Tag Archives: Claudio Ranieri

Tales From The Joker’s Return

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Chelsea vs. Watford : 4 January 2015.

This was a rather dull F.A. Cup draw. With many potentially unusual away trips up for grabs – Rochdale, Dover Athletic, Cambridge United, Yeovil Town, plus a nice selection of others – the hands of fate gave us a rather tedious home draw against Watford. At least, on paper anyway, there was a very good chance for us to progress in the competition.

This was another “rest day” for me. Glenn very kindly took his turn to drive. On the journey to Stamford Bridge we were chatting about all sorts of stuff in the front two seats of Glenn’s camper van, while Oscar Parksorius was relaxing in the back, headphones on, listening to Clodagh Rodgers’ Greatest Hits. We updated each other with what has been happening in our lives since the last time we had the chance to speak, and football was only occasionally spoken about. After the heavy loss at Tottenham, we only skirted over a few related topics.

“I wish this was a league game today mate. It would give the players a chance to make up for Thursday and get some points on the board.”

We briefly spoke about the occasional rumours about expansion plans at Stamford Bridge.

“To be honest, there’s a fair bit of space behind the West Stand even now. It’s not out of the question to build some support pillars on the forecourt and slap an extra twenty rows on the top tier. If you look at Manchester United, Celtic or even Manchester City, their stands are higher than ours. That could add another five or six thousand seats. Then the same thing on the Matthew Harding. We could be up to 55,000 with not too much inconvenience.”

While Parky slid off in to The Goose, Glenn and I made tracks for the stadium. It was a bitterly cold day. However, I had warm memories of almost exactly five years ago to the day. On Sunday 3rd. January 2010, we were also drawn at home against Watford in the third round of the Football Association Challenge Cup. The day also marked my mother’s eightieth birthday and so I treated her to a couple of days in London, culminating in the game on the Sunday. It would be, I am sure, my dear Mum’s last trip to Stamford Bridge since she is now suffering with arthritis and is unable to walk. We had a lovely time; we had a meal at Salvo’s on the Saturday and stayed at the Copthorne Hotel, met a few players from the ‘seventies, Chelsea won 5-0, a friend bought Mum a cup of tea at half-time and we ended the day with pie and chips in a café on the North End Road. I even caught Mum singing along during the game. Perfect.

Glenn and I met up with a few friends in the same hotel foyer this time around too. The Christmas tree was still up and there was still a lovely festive feel. I had a chat with Tommy Baldwin, who was playing for Chelsea in my very first game in 1974 against Newcastle United. There were also a few laughs with Gary Chivers, who scored one of the goals of the season during the 1980-1981 season, again against The Geordies.

We then walked back to The Goose, via a quick stop at The Wellington, to join up with the troops, who were in the middle of a lively pre-match. The Tottenham match was discussed at greater length and not everyone was of exactly the same opinion. We all agreed, though, that Eden Hazard shone like a beacon on that most dismal of evenings.

Watford were going to be cheered on by around six thousand, just like in 2010, and so Parky was dutifully moved elsewhere. His ticket was in the West Upper, so I volunteered to swap seats with him, allowing me the chance to watch – and photograph – the game from a different angle, while he didn’t have to scramble up ten flights of stairs. Parky would watch alongside Alan and Gary in the MHU.

It is a fantastic view from row seven of the upper tier of the West Stand at Stamford Bridge – my seat was padded and there were red hot heaters blowing warming air towards me from underneath the stand roof – but the whole experience left me stone cold sober. I know that I bemoan the lack of atmosphere at many games these days, cursing the inhabitants of the West Upper at regular intervals for their reluctance to support, but being stranded amid thousands of so-called supporters sitting in almost complete silence is such a depressing experience.

I’m 49 now, well past the exuberant days of my youth, when I used to return from games involving Chelsea with sore throats due to endless chanting. I’m a quiet chap outside of a football stadium, but the emotion of watching my team play has always resulted in me getting involved; singing, chanting, smiling, laughing, chatting to the person next to me, “supporting.”

To be dumped among thousands who don’t do the same was just horrible; if I can help it, I won’t venture there again. I absolutely dread to think what it must be like to have season tickets up there. And let me say that the vast majority of spectators who were in my section were from the UK, so there can be no lazy stereotyping about “bloody tourists.”

In his autobiography entitled “The Clown Prince Of Soccer”, former Sunderland centre-forward Len Shackleton memorably devoted an entire chapter entitled “The average director’s knowledge of football.”

It consisted of a blank page.

I could pen something as equally scathing entitled “My great memories watching Chelsea from the West Upper.”

To be honest, to add to the silent gloom, it wasn’t a very good first-half at all.

