Tag Archives: Clive Walker

Tales From Baltimore, Bolton, London And Stockholm

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Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 13 May 2023.

…this one is going to resemble a mazy Pat Nevin dribble, drifting from place to place, hopefully entertaining, and with a few dummies thrown in for good measure.

In the build up to our home game with Nottingham Forest, I had read that there would be a couple of banners appearing before kick-off in The Shed and the Matthew Harding to celebrate the impact that Thiago Silva has had during his relatively short period of time at Stamford Bridge. And quite right too.

Everybody loves Thiago Silva.

The man is a defensive colossus. He is calmness personified. He oozes class. In a season that has stumbled along with many a setback along the way he has stood out like a beacon of professionalism. How I wish that all of our players showed the same skill set and the same work ethic as Thiago Silva. Ah, I had best add N’Golo Kante here.

We need a banner for him too.

On the evening before the game, by chance, I caught a comment by an acquaintance on Facebook that Thiago Silva was looking to return to Brazil, to his childhood team Fluminense – for whom he played seventy-odd games – after he eventually leaves Chelsea. I loved this idea, of legends returning home, and of course I immediately thought of Gianfranco Zola returning to Cagliari for a couple of seasons after leaving us. I just hoped that we could tease another season or two out of our veteran Brazilian.

I then checked on Thiago Silva’s playing career and I was reminded that he had played for Milan, after his spell with Fluminense, from 2009 to 2012. And that made me think. I was lucky enough to see Chelsea play Milan in Baltimore in the summer of 2009, just ahead of our wonderful double-winning campaign under Carlo Ancelotti. I did a little research and soon realised that Thiago Silva had indeed played in that game. My heart skipped a little. I then checked a few photographs, as is my wont, and I spotted an image that made me smile. In the first-half of the game, which Chelsea would win 2-1, I had taken a photo, focussed on Frank Lampard, that also featured a veritable “Who’s Who” of top-ranking footballers from that era.

Ronaldinho, Didier Drogba, Alessandro Nesta, Jon Obi Mikel, our man Frank, Andrea Pirlo and – there he was – Thiago Silva.

So, here indeed was proof that this was the very first time that I had seen Thiago Silva play. It’s very likely that this was the first time that Frank had seen Thiago Silva play too, though his view was certainly different than mine.

Almost fourteen years later, the two of them are at the same club, although of course it was Frank who signed the cherished Brazilian during our interim manager’s first spell at the helm at the start of the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/21.

I then decided to flick through a few photos from that very enjoyable stay in Baltimore. I took plenty of the game of course – probably the highest quality match of the seventeen that I have seen us play in the US – but just as many of our fellow supporters too. One photo again made me smile. It featured my good friend Burger on the right of a group of random, blue-jerseyed, American fans who must have been drinking with us, or near to us, at the time. But I immediately spotted two other people that I recognised; Kristin and Andrew from Columbus in Ohio. I had not noticed their faces in this particular photo before. As luck would have it, those very same two people – friends of mine for a few years now – were going to meet us in the pub on the Saturday morning before the game with Forest.

As I continually say, Chelsea World is a very small world indeed.

We were all up in London at the usual time. I was parked up at around 10am. With PD still convalescing at home, his seat in my car and his seat in the stadium was taken by Glenn, my match-going friend from Frome since as long ago as 1983.

1983. You know where this is going, right?

The next match to feature in my look back at the 1982/83 season is the iconic and famous encounter against fellow strugglers Bolton Wanderers at their Burnden Park ground on Saturday 7 May 1983. In the years that have passed since this game was played, many of our supporters have bestowed upon it the title of “the most important match in Chelsea’s history” and it is easy to see why. Going in to the game we were fourth from bottom, one point below our opponents. Chelsea had been financially at risk for many a season, and the thought of dropping into the Third Division was not only depressing enough from a supporters’ perspective – the pain, the ridicule, the struggle to recover – it would also cause an extreme strain on the immediate future of the club with reduced revenues hitting hard, despite the tightening of strings inaugurated by Ken Bates over the previous twelve months.

Although my mind was full of worry about my upcoming “A Levels” in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing, this was nothing compared to my concern for my beloved Chelsea Football Club.

My diary on the day tells that when I heard on the radio of Clive Walker’s low drive in the second-half giving us a 1-0 lead, I was not too elated because all of the other protagonists at the basement were also winning. However, after all the results came through, I was overjoyed. We had risen unbelievably, to fourteenth place.

I called it “quite a wonderful day.”

With emphasis on “won” no doubt.

How many Chelsea went to the game? The gate at Bolton was 8,687. The general consensus was that we took thousands. In the following week’s home programme, Ken Bates praised the “almost three-thousand” who were there. I have to say that a photograph of the away section of the ground on that rainy day in Bolton, with Chelsea playing in the all lemon kit despite no obvious colour clash, suggests that only around 1,500 were standing in a small section of terrace. However, at the time it was always a predilection for London clubs, especially, to invade the home seats at away games, so I am in no position to suggest that we did indeed not have around 3,000 up there. I know that some Chelsea were in the seats at the other end of the ground. There is another photo of the scenes at the final whistle and a good number of Chelsea fans are seen celebrating in the upper tier above a deserted home terrace along the side of the ground. The number in this section does in fact look like 1,500. So, around 1,500 on the terrace and around 1,500 in the seats. Let’s go with 3,000.

