” to report that Frank had a secret rendezvous with a “mystery blonde.”

Gill whooped with laughter.

Next, the neat silver hair of Carlo Ancelotti appeared at a window – he was on the ‘phone – and Anna was convinced that he had waved at her.

A quiet respectful chorus of “Carlo” echoed around the bar area.

It was now 2.45pm and time was moving on. We all decamped up to The Goose, a fifteen minute walk away. Andy Wray and his wife were on their way and soon joined us. The Goose was absolutely rammed and, with the heat and the cigarette smoke in the beer garden, not as enjoyable as on other days. There was simply nowhere to move. I was now on the Cokes and had a slight headache, too; drat. Not only were my usual mates standing in groups, but there was a 15 strong group from Herr Grupenfuhrer Neat’s New York Blues to attend to. Amidst all of this, Beth was chatting to Andy, JR, Anna and Dennis and I am sure they were having a blast. I quickly showed a few of the lads the album from last season and they were suitably impressed. Not only are the match reports included, but the album contained many of my photographs, too. Of course, a lot of my mates are featured and this was met with much merriment and Mickey-taking.

I asked Walnuts, who lives in Brighton, if the rumours were correct about us opening up Brighton’s new stadium at Falmer were correct. He wasn’t sure, but promised to keep me informed.

I disappeared off for twenty minutes to take the albums back to the car, grab a headache tablet and I had a little moment to myself amongst the mad activity of the afternoon. It had been a lovely day thus far, but there was a fear that the match would be a massive ant-climax.

How wrong could I be?

By the time I had met up with His Lordship back at The Goose, there spots of rain in the air. I could hardly believe this; English weather…maybe The Sundays were correct! Parky had heard rumours that West Ham had launched an attack on The Malster and I hoped that nobody was hurt; specifically, our CIA friends who were planning to call in and see the Fancast team. As we walked down the North End Road, we heard unfamiliar songs and we soon spotted a line of OB guarding around forty West Ham fans standing on the pavement outside The C0ck and Hen. As far as I could see, none were wearing colours. They were youngsters, maybe the latest incarnation of their “Under Fives” and I envisaged that they may well have been on the Thames boat which had transported a hundred or so West Ham fans from the East End. I guess they had split up into ones and twos and then mustered enough in the pub to create a scene. Anyway, they were full of bravado. I just rolled my eyes at one song which they were singing –

“Chelsea’s a 5hit-hole, I wanna go home.”

West Ham aren’t known for their irony, so I just cringed at this.

Urbane, cosmopolitan, expensive, sophisticated SW6 versus raggedy-arsed Gor Blimey Land.

Simply no contest.

I could tell Parky was itching to hang around and see what developed, but I moved him on. Outside the old tube station, a West Ham fan – foolishly wearing a replica shirt – was obstructed by an indignant Chelsea fan and bumped off him. I only saw two West Ham fans wearing colours the entire day; old habits die hard. Mind you, when we go East, Chelsea never wear colours. Too risky. At the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall, a St. George’s flag was flying proudly atop the flagpole.

As we lined up the turnstiles to the MHU, the clouds darkened and the rain increased. Everyone was in short-sleeved shirts and even flip-flops.

Inside with five minutes to go; phew. I noted that quite a few West Ham had not yet made it in; maybe they had indeed decided to go home, back east to the land of pie and mash, discount supermarkets, used-car salesmen, fake designer wear and old-fashioned violence to anyone outside of the “manor.”

I kept an eye out for the steward who had troubled me against Birmingham City with his warnings about using my camera. I planned a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse with him; I had packed a compact camera too.

The teams – Ivanovic for Ferreira, but thankfully no Scott Parker for them.

Neil Barnett had announced that Scott Parker had won the Writers’ Player of the Year award and this was warmly applauded by the Chelsea supporters. I can’t imagine the bitter West Ham fans doing likewise.

Ah – the John Terry & Wayne Bridge Non-Handshake Act Two.

I didn’t agree with the booing of Wayne Bridge all afternoon, but there you go.

At kick-off, all of the itinerant wastrels from the East were inside and making quite a din. There was every colour under the sun on show except much claret and light blue.

We began strongly in the first twenty minutes. After just two minutes, Florent Malouda was played in and only had Robert Green to beat. His weak shot was straight at the much-maligned ‘keeper. With the rain now falling heavily, a lot of spectators in the front rows of the West Stand scarpered to watch, presumably, on TVs in the stand. Wimps!

Kalou wasted a good chance when clear and then Ba forced a save from Petr Cech on 23 minutes. This was West Ham’s first effort on goal, but they then enjoyed a period of possession. Soon after, a break and despite a desperate run from Ashley Cole to stop the cross, the ball was played in and Petr Cech nimbly pushed the resulting header around the post.

On 27 minutes, Didier did well to create space and he advanced down the right, but selfishly blasted over. This was met with groans from the frustrated home crowd.

On 28 minutes, the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard rumbled around The Bridge. The rain was falling relentlessly and the early evening atmosphere was quite strange. There was a weird feeling. An intense, heavy, gloom hung around. Meanwhile, the pastel coloured away fans were singing away and I don’t think Chelsea were retaliating with the required amount of volume and venom. I was hoping that the American guests weren’t disappointed.

After 31 minutes, a West Ham corner was flighted in and after a kick and a lunge, Petr Cech fell on the ball just before it crossed the line. The natives were restless, especially when a wild shot from Branislav Ivanovic careered off for a throw. Then, Kalou lost possession with a very loose ball and we were very lucky not to concede a goal; a courageous block from David Luiz saved us.

Then, salvation. We attacked down the left on 44 minutes and a delightful ball from Didier Drogba was played between some defenders to Ashley Cole (“f***ing ball of the season” I said to Walnuts) and our left-back played the ball across the West Ham goalmouth. Before I could blink, the ball fell to none other than a previously subdued Frank Lampard and he joyously slammed the ball in to the roof of the net.

We hollered our joy and I saw Frank reel away, leaping in front of 3,000 enemies. It was a lovely moment. I jumped down and looked at Alan.

Alan : “They’ull ave ta cam at us naaaa.”
Chris : “Cum on moi little doimonds.”

At half-time, two treats. Chelsea boxer Darren Barker was introduced to the crowd by Neil Barnett just as a massive fork of lighting lit up the sky just behind the towering East stand. Then, Bobby Tambling was on the pitch, initially carrying a massive blue umbrella to fend off the rain. However, the wind took it and it reversed itself. After a couple of attempts to right it, Tambling said “f it” and threw it to one side. As he strode around the pitch with Neil Barnett, he got absolutely drenched. I bet Ron Harris was grinning up in the executive area.