Jose Mourinho had rung the changes, as expected, and our team lined up with Petr in goal, a back four of Dave, Gary, Kurt and Filipe, Ramires and Mikel holding, the attacking three of Andre, Oscar and Loic, with the talismanic Didier alone up front. We enjoyed tons of possession, but were unable to break down the Watford defence. It was slow, slow stuff.

To my right, the away fans, were hardly making a great deal of noise themselves, but one song kept repeating and repeating and repeating –

“Mourinho’s right, your fans are shite.”

From my lofty perch in the West Upper, I agreed.

All around me, there was silence. I had been buoyed by fellow spectators joining in with The Liquidator before the game – positive signs – but once the game commenced, there was nothing. And I mean nothing. Not only were the people around me not singing, neither were they clapping. In fact, the vast majority of them were not even talking.

Silence.

On the half hour mark, Didier came close with a header, but the Watford ‘keeper Bond clawed it away. Naturally, I leaped to my feet and clapped, offering the team some encouragement. I sprang up, then realised that everyone else had remained seated. Out of devilment, I quickly scanned the entire tier – to my left, to my right, behind – and I spotted only one person who had jumped to their feet, too.

“Fucking hell.”

Two out of four thousand.

Welcome to my world, 2015.

Of course, the Watford team are now managed by former Chelsea midfielder Slavisa Jokanovic, whose performances in a royal blue shirt, under the then new manager Claudio Ranieri, drew derision from the Chelsea regulars. Before Claudio affectionately won us over, Jokanovic was the dithering Ranieri’s poster boy.

To say that he was disliked would be an understatement. We just couldn’t work out what he brought to the team. He was a tall, but relatively frail defensive midfielder who was slow and ponderous. His performance at Derby in 2001 is, sadly, one of the worst Chelsea performances ever. We nicknamed him The Joker. In typical moments of self-deprecation, when we were struggling, we chanted his name, but I am not sure he got the joke.

We certainly didn’t.

People who moan about Mikel in 2015 should have seen The Joker in 2001.

In light of the poor first-half, Jose “went for it” at half-time. Oscar and Schurrle were replaced by Diego Costa and Willian.

Yes – Didier Drogba, Diego Costa, Loic Remy were all on the pitch.

However, the visitors came close after ten minutes when a shot from Deeney was deflected by Filipe Luis and narrowly screwed past the post. In my eyes, Cech got a final touch, but I may be mistaken.

Thankfully, we took the lead soon after. A rampaging Costa fed the ball to Remy who passed to Willian. He curled a delightful shot past the Watford custodian.

One nil to us.

Alan, Matthew Harding Upper : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, West Upper : “COMLD.”

Soon after, a shot from Didier was blocked, but Remy readjusted his body to volley home. How he celebrated that one.

Three minutes later, Azpilicueta sent over a fine cross, which was met by a great leap by Kurt Zouma, and his perfectly placed header flew in to the Watford net. It was a goal which had capped a fine performance by the young central defender. Nathan Ake replaced Didier with ten minutes to go. Diego Costa struck the base of a post with a viciously whipped free-kick, but the score remained 3-0.

After meeting up with the chaps back in the van, I sadly relayed my experiences in the lofty heights of the West Stand.

“You know what I was saying about putting another five thousand in the West Upper? Forget it.”

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Tales From The Home Of Four European Trophies

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Chelsea vs. Atletico Madrid : 30 April 2014.

How frequently did I think about the Chelsea vs. Atletico Madrid second leg during the day at work? Maybe once every five minutes. Maybe once every three minutes. Maybe once every two minutes. Several work colleagues asked me how I was feeling about the evening’s game. To my surprise, I tended to reply that I was “quietly confident” that we would progress. This is unlike me, especially when it comes to Champions League semi-finals. I don’t think that I have ever been “quietly confident” ever before.

This would be Chelsea’s seventh Champions League semi-final in only eleven seasons.

Time for some numbers.

This would be the fourth time that the second-leg would be at home –

2004 : Monaco – drew 2-2, but lost on aggregate.

2008 : Liverpool – won 3-2, and won on aggregate.

2009 : Barcelona – drew 1-1, but lost on away goals.

In the other years, the results were –

2005 : Liverpool – drew 0-0, but went out on aggregate at Anfield.

2007 : Liverpool – won 1-0, but went out on penalties at Anfield.

2012 : Barcelona – won 1-0, and went through on aggregate at Camp Nou.

For a football club that were deprived of European football from the autumn of 1971 until the autumn of 1994, these represent an amazing treasure trove of memories and emotions.

Jesper Gronkjaer, Fernando Morientes, Luis Garcia, Eidur Gudjohnsen, Joe Cole, Jan Arne Riise, Frank Lampard, Michael Essien, Andres Iniesta, Didier Drogba, Ramires, Fernando Torres.