I always remember that on my first ever trip to Bolton’s new Reebok Stadium in 2004, I picked my long-time Chelsea mate Alan up en route and he told me a few stories about the game at Burnden Park in 1983. He, it goes without saying, was one of the three-thousand. I always remember how he told the story of how Breda Lee, loved by so many, was bedecked with good luck charms as she made her way up to Bolton on the Chelsea Special. Breda had lost her son Gary after a horrific incident at Preston in 1981, and would always travel on the Chelsea Special with John Bumstead’s mother Mary, and was seen by many Chelsea fans as their “Chelsea Mother.” On this day, Alan said that she was wearing a lucky four-leafed clover trinket, a lucky horseshoe, a sprig of lucky heather and was clutching a rabbit’s foot too.

It all worked.

The victorious Chelsea team that day was as follows –

  1. Steve Francis.
  2. Joey Jones.
  3. Chris Hutchings.
  4. Gary Chivers.
  5. Micky Droy.
  6. Colin Pates.
  7. Mike Fillery.
  8. John Bumstead.
  9. Colin Lee.
  10. Paul Canoville.
  11. Clive Walker.

The non-playing substitute – hard to believe in this day and age – was Peter Rhoades-Brown. I love it that four players from this line-up (Chivers, Pates, Bumstead, Canoville) still take part in the match-day experience at Stamford Bridge forty years later as corporate hospitality hosts.

I salute them all. And I salute the 3,000 too.

Forty years on, the day was starting to take shape. I dropped Glenn and Parky off outside “The Eight Bells” and then met up with Ollie at Stamford Bridge once more, this time with his cousin Julien, both from Normandy. I often write about the gathering of the clans on match days and this was no exception. By the time I reached the pub at 11.30am, a gaggle of friends – old and new – were well into a session. Sitting alongside Glenn, Parky, Ollie and Julien were Kristin and Andrew, fresh from a few days in Edinburgh, and with some fellow Ohio Blues, Steve and Jake who I met on their visit in 2019, plus Jeromy and Neil, who were attending their first game at Stamford Bridge. We all got along famously. It was also superb to meet up again with Jesus, from California, who we last saw at Watford last season, and who was another chap that Parky took under our wing while he was living in London many years ago. Completing the scene was Russ, originally from Frome, who now lives in Reading and was attending his first home game for quite a while.

Everyone together, everyone happy.

Up on the platform at Putney Bridge tube, a few Forest fans were engaging in some light-hearted chat. The well-rounded vowels of their East Midlands accents made a change on match day in SW6.

“Bit of a free hit for us, this game, not expecting much but you never know.”

To be honest, we hadn’t thought too much about the actual match – probably with good reason – and Glenn admitted that he wasn’t expecting much from the game either. In our current predicament, the day was all about seeing friends and enjoying each other’s company.

Elsewhere in London, over twenty thousand Notts County fans were in town for the National League Play-Off Final against Chesterfield. One of them, Craig, a friend from college in Stoke, sent me a message to say he hoped that we were victorious against Forest. He hates Forest, does Craig.

I said to the Forest supporter “the only person worried the outcome of this game is a Notts County fan.”

This of course wasn’t strictly true, but it raised a laugh at least.

The front cover of the programme marked the exact twenty-fifth anniversary of our European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph in Stockholm against VfB Stuttgart.

A few personal memories…

A group of us went with the club to Stockholm, flying out from Gatwick on the day before the game, and flying back right after. It seems really expensive now, and it was then; £450 not including a match ticket. With inflation, that equates to just over £1,000 in today’s money. I drove up from Frome with Glenn and met up with Daryl, Andy, Mick, The Youth, Neil and Tony, three of whom still go to all the home games and many away games to this day. I always remember that on the coach in to the city from the airport, it became apparent that Chelsea had managed to split the hotels of a father and his teenage son. Tremendous. Thankfully, that faux pas was soon resolved.

We all stayed in a hotel a mile or so to the north of the city centre and that first night was as pleasurable as it gets. We went off for an Italian meal in a restaurant called “Pele” which was named after the Brazilian star’s 1958 World Cup debut in the city. We drank Spendrups lager and ate Italian as couples danced to the tango. It was a very surreal visit. Later, we found ourselves in a bar owned by the former Arsenal and Everton players Anders Limpar – the bar had the worst name ever, “The Limp Bar” – and he was serving that night. I remember a “sing-off” between Chelsea fans and an all-girl German choir. Another surreal moment.

On the day of the game, we bought some cans and soaked up the sun in a central park – I remember seeing Ruth Harding nearby – and then made our way to a crowded bar where Johnny Vaughan was spotted.

Then, back to the hotel and a nervous wait for the coach to the game. Once aboard, The Youth lead the community singing. Outside the Rasunda Stadium in Solna there were Chelsea everywhere. The gate for this game was 30,216 and we greatly outnumbered the Stuttgart fans. We must have had 25,000 there and I think everyone who travelled to Sweden got in. With road travel from the UK being highly expensive and time consuming, virtually everyone went by plane. At the time, it was the biggest single airlift out of the UK since World War Two.

Growing up as a Chelsea supporter, the twin cup triumphs of 1970 and 1971 were etched on our soul and in our psyche. For a while, the two stars on our chests celebrated those two wins. And here we were, twenty-six years on from Athens, with a chance to equal that celebrated feat.

This was a magnificent time to be a Chelsea supporter; some might argue the best of all. Glenn Hoddle had raised the profile of the club by reaching Europe in 1994, and then the signings came…Ruud Gullit, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Gianfranco Zola. We were truly blessed. The 1997 FA Cup win under Gullit was followed by the League Cup under Vialli in 1998.

We all travelled to Sweden in May 1998 with a sense of being very capable of repeating that win in Athens.