After the break, more Chelsea possession. A lovely Drogba cross found Malouda who cutely set up Kalou. In space, he took his time but drilled the ball well wide.

On 54 minutes, Michael Essien pulled up and was soon replaced with Yossi Benayoun. After 60 minutes, a great Drogba free-kick was played with pace into the danger area, but evaded all of our lunging bodies. Two minutes after, an almost identical ball from Didier was played in to Frank Lampard but he miraculously couldn’t get the desired touch.

The chances were coming thick and fast now. A thunderous shot by Frank from way out was parried by Green and Malouda slammed the loose ball wide.

“Chim, chimeny, chim, chimeny, chim, chim, cheroo – We hate those ba5tards in claret and blue.”

On 68 minutes, David Luiz gathered the ball 25yards out and steadied himself. He unleashed a venomous dipper which rocked the bar.

At the other end, an equally vicious blast from Ba was well stopped by Petr Cech, who then did well to gather the follow up.

On 69 minutes, Nicolas Anelka came on for Kalou.

Robbie Keane (oh, how we all love him at Chelsea) came on for the injured Noble and was soon sent in with only our Great Dane to beat. Unlike on so many previous occasions, the Irish fecker shot wide and we were spared the sight of his pathetic summersault.

On 77 minutes, Fernando Torres came on for the revitalized Drogba and we shouted his name. He was industrious for seven minutes, full of movement and guile. He soon selflessly set up Anelka but his shot was blasted straight at Gabbidon.

Then, it happened.

It is with regret that I did not have my camera to capture this, but here are my memories. A perfectly paced ball by Anelka was played centrally into space for an onrushing Torres to run on to. The offside trap had been breached.

We stood up. We gulped. We hoped.

Just as he was about to dispatch the ball with his right foot, the ball held up in a Stamford Bridge puddle and we immediately groaned all of those usual Torres thoughts. Unperturbed, Torres kept his footing, moved the ball onto his left foot and – off balance – calmly swept the ball into the net. I think this slight pause caused by that puddle heightened the drama and intensified our emotions.

Stamford Bridge went into orbit. The noise was thunderous. Delirium. Absolute delirium.

I glanced down and, amid screams, I reached down for my camera, resting atop my bag. I felt my brain doing something very strange – it felt like it was about to explode with joy. This goal obviously meant a lot. Too much, maybe. At that moment in time, Torres’ goal seemed like the most important goal I would ever witness.

I then blacked out momentarily and fell back on my haunches. For a split second – I guess – I was gone. I tried to jump up, but my legs were like jelly. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. I clambered to my feet and – so embarrassed…I thought everyone must be looking at me – I steadied myself and unscrewed by camera lens cover.

Snap – an unsurprisingly blurred shot of Torres and team mates on their feet in the far corner. I think I had missed the massive pile of bodies.

Wow. That has never happened to me before. I have felt very light-headed at moments of joy (Gallas against Spurs in 2006, for example) but I’ve never blacked out before.

As I explained to Alan and Walnuts about what had just happened to me, The Bridge was rocking and the noise didn’t let up.

West Ham were silent.

The rest of the game was a massive blur. Just time for a diving JT chest pass (a first?) and then, on 90 minutes, the coup de grace.

A pass into space from our boy Fernando and Malouda slammed the ball in. Camera at the ready I took ten photographs of the joy amongst our players as Malouda welcomed a smiling Torres to join him. Both were mobbed by the rest of the team and the day was complete.

What an amazing end to the game. I can only imagine what was going through the minds of Anna, Dennis and JR. On my first ever visit to Yankee stadium, my hero Don Mattingly hit his 100th home run (on film!) and I was a very happy man.

But this…this was something else!

Out through the joyous crowds, past the So Bar, onto Vanston Place, we were all singing…it didn’t take long for a new song to be borne.

“Fernando Torres – He sent West Ham down.”

I soon caught up with His Lordship as we sauntered back to the car. We did well and left Chelsea Town at 8pm.

A text from JR : “Does it get any better?”

As we drove past Windsor Castle on the M4, I glimpsed at the famous round tower and spotted a St. George’s flag atop its flagpole. We stopped at Reading for a little indulgence… coffees and a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Parky did a lucky dip of my CDs and pulled out “Soft Cell.” He then fell asleep and I drove on, heading west, not thinking about the title, just thinking of being Chelsea.

However, just two miles from Parky Towers, there was a rumble and I knew that I had a flat tire. We pulled over and, in the darkness of a Wiltshire night, I quickly changed the wheel. It had been a blow out and I thanked the lucky stars I was only doing thirty miles per hour. This delayed my return home; after dropping Parky home, I reached my house at 10.50pm. I only had to wait a minute to see Fernando Torres’ goal on “Match of the Day” and I just thought –

“Perfect timing.”

We’re still in with a shout of the title, you know. It’s a long shot of course, but please prepare yourselves for yet more drama next weekend when we play Tottenham at home.

Love it.

Tales From A Night Of Peroni, Pizza, Football And Fireworks

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bolton Wanderers : 12 December 2010.

All together now – “Phew.”

I spent a little time on the internet in the morning, trying to gauge the mood of The Chelsea Nation. Reactions to our loss at Arsenal varied from the pragmatic to the melodramatic. To be honest, I couldn’t stomach some of the more extreme reactions. My match day companion Alan seemed to hit the nail on the head when he commented on “Facebook” –

“Some of these so-called fans who are bleating at the moment wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties.”