More heartache than joy.

In truth, the heartbreak of 2005, 2007 and 2009 are surely some of our most awful memories as Chelsea supporters. Somehow the loss in 2004 – our club’s first semi – seemed quite tame by comparison. After a tough away leg in Monaco, the return was always going to be difficult. We raced into a 2-0 lead, but then…well, you know the story.

As for 2005, 2007 and 2009; well you know those stories too.

After the sublime afterglow of Anfield, I gathered together two of the three troops who accompanied me to Liverpool on the previous Sunday. Lord Parky was collected from the pub opposite where I work in Chippenham and Dennis was collected from the town’s train station.

Let’s go.

I had watched the previous night’s semi-final between Bayern Munich and Real Madrid. Bayern’s capitulation had surprised me; despite odd successes, their recent Champions League story has predominantly featured misery and not joy.

So, Real Madrid – with our former manager Carlo Ancelotti at the helm – awaited the winner in Lisbon on Saturday 24 May. This pleased me, for numerous reasons. Should we be successful against Atletico, the stage would be set for a simply classic confrontation at Benfica’s Estadio da Luz.

Real Madrid vs. Chelsea.

White vs. Blue.

Carlo Ancelotti vs. Jose Mourinho.

1971 all over again.

I am sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter to let their mind run away with the notion of this. I had gambled on us reaching the final after our win against Paris St. Germain; I had booked flights from Bristol to Lisbon. After the creditable 0-0 at the Vicente Calderon, a hotel room on The Algarve was booked, too.

Personally, there was an extra dimension to all of this.

Should we reach the 2014 Champions League Final, it would be my one thousandth Chelsea game.

In all honesty, this was all too surreal for me to comprehend at times. After the shocking defeat in Moscow, I was convinced that we would never win the European Cup. And yet, just six years later, here we were, with one trophy tucked in our back pockets and another one just 180 minutes away.

Dennis, Parky and I met up with some mates in the beer garden of The Goose. A couple of Atletico fans were inside. There was no hint of bother. Dave – the last of the Anfield Four – was in good spirits; he would be sitting next to me for the game. For once, talk was dominated by the game itself. Simon was “quietly confident” too. This was all very worrying.

News of the team broke and the big surprise was the appearance of Ashley Cole at left-back, presumably forcing Cesar into a midfield role, strikingly reminiscent of Ryan Bertrand’s role in Munich. The absence of Oscar was noted. Fernando Torres was given the start.

As Dennis remarked, it was turning into quite a week for him with visits to his two former homes.

I wanted to get inside the stadium earlier than usual, so I left at around 7pm. It was a perfect evening in London. I was in shirtsleeves and stayed the same the entire evening. At 7.15pm, I was inside. I was initially shocked to see how few fellow supporters were inside. Maybe, on this day of tube strikes, people were forced into a late arrival.

Over in the far corner, a sea of red and white striped shirts.

We waited for the kick-off.

Although the scene before me represented a familiar one; sunny skies, a boisterous away contingent, Champions League logos, familiar names on the advertisements, there seemed to be a lack of anticipation within the home ranks. For a while, all was still. Maybe it was the collective nerves among the home support which made for the quieter-than-expected ambiance.

The TV cameras picked out Diego Maradona and then Claudio Ranieri in the executive areas of the West Stand.

A card had been placed on every seat in the MHU; on it were instructions to hold these cards aloft just before the teams were due to enter the pitch. The overall effect would be of a blue-white-blue-white bar scarf. This was met with unsurprising cynicism from the chaps in the row in front, but I approved. I remember the CISA arranging for the 17,000 Chelsea fans at the 1994 F.A. Cup Final to hold 17,000 blue cards aloft as the players strode across Wembley’s finely manicured lawn, only for the TV cameras to ignore it completely. With around five minutes to go, the hideously embarrassing opera singer wheeled out by the club on European nights sang “Blue Is The Colour” and the usual blue and white scarves, derided by the Scousers at Anfield on Sunday, were waved in the West Lower and the Matthew Harding Lower.

As the teams entered the field, it was our moment. Some 3,000 blue and white cards were held aloft. From the MH balcony, four flags were unfurled.

The European Cup Winners’ Cup : 1971 and 1998.

The Super Cup 1998.

The European Cup : 2012.

The Europa Cup : 2013.

The only British club to win all four. It was a fantastic sight. I noted that, over in the East Middle, the inhabitants had been given 3,000 bar scarves.

Flags, mosaics, scarves.

I know that this kind of “forced-participation” is often frowned upon, but Stamford Bridge looked a picture.

As Dave arrived in time for the kick-off, there was a brief interchange.

Dave : “Great seats, mate.”