Stuttgart were managed by Joachim Low and their star man was the striker Freddie Bobic. Their ‘keeper was Franz Wohlfahrt who had been on the receiving end of Spenny’s run in Vienna in 1994. The former German international Thomas Berthold played for them too.

Our team?

De Goey

Clarke – Leboeuf – Duberry – Granville

Petrescu – Poyet – Wise – Di Matteo

Flo – Vialli

Shades of Ryan Bertrand in Munich; Danny Granville at left-back. Vialli played Mark Hughes in the League Cup Final but he wasn’t missing out on this one.

At the game, I wore a Chelsea 1970 replica shirt and the scarf that my mother bought me after my first game in 1974.

In truth, the game wasn’t a classic, but the Chelsea fans were at our best that night in Sweden. The game hinged on a substitution. On seventy-one minutes, Gianfranco Zola replaced Tore Andre Flo. Within twenty-five seconds, Dennis Wise floated a ball through and the ball held up. Zola caught it sweetly on the half-volley and it rose all the way into the goal at our end. I was almost behind the flight of the ball.

Absolute fucking delirium.

I caught Glenn and Andy right after our goal.

In the last five minutes, Dan Petrescu was sent off but we were in control, the Germans were a spent force.

“Dambusters” rang out in Solna.

What a night. What a team. What a club.

Athens 1971. Stockholm 1998.

We had done it.

The euphoria was real. I have rarely been as happy at a Chelsea game. And yet most who were in Stockholm probably thought that it would not get any better than this. We were a cup team, no more, and the equalling of the 1970 and 1971 wins were seen as our “glass ceiling”. We knew we would never win the league…

We walked out into the Solna streets so happy. Famously, a local girl flashed her assets from a balcony as thousands of Chelsea fans walked past. We eventually found our coach.

Back at the airport, it was mayhem. There was coach after coach after coach in a massive line. In the terminal, we saw Ron Harris and Peter Osgood. Johnny Vaughan commented “it’s like the last chopper out of Saigon.”

The call went out that anyone on a Monarch flight should make their way to the departure gate. We sprinted. It was a matter of getting bodies on flights. We were lucky; we left at around 3am, on the same flight as actor Clive Mantle who I had photographed earlier outside the stadium.

Stockholm 1998 was one of the very best nights.

I’d rank the European wins that I have seen like this :

  1. Munich.
  2. Stockholm.
  3. Porto.
  4. Baku.
  5. Amsterdam.

Incidentally, the club’s photographs from that night were taken by Mark Sandom, who sits a few rows in front of me, and I sent away for a set when I returned home. I still need to frame one or two enlargements from that game and find space for one of them in my Blue Room.

…Solna 1998 gave way to Fulham 2023.

Unfortunately, Alan was unable to make it to this game, so I sat with Clive and Glenn in The Sleepy Hollow. There were more than a few mutterings of discontent at Frank Lampard’s starting eleven, but there was pleasure in seeing Lewis Hall at left back. In came Edouard Mendy between the sticks while Mateo Kovacic, Raheem Sterling and Joao Felix started too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Hall

Gallagher – Enzo – Kovacic

Madueke – Felix – Sterling

The two Thiago Silva flags appeared at both ends of the stadium just before the teams entered the pitch. The one in The Shed was particularly striking. I loved it. I also loved the words of the match day announcer as he ran through the team.

“Number six, your captain, Thiago Silva.”

Despite our struggles this season, there appeared to be a near full-house at Stamford Bridge. The three-thousand Forest fans were already singing about “mist rolling in from the Trent” and their players looked smart in their plain red / white / red, a combination – the simplest of all kits – that rarely gets seen at Stamford Bridge these days.

While we huffed and puffed in the opening section of the game, The Sleepy Hollow claimed a victim, with Glenn quietly nodding off after some alcoholic fumes rolled in from the Thames. After an unlucky thirteen minutes had passed, a Forest cross from their left from Renan Lodi was bravely met by the leap of Taiwo Awoniyi, impressive in the away game on New Year’s Day, and the combined forces of Mendy, Badiashile and Silva were found lacking. The away team, in their first real attack, had struck.

The Forest fans erupted, the scorer did his best “Christ The Redeemer” and Forest players swarmed around him down below me.

Fackinell Forest.

I sent a photo of a dormant Glenn to Alan with the caption “one down.”

Our reaction was hardly immediate, and our attacks lacked precision and incision. Noni Madueke, looking so good at Bournemouth, tended to frustrate both himself and us. On one occasion, his turn was sweet but he then fell over himself. It summed up his luck. There was a shot on seventeen minutes, our first, saved, from Sterling and an effort from Hall was then blocked. Our best effort took a whole thirty minutes to arrive; a Hall cross, a Felix header, but too close to Keylor Navas in the Forest goal.

This was a really poor first-half.

Clive helped to alleviate the pain by buying us a hot chocolate apiece.

Just before the whistle, Mateo Kovacic – who has dipped in form quite shockingly of late – was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek, the perennial squad player.

I was surprised that there were so few boos at the break.

Soon into the second-half, Glenn resurfaced and Russ came over to sit by us for the duration of the game. The Sleepy Hollow had undergone a significant reshuffle. We were now back to a four. Clive, who had been near suicidal during the first-half needed cheering up.

“We’ll win this 2-1 mate.”

He smiled. Or was it a grimace?

Forest, though, began the brighter and almost doubled their lead through Moussa Niakhate but his volley was blasted wide.

On fifty-one minutes, there was a nice interchange between Madueke and Trevoh Chalobah down our right and the ball was pulled back from the goal-line by Chalobah into the feet of Sterling, whose goal bound effort took a deflection before hitting the net.