Unfortunately, my cold had taken a turn for the worse – it was certainly worse than on the visit to Arsenal on Monday evening. Maybe I had been exposed to a new bug in those cold North London streets – Gooneria, maybe. Not to worry – I’d be wrapped up warm. Glenn called by to pick me up at 2pm and we soon started chatting about the current state of affairs in SW6. This would be Glenn’s first game since the halcyon days of October and the 2-0 defeat of Arsenal. Glenn watched the Emirates game in a pub in Frome, seemingly full of Arsenal fans, and was able to add a different perspective to the one that I had from the away section. It seemed that the cameras seemed to dwell on the forlorn figure of our manager on many occasions. He confirmed that our team weren’t working for each other. We seemed to be a pale shadow of our former selves. In the 25 minutes it took us to collect Parky, I had put my cards on the table –

“If this is the season that we have to rebuild, so be it. But it’s never easy to rebuild and stay competitive on all fronts. It’s so difficult to supplement the first eleven – you simply can’t buy all the best players…you have to buy players who are happy to be on the fringe, happy to play that squad role. Think of people like Jarosik, Smertin, Geremi and Belletti. But Carlo Ancelotti isn’t a bad manager – he’s one of Europe’s best. This is just his second full season in England. Let’s give him time. We may not win the league this season, but let’s see what we can do. Fourth is better than fifth, third is better than fourth, second is better than third…I don’t think we’ll win it this season, but let’s see what we can do. Let’s support the team. The one thing we can’t evaluate is what Carlo needs to do to impress Roman. If it was up to me, I’d unreservedly put my faith in Ancelotti and give him time to mould his own team. We are, after all, an ageing team that has peaked. Despite the mammoth goals total in 2009-2010, we won the league by just one point in May. We need to rebuild. But, after the dark days of the latter part of the Scolari regime, I would not have put £1 on us winning the league in less than 18 months of his departure. It just shows the spirit of the senior pros in our squad who pushed on and won at Arsenal, Manchester United and Liverpool last season. We may not see the likes of that again for quite a while. Let’s just get behind the team tonight and sing our hearts out.”

This is my view on things – though I doubt very much if it mirrors that of Roman Abramovic.

Glenn was buzzing to be going up to Chelsea again after a break of two months, eager to see our mates in The Goose, eager to see the team. His next comment warmed me …

”I’ll never stop going – what’s the worst that can happen? We can lose.”

Big deal.

“Yeah mate – and we’ve seen a lot worse, eh?”

Parky was collected and The Three Wise Men were on our way. Some awful fog in Berkshire slowed the normally speedy Glenn, so we didn’t reach our usual parking spot until about 4.30pm. We hot-footed it to our favourite restaurant on Brompton Road where we had arranged to meet the four American visitors. Becky, Rick, Mary Anne and Paul had just arrived and Salvo was soon fussing over all of us like long-lost friends. If The Goose has acquired the unofficial status of “CIA pub”, then Salvo’s has become the CIA restaurant in London. The list of CIAers who have passed through the doors goes on and on…Teri, Starla, Beth, Danny, Burger, Julie, SF Bob, Detroit Bob, Jens, Danielle, Wes, Scott, Lalo, Farmer John Schaeffer, David from Houston, Hoss, plus Mike and Chopper and afew of the New York Blues.

Pizzas were ordered and three bottles of Peroni didn’t touch the sides. Despite the loss at Arsenal, the four visitors still loved the match day experience and – of course – were besides themselves with joy at the thought of their first ever game at Stamford Bridge. We moved on to The Goose and I pointed out all of the Chelsea watering-holes along the way.

The pub was packed of course and the Americans loved the fact that it was full of devoted Chelsea supporters. We got the beers in and spoke about all sorts of nonsense. Michigan Kev arrived at about 6pm and joined the fray. He made a bee-line for Parky and the banter commenced. With The Ashes regained, Rick asked if any of us were cricket fans. So I spoke a little about that – there are a few cricket fans in my group of mates…Gary is a Surrey season ticket holder, Daryl watches a few games every summer…I used to like cricket before baseball took over my affections. I even played for the school team during one summer. Rick also asked about rugby. No – a resolute no. None of us are rugby followers. In fact, I joked with Rick that our little conversation about “egg chasing” was probably the longest conversation I had ever had in The Goose about that particular sport.

We spoke about all sorts in The Goose pre-match. I spoke to Rick about that magnificent book “Soccer In A Football World” (which details the history of footy in the USA) and in particular the appearance of our player Alec Jackson in the Bethlehem Steel team back in the 1920s. Amongst other things, Klinger from “MASH” and his favourite team the Toledo Mud Hens also got a mention. To say nothing of my mates Andy and Jonesy singing “One Man Went To Mow” at Detroit’s Tiger Stadium in 1984…and the Tigers fans looking on, quite befuddled. Talking of people looking befuddled, the visitors from the US had the pleasure of meeting “permanently confused” Wycombe Stan, a man who has a “Facebook” page devoted to him. After our little chat, he pottered off, probably unaware of who I was or even who he was. It always amazes me how he finds his way to Chelsea every few weeks.

I personally could have stayed there, chatting and drinking, all night. But the kick-off was approaching though and we needed to move on.

“See you on Sunday boys – Happy New Year.”

On the walk past The Cock And Hen ( the site of my first ever pint at Chelsea, April 1984 ), I again reminded Mary Anne that Chelsea isn’t really a football club at all – it’s a social club and we meet up every weekend at a football ground. As we passed The Malt House, Paul suggested that we called in on the off chance of bumping in to a girl from Cleveland Ohio who was with a couple of the CFC Fancast gents. While my back was turned, Parky and Kev had decided to get a pint in, despite it being about 15 minutes from kick-off. Not to worry – everyone happy, everyone smiling. I said to Mary Anne that the little dip into The Malt House encapsulated what supporting Chelsea is all about – bumping into Chelsea fans for the first time, handshakes, smiles, laughter and Parky getting a sneaky beer in.

After all these distractions, I got into my seat just in time for the kick-off. Beth had texted me to say that a few of the CIA banners were on show in the East stand. A quick look around – around 750 away fans.

Anelka in. Ramires in. Bosingwa in.

I’m not sure if anyone else has ever noticed, but at Stamford Bridge, in the south-east corner, there is often a plume of smoke which appears from a mysterious location behind the East Stand. Maybe from where Ken Bates’ old office once was. Not for the first time, I joked with Alan that it looked like the elder members of the Vatican had decided on a new Pope – better look out Carlo, it might be that Roman has decided on a change of manager – whereas Alan thought that it meant that chain-smoker John Neal was in the car park.

I didn’t have my big lens so was unable to spot all of the CIA banners. However, I did spot these –Chelsea In America, North Texas, South East Blues, Boston Blues, Texas, OC Blues.

It wasn’t a great first-half was it? We had the usual pass-pass-pass possession, but it was the away team who had the best chance in the opening period. Former Pompey midfielder Matt Taylor was left exposed but he dragged his shot narrowly wide. There was certainly the usual mumbling and grumbling throughout the first-half. The crowd began reasonably well, but the noise soon quietened. Our chances were rare and unconvincing. The referee Mike Jones was annoying the hell out of all of us – on three occasions he decided to blow up for free-kicks in our favour when advantage should have been played. Nothing annoys me more than that really – I wish referees would let the game flow anyway – and I vented my frustration at the referee. These were anxious times. For the first time in ages at Chelsea, I stood the entire game. I wanted to feel involved – standing helps, don’t ask me why.