Chris : “This is where the magic happens.”

At 7.44pm, Stamford Bridge fell silent momentarily as two of football’s family were remembered.

Tito Villanova RIP.

Vujadin Boskov RIP.

I wasn’t happy that Chelsea were kicking “the wrong way” in the first-half. There are not many times that we attack the Matthew Harding in the first-half these days. Of course, prior to 1994 and the demise of The Shed, this was the norm.

At last, some semblance of noise boomed around the stadium as the few attacks from both sides began. Atletico brought the first heart tremor when a dangerously looping cross out on their left caused panic in our defence. It wasn’t readily apparent what had happened after Koke’s cross bounced off the bar. How could it go off for a corner? There was confusion in our defence and in my head too.

Next up, came a Chelsea chance. Ramires was fouled and we prayed for a goal from the free-kick. I caught a Willian’s effort on film, but it flew wide. Atletico were in this game and we tended to stand off as their mobile players raided. There was nervous tension on the pitch and off it. An overhead kick from David Luiz narrowly missed Courtois’ far post, bouncing safely away.

This was a tight game. Fernando Torres, prone to an indulgent dribble – maybe too eager to impress – was not ably supported by Azpilicueta, Willian and Hazard. For too long in the first half, he foraged alone. I noted a lack of intensity all round; from players and supporters alike. Was it the nerves? On several occasions when Atletico cleared, the ball boys threw balls back quickly, yet Chelsea players were often not paying attention and were unable to unsettle Atletico with a quick break. It was a metaphor for our half. We were just too lackadaisical. Jose would not approve.

The crowd tried to generate some noise.

“Champions Of Europe – We’ve Done it Before.”

With ten minutes to go before the break, a strong run from Willian into the Atletico box stirred us all. He held off two strong challenges – and did well to stay on his feet – and the ball ran free. Dave was supporting our Brazilian dynamo and he picked up the loose ball, and played it back into the path of Torres.

The former Atletico captain swept it into the goal.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

I jumped up and looked over to Nando. He held his hands up, indicating his reluctance to celebrate fully. Elsewhere, we more than made up for it.

We were on our way to Lisbon.

“GETINYOUFUCKINGBEAUTY.”

Alan : “They’ll hath to come at uth na-ohhhh.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonth.”

Atletic seized the gauntlet and probed away. Mark Schwarzer, after his fine performance at Anfield, seemed to be coping ably.

Then, on forty-four minutes, misery.

Tiago, our former champion from 2005, swept a ball over to the far post to an unmarked attacker. The ball was knocked back…clenching of muscles…and Lopez struck home.

They had the advantage; that dreaded away goal.

It had been a first-half of few chances; six to us, five to them. At half-time, we presumed that Atletico would sit and protect their narrow advantage. They would, surely, do to us what we did to Liverpool on Sunday.

After the opening few minutes of the second period, Simeone’s game plan was evidently more adventurous. They attacked from the whistle. A Schwarzer save from Turan saved us. At the other end, we gasped in amazement as Courtois dropped to save a John Terry header. Samuel Eto’o replaced Ashley Cole, with Azpilicueta filling in at left-back. He joined up with Torres, with the midfield realigning themselves behind. Then, more calamity.

I was momentarily looking away, so missed Eto’o’s clip which resulted in the Italian referee pointing towards the spot.

Costa struck home.

Game, surely, over.

We now had to score three times to progress.

The away fans were in triumphant mood.

“Leti. Leti. Leti. Leti.”

Chelsea offered moments of hope. David Luiz, strong in tackle, but prone to awful finishing all night, struck a post. Atletico broke away down our right and Turan saw his header crash against the bar. We watched in horror as he easily followed up with a tap in from the rebound.

Stamford Bridge fell flat. It was time to reflect. At least there was no sense of horrendous injustice this time. At least there was no Iniesta-style dagger to the heart. I’d rather take a 3-1 loss than a last minute 1-1 exit. We had met our match, no excuses. Maybe the efforts of the game on Sunday had taken everything. Our one hope, Hazard, had been on the periphery all night. The game fizzled out. Mourinho made some late changes, but an unforgettable recovery was never on the cards. It had been a horrible second-half. We looked second-best. I longed for the whistle to blow.

The Atletico contingent, who had been relatively quiet until their first goal, were now rejoicing. There were songs for their former hero Fernando Torres and for their hated rival Jose Mourinho.

Some home fans had left by the time of the final whistle, but I was heartened by the many Chelsea supporters who stayed to not only thank our players for their efforts throughout the campaign but to applaud the victors.

Top marks.

Rob walked past and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Not tonight, Chris.”

“We’ve lost five out of seven semi-finals, but we’d give it all up for Munich.”

Rob agreed.