Yes.

The crowd roared as Sterling briefly celebrated.

“C’MON CHELS.”

Immediately after, Forest retaliated with a tantalisingly deep cross that just evaded the nod of a red-shirted attacker.

The crowd rallied.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We were playing much better now. A few half-chances, and then on fifty-eight minutes, a strong run from Loftus-Cheek in the centre was followed by a prod of the ball to Sterling, who cut inside and left his marker Joe Worrall on his arse before perfectly curling an effort into the top far corner of the goal.

Bliss.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

His celebration, this time, was far more euphoric, and so was ours.

Clive was full of praise : “you called it.”

But this was Chelsea 2023, not Chelsea 2009 – that photo from Baltimore succinctly illustrates the cyclical nature of our sport’s teams – and just four minutes later, a ball was pushed into the six-yard box by Orel Mangala and I immediately feared danger. The ball was headed home by that man Awoniyi, with another unmarked team mate alongside him to give him moral support and guidance, with Mendy was beaten all ends up. A VAR review couldn’t save us.

Double European Champions Chelsea 2 Double European Champions Forest 2.

On seventy-three minutes, Kai Havertz replaced Felix and Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

Clive threatened to leave.

I tried to give him hope.

“Sterling hat-trick mate.”

He definitely grimaced this time. But so did I.

Every time that Ziyech got the ball, either in the middle of a wriggling, shuffling dribble, or at a free-kick, I genuinely expected him to provide some magic. To be fair, his brief outing was not without merit but we could not, quite, claim the winner.

It ended 2-2.

The away fans celebrated loudly inside Stamford Bridge and out on the Fulham Road. This was a big point for them in their dogged fight to avoid an immediate relegation back to the Second Division, er The Championship.

The day seemed to be all about Nottingham. On the drive home, we were to learn that Craig’s Notts County dramatically edged out Chesterfield at Wembley, so well done to them. Forty years ago, Notts finished in a respectable fifteenth place in the First Division.

Talk about cycles.

Next up is the toughest away game of them all. I am fearing our trip to Manchester City next Sunday.

Anyone dare to join me?

Baltimore.

London.

Stockholm.

Tales From The North By Northwest Corner

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 27 December 2022.

After a break of forty-five days, Chelsea were back in action. To be honest, compared to the extended hiatus due to COVID in 2020 and 2021, this had been a breeze. In fact, we had all agreed that after the Newcastle defeat, the third league loss in a row, we were clearly at a low ebb and so the enforced break came at just the right time. I know that I needed the rest too. The match at St. James’ Park was my twelfth in forty-one days.

Fackinell.

I didn’t watch a single second of the Qatar World Cup. Instead, the plan always was for me to get my football fix from watching my local team in November and December. However, due to Frome Town’s schedule getting hit with a few postponements, I only saw three games; a 4-1 home win against Slimbridge, a 0-1 defeat at Bashley and a 2-3 loss at Melksham Town. I did, however, attend a game up in Scotland in early December; a Queens Park match against Hamilton Academical that was played at their traditional Hampden Park home for the first time in a few seasons.

For the home game with Bournemouth we planned to be up in London at around midday. I had woken with not too much enthusiasm, and I must admit I felt a little guilty. Despite the fact that I hadn’t seen the team for a month or more, a home match against Bournemouth was hardly going to set the pulses racing. Such games are never a visceral assault on the senses, nor are any Boxing Day – which this effectively was – encounters these days, more’s the pity.

None of the passengers in my car were expecting too much from the game. We guessed it wasn’t set to be a feast of football. We just wanted a win, any win.

Three points was king.

But oh the guilt. I was only too aware that my enthusiasm was lacking and a dark cloud of guilt followed me up the A303 and the M3 into London. While PD and Parky began drinking at our usual hostelry, Glenn and I had decided to have a pre-game wander around Stamford Bridge and the local area. We found ourselves in the Copthorne Hotel way before the match day crowds would appear. The bar area was quiet. I spotted a favourite photograph on a wall, far from the madding crowd, and it is one that always brings a smile to my face.

I love this.

There is so much to take in.

The four players are John Boyle, Terry Venables, Ron Harris and Eddie McCreadie. The photo is from around 1965, and I always think that the photographer is about to get pelted with those recently formed snowballs. There are a couple of other players in the frame too. The pitch has evidently been cleared of snow and you just wonder what sort of a mammoth task that must have been. I have an image of the regular ground staff being augmented by a legion of apprentices, armed with brushes, rakes, spades and shovels, clearing the pitch in preparation of the upcoming game. I am sure that I can spy the traps of the greyhound racing beyond the players. The crush barriers on The Shed terrace are clearly those patented by Archibald Leitch, the Glaswegian architect responsible for so many of the old stadia in Britain, who not only designed stands and terracings, but crush barriers too. Those originals were eventually replaced in the mid-seventies by an altogether different design. I can see what might well be braziers, equally placed on the mid-terrace walkway, presumably lit with coal or wood to clear those walkways of snow and ice. And look at the Harlem Globetrotter shorts, which I remember, from colour photos in various publications, being red and red stripes. I can’t even imagine how Chelsea ended up with those.

Snow, striped shorts, snowballs and The Shed.

It’s a classic, eh?

Despite the brief appearance of some snow and some decidedly cold temperatures during the week before Christmas, this particular day was much milder, but with rain forecast to hit London later.

Glenn and I circumnavigated the stadium and I took a few photographs of the pre-match scene. We chatted a little about the club wanting to purchase the land currently owned by the Oswald Stoll Foundation, and we await further details of how all of that extra land might aid a stadium upgrade. If nothing else, it will surely assist in the thorny topic of entrance and egress.