I couldn’t help but think that the pre-match was far outweighing the game – but how many hundreds of times has that been the case, anyway? The referee blew up for the break and boos could be heard.

At half-time, right at the start, the PA played a few verses from a Howard Jones song from 1984, imploring us to “throw off your mental chains.” How apt, I thought. It’s what we needed to do – miraculously regain our collective self-confidence. I was hoping Carlo was weaving some magic deep in the bowels of the East stand. During the break, I had time to glance through the programme and there were a few previously unpublished black and white photographs from the Bolton away game in 1983, where Clive Walker scored and…oh, I’m sure you all know by now. If you don’t, it’s time you did.

Half-Time Quiz –

1. What is Chelsea’s biggest home win over Bolton Wanderers in the Premier League era?

2. Which player scored his first-ever Premier League goal for Chelsea in the first of those meetings?

3. Which player netted the winner in last season’s meeting against Bolton at The Bridge?

4. Which Brazilian centre-back had a spell with the Trotters, having previously represented Chelsea?

I looked back on the first period. JT, for me, was our best player. Frank was only making short runs into space – he had no space, to be fair, but he seemed to be playing within himself. Malouda quiet, Drogba quiet.The usual stuff.

Soon after the re-start, a sublime ball (one of the best of the season if I am honest) from Frank cut right through the Bolton defence and found Didier who advanced in the inside-right position. We were all prepared for a goal – but the firm strike hit the far post and rebounded to safety. We kept getting caught offside, but at least we were showing a greater willingness to attack the Bolton rear-guard.

On the hour, we broke through again and we all thought, to a man, that Didier was offside. However, I looked across at the retreating linesman, below the OC Blues flag, and he memorably kept his flag down. In a moment of high drama, Didier crossed the ball into the box and the advancing – and unmarked – Malouda slid the ball in.

The Bridge erupted – it is quite some time since a goal against a team outside the top five or six was met with such loud and happy delirium. Alan and I calmed ourselves and – after quite a few games since the last time – we uttered the famous…

“They will have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

As the second-half continued, I have to say that Ramires, our little number seven, got more and more into the game…chasing people down, keeping the ball in tight areas like Makelele, getting stuck in. It was so pleasing to see – long may it continue. Carlo obviously rates him – that is good enough for me. Definitely his best game for us, by a mile. We carved open a few more chances, but Bolton were still in the game. On 76 minutes, Cech showed much agility to tip over a rasping drive from Holden – the arc of his rising body was a picture. From the resultant corner, we were lucky to stay 1-0 up as a header fell at the feet of a defender who hacked the ball away.

We had a few more chances – the ball was worked rather cleverly to Essien but he shot wide. Essien had not had the best of games, but one trademark hustling run sticks out.

Perhaps the highlight of the second period was, in my mind, the rousing roar that the crowd gave Ashley Cole after his sprint for a 50/50 ball…his desire, his pace, his perfectly timed tackle. Moments like that can galvanise an entire football club. Players and fans together.

Thankfully – and with great relief and pleasure – the much maligned referee blew up and The Bridge roared. I exchanged a few happy texts from Chelsea fans from near and far. I liked Beth’s comment about Ramires –

“He is a feisty little guy and I like that.”

I was so happy that the four Americans’ inaugural visit to Stamford Bridge had resulted in a much-needed win. Three points to The Champions – phew, indeed. Of course, the news that Arsenal had dropped points at Wigan added to our glee as we left the stadium and hustled down the Fulham Road. I caught up with Parky who had somehow managed to tangle his crutches up with his jacket sleeve – the beers were having an effect. Overhead, in the dark London night, the sky was lit up with a succession of fireworks, cracking and sparkling away.

It was a perfect moment.

Not for the first time, I wish I could have stayed on in London – to meet up with Becky, Mary Anne, Paul, Rick and Kevin to hear about their experiences in The Shed. I can just picture the glee on their faces as Malouda struck. The noise really was fantastic.

We got back to Glenn’s car and we all admitted that it felt like a large weight had been lifted from our shoulders. One win does not a season make, but let’s keep going. Let’s beat Villa on Sunday and let’s win at Wolves on Wednesday. Let’s get a run going.

Come on Chelsea – let’s go.

Tales From The Bleak Midwinter

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 27 December 2010.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chris!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh – good man!”

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

“On your own, mate.”

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

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

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

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

The Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger was not available for comment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tales From The Chelsea Pubs

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. MSK Zilina : 23 November 2010.

There was a moment during this game that I thought that the horrendous luck in front of goal that we endured at St. Andrews on Saturday was continuing.

Not to worry – the kids came through and into The Last Sixteen we go.

I travelled up with Judy for this game, ahead of our little trip to Austria on Wednesday ( yep, no trip to Newcastle for me this season, but I leave you in the very capable hands of a few other CIAers for the match reports. ) We soon booked into our hotel on the North End Road, but Judy – coming off a tiring week of nights – decided to forego the game. I hot-footed it to the Copthorne Hotel, where a good old Chelsea In America reunion was taking place…I soon spotted Beth, then Gil and Graeme, but I met Josh and Ed ( from the perfect city of San Diego ) for the first time. A pint, a chat, great to see everyone again. Beth soon handed over the excellent CIA calendar. Good work everyone.

This was very much a whirlwind pre-match and we then headed to the Broadway Bar & Gril, aka The Slug aka The Kings Head. Another few drinks there, then who should appear but Danny and Andy – and I was so happy to se them sporting the CFC badge / Poppy badge.

Good work boys.

I had talked Josh and Ed into getting one too.

I joked with Danny that I would eventually provide him with a Pubs At Chelsea ticklist which I expected him to eventually complete – and we then sped off to another one, The Malt House aka The Jolly Maltsers. Who should be there but Steve Rea from N’Awlins…it certainly was the gathering of the clans alright.

I was in the ground quite early and it tok a while for the seats to fill up.

Perhaps, for once, I ought to let others comment on the game – I’ve tee’d you up, Josh, Danny, Andy, Ed…don’t let me down. I missed the Zilina goal as I was mid-comfort break and depite a few chances in the first-half, it wasn’t promising stuff.

Another full house / poor atmosphere combo.

The second-half was so much better and – yet again – Kalou looks a different player when he comes off the bench. We hit the woodwork twice, but a lovely ball from Kalou was finished of with aplomb by Studge. Then, at the death, Danny’s favourite Florent Malouda gave us the deserved win. It was a long time coming, but well deserved. I had no complaints from the performances from the youngsters…they had a good workout for sure.