At least we have Munich. We’ll always have Munich. And Munich made defeat against Atletico Madrid on a night of harsh reality almost…ALMOST…bearable.

Outside, I waited silently with Dave for Dennis to arrive underneath the statue of Peter Osgood. I looked at his name etched in stone and I looked up at his image. It was a moment for me to give thanks to Ossie, possibly the determining factor in my decision to not only choose Chelsea in 1970 but to stick with the club ever since. After a while, a clearly saddened and emotional Dennis arrived. He was sad we had lost – of course – but was more disgusted by the “fans” around him in the West Lower who had hardly uttered words or songs of support to the team all night.

Then, Dennis spoke and his emotive words made me smile.

“I just need a few moments with The King.”

Outside on the Fulham Road there was an air of quiet reflection of the better team having won as the Chelsea faithful made their way home. Back in The Goose, Dennis – the visitor from over six thousand miles away – was philosophical and humbly grateful. He stood with a pint of lager in his hand and said –

“I’m just happy to be at this latitude and this longitude, right here, right now.”

We all knew what he meant.

As for me, there will be no grand finale in Lisbon. That landmark will have to wait.

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Tales From London And Donetsk

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Chelsea vs. Nordsjaelland : 5 December 2012.

So, the day of destiny had arrived. I’m not sure how many days of destiny the average Chelsea supporter faces in his or her life, but this was the latest one. I had travelled up to London, alas, without Lord Porky once again. For the last hour of the journey, my thoughts had been not of the imminent game, nor the consequences of elimination from this season’s Champions League, but of my imminent trip to Japan. In truth, I really haven’t thought too much about it until just recently. Flights and hotels were booked during the summer, but my usual meticulous planning hadn’t really advanced too much. Ironically, I received a disturbing email during the day which told me that one of my connecting flights (from Beijing to Tokyo) had been cancelled.

What?

Thankfully, a phone call later and I had been booked onto a slightly later flight. Sorted.

So, to sum up my feelings as I neared central London; I had already “moved on.” I didn’t really have much hope of Shakhtar beating Juventus. In truth, I just wanted the game to come and go – regardless of the result – and for there to be as little “bad atmosphere” at the Bridge as could be hoped. Our chances of progressing (involving Chelsea and Shakhtar wins) was personally ranked by myself at 10%.

As I slowly edged around Hammersmith roundabout, the evening commuters swarmed all around me. I quickly made the connection; I immediately thought of the thousands of pedestrians who habitually use the iconic Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo, underneath acres of shimmering neon. In ten days I would be one of those pedestrians. I caught a little buzz of excitement, and then continued on my safe passage around the busy roundabout, navigating it safely before hitting the Fulham Palace Road and my final approach into home territory.

It was another bitter night in London. The wind chilled me to the bone. I needed warming and so I popped into my old favourite, The Lily Tandoori, and enjoyed a king prawn bhuna while I defrosted. The place was virtually empty. I chatted with the Fulham-supporting waiter about the state of play at my club. Was it me, or did he slightly resemble Rafa Benitez?

Oh dear, I think I was losing the plot. On leaving, I said “I usually come in here after a Champions League game. Should a miracle happen tonight and we go through, expect me in here ordering king prawn bhuna for the rest of this season before each Champions League game.” My comment drew a hearty laugh from the other two customers – Chelsea – in the restaurant.

Over in The Goose, things were quiet and subdued. There were rumours of plenty of “spares” for the night’s game. Out into the night, there was the usual volume of football-going traffic along the Fulham Road. Inside the stadium, thankfully the crowd looked pretty reasonable. This was to be another near full-house. I spoke with John and we both shared the same sentiments –

“Let’s just get this over with, whatever the result.”

I briefly chatted to Kevin and Anna, who will both be in Tokyo. Like me, they took some convincing to do the trip, but are really looking forward to it. No doubt our paths would cross in Japan.

Despite the cold weather, Pensioner Tom was sat alongside Alan. All credit to him for endeavouring to drive up from Sutton on such an inclement night for football. The game began and Chelsea attempted to inflict some early damage on the Danish visitors. However, on a clearly odd evening, the Chelsea support in the Matthew Harding Lower had one eye on events in the Ukraine. On more than one occasion, we supported another team.

“Come on Shakhtar, come on Shakhtar, come on Shakhtar, come on Shaktar.”

We managed to get the ball played into the opposing penalty area on a number of occasions, but our luck was not with us. Chances for Torres and Hazard went begging. At times, I lamented the lack of movement in our midfield. I was reminded of the great Tony Hancock line –

“I thought my mother was a bad cook but at least her gravy used to move about.”

At times our gravy was solid.

Then, a Nordsjaelland attack and Gary Cahill handled. Oh fcuk.