There’s new signage atop the central column of the West Stand facade. God knows why.

We walked up the deserted King’s Road – admittedly the game was still four hours away – but bloody hell it was quiet. We stayed to the east of Stamford Bridge – Chelsea, not Fulham – and there was just no sign that there was a top-ranking game of football taking place half a mile away. Heading north to the Fulham Road, we stumbled across a previously unvisited pub, “The Sporting Page”, and we dipped in alongside four other drinkers. In my quest to visit every hostelry within two miles of Stamford Bridge, I had ticked another one off the list.

On our wander around the deserted streets of SW10, Glenn had admitted that he had been far from enthused about the game against Bournemouth and this made me feel a little better about myself…that I wasn’t in the boat alone.

We briefly touched on my retrospective of the 1982/83 season.

And so.

13 November 1982 : Barnsley 1 Chelsea 1 – 13,286.

My diary entry for this day starts with a brief synopsis of events at Oakwell.

“We were one-nil up at half-time so a bit fed-up we only drew 1-1. That’s our sixth draw this season. Gary Locke was sent off – pillock.”

Our goal was scored by Mike Fillery, who was probably our best player at the time and possibly the most adored. Born in Mitcham, he had come through the ranks and debuted during the end of the dreadful relegation season of 1978/79. He soon became a crowd favourite in the Second Division seasons that followed, where his stylish passing and scoring ability shone in many games. He was left-footed, and could piece together some lovely passes. He had a languid style, but was never one for a 50/50 tackle, and I can see him gliding around the pitch to this day.

20 November 1982 : Chelsea 1 Shrewsbury Town 2 – 8,690.

A week after, another Saturday, and my diary began with a depressing moan.

“How the hell can Chelsea lose at home to a snotty little team like Shrewsbury? That means that we have only won four games out of fifteen. And we are away to Rotherham next week. Oh dear. Please God don’t let Rotherham score six against us again. All I can say is that Chelsea must be shit.”

The seventeen-year-old me was clearly unimpressed. Indeed, this was a very poor result.  It was goal-less at half-time, and Colin Lee scored for us but the visitors nabbed two. Just as worrying as the result was the crowd figure. Although attendances had dipped to below 10,000 in the closing stages of the previous season – the nadir being 6,009 for the London derby with Orient – this was the first sub 10,000 gate of 1982/83. I remember being pretty depressed about the state of the club after this game and my previously positive spin on our squad seemed to be based on fantasy and not fact. I had been off school with mumps for a week too, so life was pretty depressing in late November 1982.

27 November 1982 : Rotherham United 1 Chelsea 0 – 8,793.

In the previous season, we had lost both games against Rotherham United by the horrific aggregate score of 1-10. We had lost 0-6 at Millmoor in October and then 1-4 at Stamford Bridge in March. The 0-6 loss is often cited as our most embarrassing defeat. I can understand that. In the circumstances, a narrow 0-1 loss in 1982/83 could almost be seen as a moral victory. Yes, dear reader, things really were that bad forty years ago. The game also marked the Chelsea debut of Mark Falco, on-loan from the hated Tottenham, and this was regarded as pretty much a low point in the credibility of the club. A loanee from Tottenham? Good fucking grief. My diary summed it up.

“A bit depressed about Chelsea. No promotion again.”

4 December 1982 : Chelsea 2 Burnley 1 – 8,184.

Out of nowhere, an upturn in my fortunes. Not only was a girl in the Lower Sixth, Rachel, showing interest in me – the fool – Chelsea managed to eke out a slender 2-1 victory against Burnley at Stamford Bridge. Goals from Micky Droy and David Speedie, both in the first-half, gave us three points and my diary even conceded that I was happy with the 8,184 gate as I had expected one of around 6,000. The game marked the home debut of Falco, and I can only imagine the horror. This time it was the turn for Colin Lee to get sent-off. But, the three points were all that mattered.

11 December 1982 : Middlesbrough 3 Chelsea 1 – 8,836.

My diary entries throughout the week detailed my futile attempts to summon up enough courage to ask Rachel out. A couple of words, exchanges, took place, but I am afraid my shyness had got the better of me. On the Saturday, Chelsea travelled up to a probably cold and hostile Ayresome Park where John Neal’s team lost 3-1 against his former club. Mike Fillery scored our solitary goal via a penalty. In the home team was former Chelsea youngster Paul Ward and in the ‘Boro team, future Chelsea midfielder Darren Wood. Amid my fluttering heartbeats, my diary ended with a blunt message.

“Chelsea sont merde.”

18 December 1982 : Chelsea 2 Bolton Wanderers 1 – 6,903.

On the Monday after the Middlesbrough game, at a Sixth-Form Disco, my shyness disappeared and all was good with the world. Rachel and I danced the night away. I always remember that as I tentatively approached her on the dance-floor for the first time, the bastard DJ started playing “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye, and there is no need for a punchline. Throughout the week, we chatted a little and exchanged Christmas cards.

On the day of the Bolton game, the last Saturday before Christmas, I was called in to assist at my father’s menswear shop in Frome. It was the first time that I had worked a shift in his shop. After a nervous start, I almost enjoyed it. I never really saw myself as a salesman. My father always had a little wireless tucked away on his desk in the small office and it would have been via this medium that I would have heard that Chelsea had scrambled a narrow 2-1 win against Bolton. The goals came from Colin Pates and an own goal. Bloody hell, a love interest and a Chelsea win. What on Earth was happening?