Post-game, we eventually re-assembled at The Imperial, the favoured watering hole of Matthew Harding, for one last pint. I needed to be up early, though – so said my “goodbyes” at about 11pm. I popped in to see Rob and Millsy in The Morrison – and who should be right behind me but Ian McNally from Chicago.

Small world ( again…)

We’d see each other at the Everton game, but that seems quite a way off.

Not to worry – I’ll catch up with you all again, then!

Tales From The Wild Side

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 25 April 2010.

Not so much a matter of cups being half-empty or half-full. Against Stoke City, our cup overflowed.

But – really – if only I had known that we would triumph so remarkably, I would have been able to enjoy the prolonged pre-match a little more.

I awoke early on Sunday morning and was sick with nerves. Outside, the weather was surprisingly damp and drizzly. My mood had taken a downward swing after United’s predictable win against Spurs and I knew that the Stoke game would be a tense affair. Steve Azar was still in town – what luck! – and I got him a seat next to myself as Glenn couldn’t make it due to work. We texted each other soon after 8am –

Chris – Up early, already Jack Kerouac. Nervous as hell. Joining us for breakfast?

Steve – I’ll be there. We need to defend those corners.

Chris – What, at breakfast?

I kept thinking that an early goal would settle us nicely. One at around 11am would be perfect. I picked up Parky at about 9am and we spent the first hour nervously chatting away about the Spurs game ( we both thought that it was bad policy for the Chelsea team to be watching the Manchester derby – it certainly affected us. This was foolish and a black mark against the manager ), the Stoke game, the Liverpool game, the Cup Final, the whole nine yards. Sartorially, we were like two peas in a pod.

Lacoste Watch

Parky – black
Chris – navy blue

I joined the M4 at Hungerford. Depeche Mode were on the CD and the chat quietened down. The music added to the drama and those drum beats banged away at me. There were the usual familiar sights on the approach into town. At around 11am, the rain worsened, but we joined Steve for a Full Monty breakfast in good time. It was to be Steve’s last “proper” breakfast for a while. Again, the talk was full of our predictions for the day ahead. Despite the problems with air travel, many Americans had flown over and it was going to be another hectic one. We zipped past three NYBs waiting for The Goose to open at midday as we headed down towards The Bridge. Thankfully, the rain had subsided.

For about an hour and a quarter, Parky, Steve and myself – to be joined by Beth, who was in the UK for a week after swapping her flights rather dramatically – stayed in the hotel foyer along with the legendary triumvirate of Ron Harris, Charlie Cooke and Peter Bonetti. It was a lovely time and I could see that Steve was enjoying the chat with Chopper and The Bonnie Prince. A few photos – of course! It was of course great to see Beth again and I was very pleased to receive my copy of the CIA DVD from the summer tour. Ironically, I had spent Saturday evening viewing my own personal camcorder film of California 2007.

We then spent two hours in the beer garden of The Goose. There was a cast of thousands, chatting away. A few familiar faces from the NYBs – the Caminski Family, Mike, Chopper, Carrie, Henry, plus many few more…the biggest surprise was right at the end, when Napoli Frank showed up. I first met Frank on the way to a Mets game in 2008 and he left a big impression on me…a real character. One of the NYBs joked that Frank is such a typical New Yorker that he is on the city flag. Anyway, a big old hug for Frank and plenty of laughter – we last saw each other in Baltimore. For five NYBs, this would be their first ever game at Stamford Bridge…for a couple, their first ever Chelsea game.

Meanwhile, in a corner, The Bing were chatting away.

Lacoste Watch –

Rob – brown

News came through that the rumours about the Old Firm playing a game at Fenway on July 21st appeared to be true and we spent a good twenty minutes shaking our heads at this crazy decision. Boston won’t know what will hit it. I was still nervous – of course! – about the game and I almost didn’t want to go to the game…like a school exam, I never wanted it to come. I walked down the North End Road with Parky, Wes and Steve, our paces quickening. Steve spotted Cathy and Dog.

Smiles for familiar friends.

Daryl and Simon were being cautious about our chances. I shared a few worries and my stomach churned once more. Into the stadium and blue skies overhead, with white fluffy clouds too. Real Chelsea weather – we always play better in the sun. I noted gaps in the away corner, maybe only 700 Stokies. We had noted a couple in The Goose…no worries.

Our team, without the suspended JT, was very attack-minded, but I wasn’t sure about Kalou in for Joe. Ballack was holding.

OK – game on. Let’s go.

We began very brightly and I immediately said to Steve that Ballack was covering lots more ground than usual. With him playing a more withdrawn role, he appeared to have more time and space and he seemed to be revelling in it. Our chances came thick and fast. On 11 minutes, a Lampard shot was parried by the Stoke ‘keeper but Ashley Cole miscued. Ashley began as if he hadn’t been away. Great to see him back, but we were sad that Yuri had been dropped. On 18 minutes, Herr Ballack shot high after a corner. We were peppering the Stoke goal. A great cross from Paolo was glanced goalwards by Drogba, but a great save. Drogba then blazed over from two similar wide positions. Surely a goal would come. This was great stuff.

On 20 minutes, we went ahead…what a touch by Drogba out on the right – that was just amazing – and an equally fine cross low into the danger area. Kalou stooped and we went wild. Steve had an up-close-and-personal performance of our goal celebrations –

Alan – “They’ll have to come at us now, duck.”

Chris – “Come on my little diamonds, duck.”

On 31 minutes, Drogs set up Frank with a sublime touch and the resultant shot was fumbled into the path of Kalou. He doesn’t miss from there! I turned around and noted that Anna ( who was over in California in 2007 ) was right behind me after getting a drink. I gave her a hug and a kiss – and so her bloke Kevin didn’t feel left out, I did the same to him.

Happy days.

We were purring. A wonderful sweeping move, from Malouda down in the left-back position all of the way through the midfield, with Paolo taking a defender wide with a run outside, the ball was lofted out to Kalou who was pulled down – penalty! Frank blasted it home and the New York Blues – right behind the Shed goal in the lower tier – went into orbit. I imagined Napoli Frank smiling from ear to ear. This was just blissful stuff and I felt all off that nervous worry dissipating in the Spring sun.