Thankfully, Stokholm’s penalty was struck at a good height for Petr Cech to move to his right and save. As in Munich, he had come to our rescue once again. The crowd roared and Alan commented that maybe this was just what the crowd needed in order for some noise to be generated. It had been another quiet evening. There had been a small amount of booing as the TV screens showed Benitez taking to his seat at the start of the game. I had clapped throughout the sixteenth minute, but there was thankfully not much negative noise. The Chelsea fans are still trying to find their feet – a common ground – after the calamitous events since Black Tuesday in Turin.

Soon after, we were awarded a penalty, but Eden Hazard’s low shot was saved too.

Oh boy.

Bizarrely, another penalty was awarded to us for yet another handball, but this time David Luiz confidently struck home, the ball tearing a path high into the net. We breathed a massive sigh of relief.

Alan and I went through our usual post-goal routine, with accents coloured with a Scandinavian lilt. In the last kick of the first-half, Torres broke and poked a ball home after seeing his initial effort saved. It was a fine piece of intuitive goalscoring, so sadly missing from Torres’ play of late. It was his twentieth goal for Chelsea and – yes, here I go again – I’ve seen every one of the buggers.

20/20 vision.

Pat Nevin was on the pitch, briefly, at half-time and commented about the three penalties. He couldn’t resist a self-deprecating dig at himself, mentioning this beauty from 1985.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C0u4lTUl39I

Proper Chelsea.

In Donetsk, it was still 0-0.

After just twenty seconds into the second period, our visitors broke down our left and Cech was beaten by a crafty lob.

Soon after, I asked Alan –

“With the way things have gone here with the three penalties, do you get the feeling this could be one of those crazy nights of football?”

I was clearly grasping at straws.

A Gary Cahill header – looping up and in and over the line – from a Mata free-kick restored our two-goal cushion. Surely our game was won. Soon after, a strong run down the left down below me from Hazard and the ball was pulled back from the bye-line for Torres to prod home. Get in.

21/21.

However, I soon received a text from Tullio in Turin. It ruined my celebrations.

“0-1.”

We were virtually out and in to the Europa League.

A nice move involving Ramires, Hazard and Mata gave us our fifth goal after Mata followed up after his initial shot was parried. There was tons of Chelsea possession in the second half and some of it was lovely to watch. Flicks and turns, albeit against secondary opposition, at least warmed me a little. Eden Hazard even attempted to play a ball back to Oscar by turning and letting it him firmly between the shoulder-blades.

Prowling in the Chelsea technical area was the figure of Rafa Benitez, but I largely chose to ignore him. This is how I am dealing with all of this at the moment. There have been two vaguely similar scenarios to the di Matteo sacking in my memory; the Vialli sacking in 2000 and the Mourinho “mutual agreement” in 2007. Both were horrible affairs, both bring me moments of pain in remembering them.

I loved Vialli as a man, as a Chelsea player and as a Chelsea manager. In his place came the unknown figure of Claudio Ranieri. It took ages for me – and other Chelsea fans – to warm to him. I can well remember a horrible trip to The Valley (some new fans might have to Google this stadium) in November 2000 when we lost 2-0 and the Chelsea support was wailing in displeasure. Didn’t Dennis Wise play wing back for a period in this game? I don’t know. It was a bleak old time. Ranieri’s predilection for playing Slavisa Jokanovic (remember him?) really infuriated the support at the time. Jokanovic was Ranieri’s man and we never warmed to him. The poor bloke was the most hated player of that odd 2000-2001 season.

We then experienced the move from the sublime to the ridiculous in September 2007 when the idolised Jose Mourinho was replaced by the shambolic figure of Avram Grant. Dark days again. It’s no bloody wonder us Chelsea fans sometimes have to throw our hands up to the footballing gods and yell “what the hell is going on?”

In the current climate, Chelsea fans are split into various factions. Some support the team, but boo Benitez. Some support the team but stay silent on the manager. Some support the team at games, but want the team to lose in order for Benitez to be sacked as quickly as possible. Some support the board and the team regardless. Some stay silent. Some even boo players.

A common ground will eventually be found, but – in my mind – not for a while. This could well turn out to be the ultimate winter of discontent.

At 5-1, I spotted a gaggle of tourists in the corner of the Shed Lower continually attempt to initiate the loathed “wave.” Thankfully, it never made it past a third of the way down the lower tier of the West Stand. We don’t do waves in England. It shows utmost disrespect for the players on the pitch and it detracts from the reason why supporters attend games. I pulled my telephoto lens up to my eyes just in time to see a Chelsea lad remonstrate with the entire section and I can easily imagine what words were spoken. I have the bemused reaction of the “happy clappy” tourists on film.

This match report is dedicated to that lone Chelsea fan. Good work son.