27 December 1982 : Queens Park Rangers 1 Chelsea 2 – 23,744.

On the Monday after the Bolton win, I had planned to meet Rachel in a pub in Frome with some friends, but she never showed up. Bollocks. My World caved in. I plucked up enough courage to ‘phone her the next evening but she was non-committal about future plans.

“Back to Chelsea, mate” I no doubt thought to myself. Rachel, in fact, favoured the hated Manchester United and there is no need for a punchline here either.

Christmas 1982 was a pretty dull one. However, I was pleased to be heading up to Stamford Bridge on 28 December for the Fulham game at Stamford Bridge. It would act as an emotional safety harness after my recent romantic rebuttal. However, the day before it we visited QPR for another West London derby. At Christmas 1981, we had won 2-0 on their plastic pitch, and – miracles at Yuletide – in 1982 we won again. The goals came from Clive Walker and David Speedie as QPR were beaten 2-1.

I always remember that the attendances on this particular day were monumental, and I was so pleased that football could still attract such numbers at a time when gates, not just ours, were plummeting.

These were the First Division games, and the attendance at St. Andrews really shocked me; it was almost three times their average.

Arsenal vs. Tottenham – 51,497 /average 24,153.

Birmingham City vs. Aston Villa – 43,864 / average 15,593.

Brighton vs. Southampton – 21,794 / average 14,673.

Ipswich Town vs. Norwich City – 29,596 / average 19,679.

Liverpool vs. Manchester City – 44,664 / average 34,836.

Luton Town vs. Watford – 21,145 / average 13,429

Manchester United vs. Sunderland – 47,783 / average 41,574.

Nottingham Forest vs. Coventry City – 24,487 / average 17,567.

Stoke City vs. Everton – 25,427 / average 16,631.

West Bromwich Albion vs. Notts. County – 17,756 / average 15,258.

West Ham United vs. Swansea – 23,843 / average 22,774.

In retrospect, they don’t look too large do they? But in 1982/83, the average gate in Division One was just 20,158. My diary noted that I hoped for 20,000 for the Chelsea vs. Fulham game on Tuesday 28 December 1982.

From a Christmas past, to a Christmas present.

We headed west to Stamford Bridge and the pubs of Fulham. We were soon back in familiar territory.

Down in deepest SW6, at “The Eight Bells”, we joined forces with PD and Parky, alongside Salisbury Steve. This pub was pretty quiet too. But it was good to be back. It is the epitome of the word “cosy”; wooden-panelled walls were festooned with old prints of old river traffic and old London scenes, tables, settles and chairs were squeezed miraculously in, a chalkboard described the food on offer, pint glasses and wine glasses were stacked above the bar, a Christmas tree twinkled in the corner. I half expected Bob Cratchit to hobble in and ask for a pint of porter.

Outside, the rain was falling. It was time to make a move.

We were inside Stamford Bridge with well over half-an-hour to go. The team was announced and it looked like a standard 4/3/3.

Kepa

James – Silva – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Zakaria – Jorginho – Mount

Sterling – Havertz – Pulisic

Before the game, we observed a minute of applause for George Cohen, a member of the England 1966 World Cup winning team who recently passed away.

RIP.

A quick scan around. A few empty seats. Around two thousand away fans. The night had fallen. The rain continued.

However, my pre-match vibe hadn’t really improved.

“We’re World Champions, but we’re half a team.”

A few agreed.

My match day companions in the North by Northwest corner of Stamford Bridge arrived.

John, Gary, Alan, PD, Clive, JD, Kev and Anna, Paul.

For the first time in ages, Glenn was down in The Shed. Since the rebuild in 1997, we all agreed that he had only seen a game down there once before; in the upper tier alongside Alan and myself for the Vicenza game on a rainy night in 1998. On this occasion, he was a few yards away from Parky.

Despite my negativity, we began brightly, less laboured than in recent games, and a thrusting run from deep from Christian Pulisic showed our intent. There was an early Bournemouth free-kick from Phillip Billings that Kepa easily saved. A strong low cross fizzed in from our right but there was nobody in the box to connect. Soon after, a header from kai Havertz did not worry Mark Travers in the Bournemouth goal. A fine ball in from Kalidou Kouilbaly set up Pulisic but as his shot was released, there appeared to be a shirt pull. Alas, no penalty was given. But this was a good positive start from us.

Soon after, on sixteen minutes, while Alan and I were abusing Clive for watching Arsenal on TV, a nice move developed. Mount to Raheem Sterling and a low skidder of a cross that had just enough legs and drift on it to reach Kai Havertz, who delicately prodded it home.

Phew.

The stadium, however, was hardly bubbling over with noise.  But things would improve ten minutes later when a move again developed down our right. A neat series of passes moved the ball on and Havertz kept the move alive. The ball was pushed back by Havertz to Mount and his sweetly-placed shot nestled inside the right-hand post.

Excellent stuff.

There were a few late chances for us as the first-half was played out, with Denis Zakaria looking a fine player in midfield and Thiago Silva as impressive as ever in defence. Travers saved well at the near post after a strong shot towards goal from Sterling. Another penalty shout for a foul on Havertz was waved away.

As the referee blew for the half-time whistle, I was full of praise.

“Nice one Chels. Well done.”

Alas, the second-half did not run along similar lines. After just eight minutes into the second period, a player went down on the far touchline. A quick scan of other players confirmed my darkest fears.

“It’s Reece.”

He walked off and we wondered how serious this latest setback would be. He was replaced by Dave.

A lovely move ended with a Zakaria shot being deflected over and we enjoyed a little pressure. On fifty-eight minutes Havertz forced his way into the box with a strong dribble but screwed his shot wide.