At half-time, Neil brought six of the 1970 team out onto the pitch to perform – for one afternoon only! – a special rendition of “Blue Is the Colour” and I heard Ron Harris’ voice dominating the singing. The crowd joined in and it was fantastic. The six of these Chelsea legends – Chopper, The Cat, Charlie, Huddy, Holly and The Sponge – then walked around the pitch, with applause cascading down. As they reached The Shed, a song began –

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star.
Scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.
And Chelsea won – as we all knew they would.
And the star of that great team was Peter Osgood.”

A lovely moment.

In the second, there was a slight lull, but we then began again…Kalou shot over, Ashley had a great dribble into the box but couldn’t connect when it counted, a few free-kicks from distance. Stoke rarely threatened, but Tuncay looked busy.

“Come on – don’t give them a goal.”

Ivanovic was having another magnificent game. He really has been our most consistent performer this year. Alan likens his upright stance to Gary Locke. I always think his ‘eighties hair-style gives him the appearance of Joy Divisions’s Ian Curtis ( a man whose hairstyle, it was once said, was imposed upon him )…we love Ivan, Ivo, Branno – whatever we call him – to bits and he is a true Chelsea great. He would have fitted well into that 1970 team. I can just see him alongside Ron Harris.

Ouch.

On 65, Nico shot wide, but soon after, Kalou beat the offside trap to score his third and our fourth, though he needed two bites of the cherry to do so. Like Anelka last year against Sunderland, an “inside the six yard box” hat trick.

On 71, Joe Cole’s first run at the nervous Stoke defence resulted in the miss of the season for Malouda…oh boy, how did he manage to miss-cue from a yard? The substitute Sam Hutchinson then sent over a stupendous cross for Frank Lampard, whose exquisite flick over Bergovic was just amazing. It reminded me of Zola’s last ever goal for us, that other deft lob from the same angle, although further out. Five-nil. Superb. It was appropriate that a player called Hutchinson was involved on a day we remembered the 1970 cup win, some forty years on.

Late on – as we joked about 7 – two more goals…another beautiful through ball from Didi dissected the Stoke defence and Daniel Sturridge swept in his first-ever league goal for us. Then, a ball from Ballack to Joe – buzzing now – and a first-time cross for an exuberant Malouda to belt into the roof of the net.

Screams of delight from us all.

Oh my.

After the 7-2 against Sunderland and the 7-1 against Villa – now the biggest ever top flight Chelsea win. And, it goes without saying, my biggest ever Chelsea win in almost 800 games. Steve didn’t want to leave and so as the crowd slowly filtered out, we stayed for a few more minutes, breathing deeply, taking it all in. Way after the final whistle, on the PA, Bob Marley was wailing again…

“Don’t Worry – About A Thing.”

We spent an enjoyable time in The Goose, smiling, laughing and sharing the joy of the lucky souls who had flown over for this one game only. What a performance. I know nothing is certain in this crazy season, but this massive confidence boost is just perfect. A nervy 1-0, with the crowd on the team’s back, would have helped for the points total, but not on any other level.

It had been superb having Steve over and it was a bittersweet moment as we said our “goodbyes.”

Heading out of London on the M4, at Brentford, I spotted a massive ( 20 metres by 20 metres ) advertisement for Pepsi-Max featuring an image of Frank Lampard, streaked in paint, exhorting us to “Max Your Wild Side.” How appropriate. I wonder if the Americans, heading back to Heathrow, spotted it. I wonder if Beth will.

OK – if win it at Anfield on Sunday lunchtime and United lose at Sunderland later that afternoon, expect my car to swerve uncontrolably around 6pm on the M5 Southbound…around Stroud, I reckon.

These are the days of our lives.

Tales From The Tribal Gathering

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 13 March 2010.

Although this was a fine day out in Chelsealand, the spectre of Jose Mourinho and his Internazionale team visiting us was never far away. It was as if I was thinking about two games at once throughout the entire day.

For a change, my good mate Glenn was driving, allowing me to relax a bit. Because I have been doing a lot of the driving of late, this came as a welcome break for me. Glenn has a VW van and we made good progress in the morning, heading up the M4, with me in the front with Glenn and Lord Parky bouncing around in the back. We hoped that if Parky was seated in the back, alone, he might give us a break from his incessant jabber.

Alas not.

I texted a few of the main protagonists from North America, who would be meeting up at various stages of the day. It would be a big day for a few visitors…more of all that later.

Glenn screeched around the streets of Hammersmith and was soon parked-up at about 10.30am. We park up near the Queens Club – just a few minutes from The Goose – and we noted that the other Frome car, containing Frankie Two Times and Big Dave, was parking a few yards away. Frank commented that Glenn had cut him up coming around the Hammersmith roundabout.

Some things will never change.

Back into the usual match-day routine…straight into the café, soon to be joined by San Francisco Bob, the first of the many CIAers to join us. Bob had been in Rome for a few days and was wearing his latest purchase, a nice dark blue Paul & Shark number. I left Bob in the capable hands of the Frome Four as I had to zip down to HQ to meet Danielle, over for her first ever game at HQ.

The day was gathering speed.

Kent Blues Gill and Burger then sent me updates. It was going to be a manic old day. I met Danielle outside the megastore and we made a bee-line for the Copthorne Hotel foyer, where I knew Ron Harris would be based for an hour or so. We stayed there for about two hours and it was a lovely time. Danielle had her photo taken with Chopper and was able to meet Peter Bonetti, too. The infamous Autograph King, Mick, was also in our little group and before I knew it, we were joined by Pete, Gary and Dave from LA and SF. Next to arrive was Jens, Scott, Tim and Lalo, the Texas contingent. Ex-player David Lee – “Rodders” – was having a drink in the bar, too. One of the highlights of this particular part of the day was Ron Harris winding up Texas Tim by saying the alarm will go off in the hotel if Tim attempted to leave without paying Mick for his match ticket. A lovely memory for Tim to take away with him.

At about 12.30pm, Mick was able to prep Danielle to stand in a prime location for the players “walk-through” down by reception. By about 1pm, Danielle had managed to get around 6 players – plus Carlo Ancelotti – to sign her shirt. Frank signed the back – by his name and number – and added a little “X” too. By the time Danielle returned to the foyer, she needed a sit-down to gather her thoughts. To be honest, it was lovely to see her enthusiasm. I spent some time chatting to Lalo, too – and he was bowled over by the days’ events. I supped up my pint and then headed up to The Goose, passing Mark Worrall’s stall, where copies of “CFCUK” were purchased.