On the pitch, Oscar side-footed home to make it 6-1. Mata was replaced by Paolo Ferreira and both players were given a great reception. More chances came to Chelsea, who were now hitting the visitors hard. I captured a perfect rabona by Fernando Torres down below me on film. Torres’ confidence has taken a massive hit since those halcyon days of – when? – October (ha!) but I hope he recovers and recovers quickly. His play, let’s be honest, in the past month has been shocking.

The game ended with a 6-1 win, but we were out of the Champions League. I stared in disbelief at the end, but I soon ended up being annoyed with myself. I had clearly been guilty, in our embroilment with the Champions League since 1999, to have been rather dismissive of the other trophies on offer. The Europa League is the second most prestigious prize in the UEFA portfolio. Back in 1977 or 1983 or 1990 or 1993 I would have given the world to take part in any European competition. Let’s win the Europa League in Amsterdam.

As for the Champions league, at least we had Munich.

We’ll always have Munich.

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Tales From Fulham Broadway

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 14 December 2008.

This is the story of Saturday night, Sunday morning and Sunday afternoon.

On Saturday evening I met up with a few friends to see The Blockheads perform in my local town of Frome. This band was fronted by the king of lyrical wizardry Ian Dury, who sadly passed away a few years ago. They have produced some great songs over the years, especially in the 1977-80 period. Infact, I worked out that the fourth single I ever bought, back in around April 1978, was The Blockheads’ “What a Waste.” This song has a certain amount of notoriety in Chelsea circles because of one line, referring to Fulham Broadway tube station. For a twelve year old boy in Somerset to hear the “Chelsea station” mentioned in a pop song was great. Many debates have been held over the years, questioning if Dury was a Chelsea fan. If not, why did he mention that station? Maybe we will never know. This was a Stiff record – and I remember being ever so thrilled by a swear word on the sleeve. Rock and roll! Half way through the gig, The Blockheads aired the song…their first real hit.

“I could be the driver in an articulated lorry I could be a poet, I wouldn’t need to worry I could be the teacher in a classroom full of scholars I could be the sergeant in a squadron full of wallahs What a waste What a waste What a waste What a waste Because I chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind (Schtum) I could be a lawyer with stratagems and ruses I could be a doctor with poultices and bruises I could be a writer with a growing reputation I could be the ticket man at Fulham Broadway station What a waste What a waste What a waste What a waste Because I chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind I could be the catalyst that sparks the revolution I could be an inmate in a long-term institution I could lead to wide extremes, I could do or die I could yawn and be withdrawn and watch them gallop by What a waste What a waste What a waste What a waste Because I chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind Chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind Chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind”

Great stuff. During the gig, I realised that I most probably bought the single in the town’s “Woolworths.” Pretty poignant really – this very week, “Woolworhs” shops all over Britain have been having their closing down sales, the most notable name in the high street to be affected by the global downturn thus far. A real shame.

“What a waste” indeed.

A few of the songs were careering around my head as I drove into Frome on Sunday morning. Due to the lack of work around at the moment, PD. Dave and Karen had decided not to go to the game. I had acted as ticket-broker and had shifted the tickets to some close mates. I volunteered to drive. Parky from Trowbridge was travelling up with Glenn and myself. We left at 9am and I made great time. Constant chat on the way up yet again – they should connect Parky to the National Grid, the energy he expels.

Parked up at 11am and straight into the café for a fry-up. Frank and Andy were already there. The owners presented us all with individual Xmas cards, thanking us for our custom throughout the year. A nice touch.

I needed to zip down to the stadium in order to get a few things sorted out. Popped into the shop – bought the late Ron Hockings’ “100 Years Of The Blues” for £25…I already have his 1985 and 1995 editions of these books, in which every game is detailed. I love pouring over the games. So many memories. Ron was th official historian until his untimely death in 2006, just after we secured our third championship. He went to about 4,000 Chelsea games apparently.

By the time I had retraced my steps to the refurbished Goose, the clans were gathering. I made my two pints last forever. Good to see three of the Nuneaton lot pop in. Neil had a glance at my newly-acquired book and spotted his first ever game – a 3-1 win at Highfield Road back in 1971…a week after Trowbridge Andy’s first game! The banter was flying about. Had a word with Dutch Mick in the beer garden – he spotted my Blockhead T-Shirt and it turns out he is a big fan too. On the subject of music, about 16 of us are going to The Specials gig at Brixton next May…that promises to be a classic. Another potential legendary weekend is planned for Cup Final weekend too. Alan and myself are seeing Morrissey on the Friday. Alan, Daryl, Gary and myself are seeing Depeche Mode on the Saturday. We just need to get Chelsea to the FA Cup Final for one of the best two days ever. Watch this space!