An effort from Mount, a wild shot from Pulisic, a header from Zakaria and that was about it.

We really faded in the last quarter, inviting them on, and barely able to maintain possession when needed. Too often our passes were mishit, too often we gave them too much space.

Some changes.

Conor Gallagher for Zakaria.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Pulisic.

Trevoh Chalobah for Sterling.

A fine save, down low, from Kepa at his near post kept Bournemouth at bay, but they definitely finished the stronger. In their Denis the Menace colours, I half expected them to claim a goal to set up a nervous finale. Kepa certainly earned his colours late on. Thankfully, their menacing came to nothing.

Chelsea 2 Bournemouth 0.

We climbed to eighth.

I battled some awful weather along the M4 on the drive home, but thoughts were already on our next match.

“It’s great that we have a game at Forest next. It’s not a new ground, but it seems like it. A new experience. Our first visit in decades. Just what we need to keep our spirits up. And our interest.”

See you there.

xxx

Tales From A Long Hot Summer

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Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 5 August 2018.

Picture the famous opening sequence of “The Simpsons” and the scene where we see Bart in detention and writing on the chalkboard. Ahead of this match report, I am Bart Simpson and I am writing :

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

“I must not get too bothered about the Community Shield. It is just a glorified training session.”

In the build-up to this game, there were the same feelings that I had experienced in recent years’ Community Shield games. In a nutshell, I was supremely underwhelmed by the prospect of having to schlep over to Wembley yet again for this seemingly regular curtain raiser. I remember getting pretty excited about my first one, way back in 1997 when – guess what? – we lost on penalties to Manchester United. And then we went to more and more and more and more. I can’t say I even enjoyed the few we have won too much.

We had set off early. Glenn’s mate from Berlin, Ulf, was with us, and as Glenn drove up the M4, I explained to him about the history of the Charity Shield and Community Shield. I told him that it hadn’t always played between the previous season’s champions and cup winners. In its early years, it was played between amateurs and professionals; what a novel concept. I had a vague recollection of Stamford Bridge holding a few of the first ones. I remember seeing photographs of us parading the FA Cup before the 1970 Charity Shield against Everton at Stamford Bridge. Images of our 1955 win are rarer. Our record is hardly one of legend :

1955 : won

1970 : lost

1997 : lost

2000 : won

2005 : won

2006 : lost

2007 : lost

2009 : won

2010 : lost

2012 : lost

2015 : lost

2017 : lost

Our thirteenth shield was one in which I felt an over-riding sense of duty to attend. I would have been riddled with guilt had I not bothered with it. At least it was just £20. But, really, it was all about seeing the chaps again and slowly, slowly getting back in to the swing of things.

On the drive up to London, we were only in the car for around thirty minutes when I became embroiled in a series of text messages regarding match tickets for future games. From that perspective, I was back into it. I love nothing more than planning away days, sorting out hotels, snapping up spare tickets and suchlike. Coming up, we have overnight stays in Huddersfield and Newcastle coming up.

It gets me out of the house, eh?

Glenn made good time. We were parked up at Barons Court at 11am. However, disruption of the Circle and District Lines messed up our plans to head up to Paddington for an abbreviated pub crawl. In the end, we took a cab from South Kensington. At least, it meant that we were able to give Ulf a little tour of West London. Our route took us right through Hyde Park. As we neared the Royal Albert Hall, I was reminded of my first ever visit to that wonderful venue back in June, just as the summer was warming up, when I saw Echo And The Bunnymen on a sultry Friday night. It was a fine gig – yet again one of my match reports includes music and football – and I even bumped into a Chelsea mate, quite unannounced, halfway through it. After the gig, I was slowly making my way back to the nearest tube when a couple of chaps who had been to the gig were chatting about where to go for a drink. I mentioned that there was a pub tucked away behind a main road, and – without really thinking – joined them as they crossed the road. I fancied one more pint for the road, but as I entered the pub, there was a moment of clarity when I realised the difference in football and music, or at least music on this particular occasion. With Chelsea, after a game, if I had bounced into a pub with two strangers we would have bought each other drinks and nothing would have been made of it. Here, there was a distinct difference. It would have felt odd joining these two strangers at the bar. I did an about turn and headed back to my hotel.

Just an example of the kinship that exists at Chelsea – and nothing else in my life is really comparable.

“Discuss.”

Our first stop was “The Sussex Arms”, much-loved by Chelsea fans from Reading, Swindon, Bristol and all-stations west who use Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s magnificent terminus as their gateway into London. A quick pint there and a chat with a few Chelsea season ticket-holders from my neck of the woods; a couple of villages in the shadow of the Mendips, Kilmersdon and Clutton. Then chat with Paul from Swindon and Paul from Reading, who spoke about his brief appearance on Arsenal Fan TV en route to Dublin.

From there, we marched up to a pre-Wembley favourite, “The Victoria” where I enjoyed the first domestic Peroni of the season. Outside, I chatted to Dan and Cliff. We had heard that we had sold virtually all of our 30,000 tickets but City had only sold around 20,000 of theirs. But it is what it is. I was sure that if the game had been held at Old Trafford, as a geographical equivalent, we would have struggled to sell 10,000. Cliff and I remembered the 2006 Community Shield at Cardiff against Liverpool when the red half was packed, and we barely had 15,000 in the stadium.

From there, a quick walk up to “Fountains Abbey” where Alan, Gary and Ed were drinking. Handshakes all round. The team were back together again. I spent a little time with my mate Jim, who I have got to know over the past few seasons, and who remains one of the wittiest people I know…on Facebook and in real life. He spoke of his growing Chelsea programme collection and of his long-suffering girlfriend Lisa.