Danielle, Tim and Lalo were going to experience the packed Goose with me, leaving Jens and Scott in the hotel. As I neared the pub, I passed Burger heading down to get his tickets. Into the pub and it was absolutely rammed. I meet Julie, chatting with Jon and Lee, then popped out to the beer garden to see Dutch Mick chatting with Bluemick, mates from Chicago in 2006. Who else? Kent Blues Gill and Graeme were in the thick of it and my usual mates were clustered around too. I gulped down two pints and was able to relax a bit. I had a nice chat with Lalo about baseball, believe it or not. He was loving the pre-match routines that us UK-based fans take for granted. Wes – another Austin Blue – was in The Goose, too. Friends were being reunited everywhere I looked.

Good times.

Into the stadium and let battle commence.

Of course, West Ham were very poor, so I don’t think we need to write too much into the score. It was a comfortable performance. John Terry was the subject of some typically offensive chanting from the West Ham fans, but within five seconds, the ball was played out to Malouda and his lovely cross was headed firmly in by Alex.

The first-half was a little similar to the Manchester City game. It was all Chelsea in the first 25 minutes, but we then allowed the returning Scott Parker the space to let fly from 25 yards. I said “goal” as soon as it left him.

1-1…damn it.

We had more pressure before the break, with Malouda shining, but no more goals. At half-time, I was positive we would push on, but the mood around me wasn’t so upbeat. I met up with San Francisco Pete, who has a seat in the very back row of the MHU, and we had our usual half-time moan and groan, albeit tongue-in-cheek. Even when it’s bad, it isn’t that bad.

I thought both sets of fans were pretty quiet. Yet again, I didn’t hear a peep from either of the side stands.

A fantastic run from midfield by John Terry was wildly cheered by everyone, and the ball broke to Florent Malouda down below me. I snapped his cross with my camera and it was headed in by Drogba. Didier gathered the ball and ran towards JT, the joy there for all to see. Malouda joined the celebrations and blew a kiss to the Matthew Harding.

Malouda was on fire, in fact. When he gathered the ball outside the box, he took a touch in order to bring the ball under control. This brought a few grumbles of discontent from the seats behind me, but I knew instinctively that he needed that extra touch. A shimmy later and he swept it in. The crowd roared. Just like last spring, our wide Frenchmen is now finding the best form of the season. Long may it continue.

Carlton Cole was widely applauded when he came on as a substitute.

Likewise, when Malouda was substituted, the whole ground clapped him off and it was a joy to see this. As Alan commented, like a lot of wide players, Malouda is such a confidence player and this reception would have touched him. Let’s hope he is warmed by it and can go on to produce another top class performance against Inter.

In the last minute, the ball was swept in by Drogba after a Lampard shot was fumbled by Green. This mirrored the 4-1 win against the same opposition back in 2006…Burger’s first ever game at HQ, in fact. The plus points for me were Malouda’s best ever game for us and a solid performance from the defence. I thought Frank and Ballack were pretty quiet. Maybe they were saving themselves…

We all met up outside the hotel and marched off to Earls Court where post-game activities were planned. First though, a couple of drinks in the Finborough Arms and a chance to chat with Burger, Julie and Danielle about the game we had just witnessed. Danielle loved the noise levels, but I warned her that on Tuesday the volume would be cranked up several notches.

I had booked the downstairs room at “Dall Artista” on the Brompton Road and I think I can say that everyone present had an enjoyable time.

Lacoste Watch

Burger – navy blue

We got stuck into some cold Peronis, then ordered some choice Italian fare. Salvo – as ever – was the convivial host and he was aided by his side-kick waiter from “And Leicester.” As the evening wore on, the fourteen of us ( NY Mike, Burger, Mrs Burger, Tim, Danielle, Wes, Jens, Scott, Lalo, Lord Parky, Mr and Mrs San Francisco Bob, Glenn and myself ) joined in with some choice CFC songs, then had a few toasts to our beloved club.

A few quotes from the evening –

“Parky – behave yourself!” – Chris.

“Today, I lost my Chelsea Virginity” – Lalo.

“This has been better than my Prom Night” – Danielle.

“Today was all about the friendships, but Tuesday will be about the game” – Julie.

“The famous Tottenham Hotspur went to Rome to see The Pope” – Burger.

“Amoretto, Chelsea Amoretto” – Mike, Burger, Bob and Chris.

“Damn it – Arsenal have won 2-1” – Chris.

“Carefree” – all fourteen of us.

At around 9pm, Salvo waltzed down the stairs carrying fourteen glasses of champagne, on the house. He was smiling, in that lovely way of his.

We toasted each other and then said our goodbyes out in the cold of Brompton Road. All of the alcohol – Peronis, a Sambuca, a Limocello and an Amoretto -were having a grave effect on me. I slept all of the way home.

Meanwhile, somewhere, in Italy, Jose Mourinho was making plans for Tuesday…

Tales From The Blue Country

Posted on July 23, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 21 November 2009.

I had been looking forward for this game for some time as it would be Danny’s first ever game at The Bridge. So often I hear comments that people experience Chelsea vicariously through me…well, I would be trying to live vicariously through him for one day.

Danny arrived on Friday, along with Beth, and Tuna was still in the UK. We had also planned to meet Gill and Graeme. Oh – and His Royal Highness The Prince Of Gumbo was arriving on the Saturday morning too.

Clearly a busy day.

With this in mind, I picked up Glenn and Parky by 8am. There was constant chat on the way up and this then gave way to The Jam’s “All Mod Cons” as we neared London. Of all of the bands from my youth, none conjures up memories of my Chelsea match-going experiences in the 1977-1982 period better than The Jam.

The Jam consisted of three working class chaps from Woking – a Chelsea hot bed – and they sang of London streets, rows going on down near Slough, tube stations at midnight and “Eton Rifles.” If you were to draw two Venn diagrams of The Jam’s support and footy fans, there would be a massive overlap. Their aggressive style mirrored that of the terraces. A perfect match.

We zipped past Windsor Castle and I was reminded that Frome Town would be playing at Windsor & Eton later that day.

We were parked up at 9.45am and we marched down to “Lloyd’s” for 10am. Breakfasts were ordered and we waited for Beth and Danny to arrive. We used to drink at this bar, which is located in the shopping centre above the tube for a while, but it got too busy. I was reminded of the old saying “nobody goes there anymore because it gets too crowded.” It was great to see Beth and Danny again and I welcomed them to HQ. After a quick chat, I had to quickly visit the box office to pick up a ticket for Gumby. With Gill and Graeme with us, we then quickly arranged for a team photo outside the West Stand with the CIA flag ( which has become a TV star in its own right ). I hinted that there might be several CIA match reports which will be converging at several points. There was then a quick trip up to the hotel foyer for Danny to meet Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti. I think Danny appreciated that.