A big cheer rang out in the pub when Gianfranco Zola was spotted arriving at The Bridge on TV. A few songs in his honour. Good stuff. We exchanged a few Christmas cards.

Alan gave me a rare Cocteau Twins DVD, which I was so pleased to receive. The only reference to 1983-1984 this time will be a nod towards me stumbling across the Cocteau Twins in the autumn of 1983. I first heard Liz Fraser’s voice on This Mortal Coil’s version of Tim Buckley’s “Song To The Siren.” A song so pure it still chills me to the bone. Once I heard Pat Nevin loved them too – well, perfect.

A hardy few of us will see each other a Everton next Monday…for the rest, it was “Have a good Christmas – see you on Boxing Day.” I left for the ground quite early – chatting away with Russ, another Frome / Chelsea boy. It seems that The Slug ( aka The Kings Arms ) is now the designated away pub at Chelsea on match days. I guess this is par for the course these days…think The Arkles near Anfield for Everton, The Fernhurst at Blackburn, The Beehive at Bolton. It would never have happened back in the eighties, though!

I got to my seat by about 3.30pm…plenty of time to soak up the atmosphere. A typical Chelsea Home Game of late…tons and tons of possession, but…well, you all saw it. Really, over the course of the whole game, we again deserved to win…but. Thought Mikel was our best player by far…a real solid performance, breaking up the play, playing it simple. So strong. I was really disappointed, again, by the lack of movement from the front six at times. West Ham were spirited, but I was still flabbergasted that they went 1-0 up. That Bellamy is such an irritant, but a good player of course. Ballack was woeful and deserved to be subbed at the break. My “favourite” referee Old Mother Riley was winding me up, as per usual.

A few, typical, boos at half-time. Mention Scolari to anyone now and they will say “No Plan B” in the way that Ranieri was “Tinkerman” and Mourinho was “The Special One.” Doesn’t matter that this is Scolari’s first four months in charge at Chelsea ( that he has won World Cups, that he was England’s first choice after Sven )…Scolari has no Plan B and is therefore a rubbish manager. This is the view of many at Chelsea. Funny how we urge other clubs to give new managers time, but not at Chelsea. Anyway, Drogba for Ballack at the break wasn’t rocket science. Let’s see if he does have a Plan B?

I thought that the atmosphere wasn’t bad for a change, especially in the second-half once we had got the goal back. A great goal, too. Nice stuff. At times I actually heard the West Stand singing. The second-half was a war of attrition…not a bad game at all really…a nice bit of noise. Of course, Cech’s fantastic save from Carlton Cole at the death gave us a share of the points. Deeply frustrating, of course. Then the boos started. After Liverpool fans booing their team off after a 0-0 draw at Anfield ( in which they went a point clear at the top ) and Arsenal fans shamelessly booing Eboue at The Emirates, it seems that Chelsea fans ( sorry – I mean Chelsea customers, not fans ) boo the team now too. What does it all mean? Maybe Booing is the new rock and roll? I can’t get my head around it. Sometimes my disgust for my fellow fans is palpable.

A quick march up the North End Road. Reached the car at 6.15pm. Glenn ( the worse for wear – he had been on the Guiness and was wobbly ) called me to say that Parky was nowhere to be seen. They had arranged to meet outside “The So” but Glenn had said that it had kicked-off. I tried to phone Parky, but no answer. The time passed. I eventually spoke to him and he had been hit by some West Ham. I was worried for him, but he seemed OK. Just like West Ham to hit someone on crutches I thought. Glenn waited in The Goose for him. I spoke to Glenn, infact, just as a mob of West Ham were scouting for stragglers. I waited in my car. At 7pm, I looked back and saw them both, safe…Parky with a beaming smile on his face. He was OK. He was buzzing, infact. I drove home, through the busy streets around Barons Court and then out onto the M4, as Parky beemed as he told me of his expoits. It seems a few lippy West Ham fans had goaded him, so he launched into them, crutches flailing. He got hit, but took a few down with him. I didn’t know what to think to be honest. He was safe, that was the main thing. He didn’t even have a bruised ego – far from it infact. He was just glad we had waited for him. As if we would leave him!

We sang a few verses of Rolf Harris’ “Two Little Boys.” “Do you think I would leave you crying when there’s room on my horse for two?” We laughed. After a few minutes, Glenn fell asleep, all limp with Guinness. Eventually dropped Parky off at 9pm, Glenn at 9.15pm…I bought another Chinese on the way home…getting back at 9.45pm. Rather than watch “MOTD2”, I instead played the Cocteau Twins’ DVD. I couldn’t stomach seeing the game again, really.

Another two points dropped – plus the chance to go top.

What a waste.

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