I then had to meet a chap who was able to use a spare ticket – a friend of a friend – and we spent about forty-five minutes in The So Bar, awaiting Gumby’s arrival. Years ago, I think I would be a bit concerned about meeting a stranger – what to talk about! – but as we were both Chelsea fans, it was easy…we have that shared history to refer to. Bob was from North London, a fan since the 1967 Cup Final, but now lives in Devon. A few pieces of celery were thrown around and I told Bob about my little protest the day celery was officially banned from The Bridge in around 2006. I smuggled in a small piece and pinned it to my shirt. As protests go, it was hardly on the same scale as the lone Chinese student standing in front of that tank in Tiananmen Square, but there you go.

I don’t often drink in the So Bar and although it’s nicely noisy and very dark and atmospheric, I objected to a couple of nazi salutes.

Sort your lives out.

Gumby arrived with Lee and Mark at about 1.15pm and I handed over his Porto ticket. Bob and myself then spent about an hour in an absolutely packed Goose.

Phew – it had been manic.

At Chelsea, there are sometimes people handing outside various products by the main gates and, on this occasion, I was handed some chewing gum. Apparently, they were handing out toothbrushes too. I thought this was a bit bizarre, but then wondered if some bright spark at an advertising agency remembered the guy versus United cleaning his teeth and thought we all do this at Chelsea. Who knows how their minds work.

I got inside the ground and located Beth and Danny, down at The Shed, behind the west corner flag. The rain was starting to fall – oh well, Danny had said he had wanted some authentic winter weather. Liverpool had dropped yet more points and this was met with much laughter.

The 3,000 away fans were in early and I noted a few flags. One was “Devizes – Wolves” and I had seen this one on TV last Saturday for the England vs. Brazil game in Dubai. Devizes is a small town in Wiltshire, not far from where I work. I also spotted a Wolves flag which simply said “Wolves – Aye – We.” ( “Wolves – Yes, us” in English ) Wolves are based in The Black Country and their accent is pretty thick. The most famous Chelsea vs. Wolves game is, of course the 1955 game, but I remember the 1994 FA Cup quarter final when we won 1-0 and the “Blue Flag” song really came into our common consciousness. We sang that endlessly on that day.

“The Liquidater” was aired at about 2.50pm and the Wolves support joined in too – they also have it as a pre-game song. I saw Danny joining in.

In fact, throughout the game, I put myself in Danny’s shoes and wondered if he was having a good time. Would all of the pre-match hype live up to expectations? Would he be happy with the noise levels in The Shed? Would he feel at home? These thoughts fascinated me all day.

I noted three new, presumably permanent, Supporters Clubs banners on the balcony of the East Middle…those belonging to Sweden, Bermuda and Hastings. I think the idea is to get all of the balconies completely adorned with these and I like this idea.

It annoyed me that we weren’t treated to the classic old gold of Wolves’ first choice kit.

Wolves began brightly and a cross zipped across the wet surface at the North End of the stadium. Thankfully, no attacker was at hand to cause us any damage. Soon after, a quick break and some poor defending allowed Malouda to advance unhindered. He unleashed a real snorter which lashed into the Wolves goal and The Bridge erupted. Soon after, I received a text from Kyle in LA laughing about Danny’s nemesis Malouda scoring the first ever goal that Danny would witness at The Bridge. I had forgotten that Danny shares my opinions about Malouda and I had to chuckle.

By 3.22pm, two further goals had been scored at The Shed and it was a case of “game over.” I loved the players going down to celebrate all three at the corner flag were Beth and Danny were sitting. For Essien’s header, I have a wide angled shot of Essien waiting for the oncoming players to join him, arms outstretched, with Danny in the crowd, camera at the ready. I hoped for an onslaught of Chelsea pressure and many more goals. Although we passed the ball well nicely, no more goals ensued in the first period.

However, two pieces of play to talk about.

Firstly, there was a classic JT chest pass out of defence ( does everyone else notice how often JT does this? I counted three in one game a while ago…) and then that superb save by Cech, down low, from Ebanks-Blake.

Superb stuff.

We played some lovely stuff at times in the second-half, but with only the one Joe Cole goal to show for it. I took a nice shot of him when he was lifted up by Kalou, his face beaming towards the Matthew Harding. Essien was on fire the entire game and deserved a hat-trick…how unlucky he was with that strike which was saved and then hit the bar. I have always said Ess should score more goals for us.

The support was great at times…a “Super Chelsea – Super Chelsea FC” being the highlight…again I looked towards The Shed and spotted Danny’s arms outstretched. Now, I bet he felt at home at that stage.

Wolves countered with the dull “WWYWYWS?” and I groaned. How original. They also sang “four nil and you still don’t sing” at the East Lower, full of families and kids – a pretty anaemic part of our ground really.

So be it.

The highlight of the second-half was the lovely debut of Gael Kakuta. He showed real class and was a bundle of skilful ingenuity. That one delightful body swerve and shot was simply beautiful. Let’s hope he fulfils his vast promise at Chelsea.

So, 4-0 and it was a breeze.

Since that Stephen Hunt goal during the home opener, we have since conceded no further goals at home in the league. Let’s get back to Fortress Stamford Bridge.

The rain lashed down as we exited the stadium – buoyed by news of Arsenal’s defeat, we were full of smiles as we briefly met Cathy, Beth and Danny by the hotel. Danny looked a bit dazed to be honest – I eagerly await his match report.

Glenn, Parky and myself sloped off to The Finborough and then Salvo’s for pizza and beers. We watched a bit of the United vs. Everton game, but they couldn’t touch us this week.

Five points clear and having a laugh.

I drove back to Somerset, Glenn and Parky asleep for the most part, and got home just in time to see the games on “Match Of The Day.” We looked great and Alan Hansen was full of praise. I noted that Didier’s goal at The Reebok had been voted the goal of the month for October.

Happy days.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Chelsea In America

Tales From The South Bronx

Tales From A Different Angle

Tales From The Sunny Side Of The Street

Tales From A Day Of Blackouts And Blowouts

Tales From A Night Of Peroni, Pizza, Football And Fireworks

Tales From The Bleak Midwinter

Tales From The Chelsea Pubs

Tales From The Wild Side

Tales From The Tribal Gathering

Tales From The Blue Country