I am not sure what the collective noun is for a group of fifty-year old blokes in polo shirts and shorts – a “stretch” maybe? – but in the heat it was the only way to go. And mighty fine we looked too.

From there, Parky, PD, Ed and I had time to pop in to the famous “Sports Bar” at Marylebone Station, where we bumped into five or six of The Usual Suspects – aka “the drinkers” – outside in the afternoon sun. I suspected that a few of them might struggle to make the match.

We caught the 2.27pm train, and I bumped into Rich who I last saw in Perth.

On the drive up to London, I promised not to mention Wembley Stadium and 1966 too much.

We were inside, high up above the south-east corner flag but thankfully out of the sun, with around five minutes to go. The timings were virtually the same as for the Cup Final in May.

Yes, it was a hot one alright. Ironically, Glenn and I had missed the height of the English summer while we were enjoying a very pleasant Antipodean Winter, but it has certainly been a very hot one this year. It was a summer, though, where I – somewhat predictably – failed to warm too much to the World Cup, for reasons that are probably well known by most. Was I thrilled by England’s progress to the semi-finals? If I am perfectly honest, “no, not really.” I generally gave the tournament a wide berth, though I did enjoy a few games. But wasn’t the Russian World Cup (and the one in Qatar) meant to be the one that a lot of people were dead against when the decision was announced in 2010?

FIFA collusion, Russian hooliganism, racism in the stands. I never ever really bought into it from the start. As for Qatar, and with it the disruption of the European leagues before and after, the horrible working conditions of many of the immigrants being used to build the stadia, and the fact of games being played in ridiculous conditions, well I am certainly boycotting that one in 2022.

Oh, and another thing FIFA. How come England are never mentioned as a host nation. Since 1966, Mexico will have held the competition three times (1970, 1986, 2026), the USA twice (1994,2026 – not bad for a country that has only really woken up to the World’s favourite sport in the past two decades) and Germany twice (1974 and 2006).

Feel guilty, FIFA?

No. I thought not.

Anyway, to sum it all up, in Sydney on the evening of Saturday 14th July 2018, while England played Belgium in the third/fourth place play-off, it was being shown in a crowded Irish pub, and both Glenn and I hardly watched more than ten seconds of it.

Club over country, or at least club over FIFA every time for me.

Down below us, I felt for the thousands of Chelsea supporters in the lower tiers, exposed to the bleaching sun. away to my left, there was a huge expanse of empty seats in the upper tier. Down below were the sky blue shirts of the City fans. The teams entered the pitch. Two flags were passed around the lower tiers.

The Chelsea team?

Caballero

Azpilicueta – Luiz – Rudiger – Alonso

Fabregas – Jorginho – Barkley

Pedro – Morata – Hudson-Odoi

We enjoyed the larger portion of the ball in the first-half, though found it difficult to get either behind Manchester City or between them. We held the ball well and picked out passes. But it was soon evident that City were happy to soak up the pressure as we struggled to find killer balls in the scorching heat.

There was no noise from anyone in the Chelsea end. Everyone was sat. There was no sense of occasion or any discernible enjoyment either. I looked over at Ulf – “I’m not really a football fan” – and wondered what on Earth he made of it all.

The track suited Sarri – with his belly stretching the Nike training top – reminds me of the Kray Twins gone pub casual, and it is quite a harrowing image. Alongside him, Guardiola looked like his son, back from a night out with the lads.

City started with Riyad Mahrez. He would have been a good addition to our team. Oh well.

After just a quarter of an hour, we gave up possession way too easily and backed off from Sergio Aguero, allowing him to pick his spot and drill a low one past Caballero.

The first “bollocks” of the season.

We still had most of the ball – pass, pass, pass – but Caballero was called into action to rob Sane when he was clean through.

On the half-hour, Callum Hudson-Odoi, clearly one of our more eager performers, curled a shot over. He followed it up soon after with another shot. All eyes were on him. We see him as a great hope for this season.

“No pressure, son.”

The torpor was evident in the stands all around me. I had reached half-time without joining in with a single song, although to be honest, I can hardly remember a song in the first place.

At the age of fifty-three, I was turning into the football fan that I had always hated.

Sitting, not standing, silent not singing.

I kept saying to myself “it’ll be different in Yorkshire next Saturday.”

And of course it will be.

It was the Willy Caballero show in the second-half as a number of agile stops, blocks and saves stopped Manchester City from adding to their tally. However, on around the hour mark, a clinical pass found that man Aguero again and he was able to steer another low shot past Caballero to make it 2-0.

The City fans roared, and we slumped further into our seats.

On the hour, on came Danny Drinkwater and Willian (who had been serenaded during his warm up with virtually the first Chelsea song of note the entire day) in place of Fabregas and Hudson-Odoi.

Tammy Abraham replaced the lacklustre Morata, but in all fairness the Spaniard had received hardly any service the entire match.

At last a rare Chelsea song, the horrible “We’ve Won It All “ dirge.

And then, the inevitable –

“Champions Of Europe, You’ll Never Sing That.”

Victor Moses replaced Pedro.

At the death, Tammy went close, and then our boy Willy denied Aguero once more.

On another day, it could have been 4-0.

2018 : lost

Outside, waiting for the train at Wembley Stadium station, the sun was relentless. I can only imagine how horrific the playing conditions must have been. There had been several drink breaks during the game (as indeed there was for us before it).

Back at Marylebone, I chatted first to Neil Barnett, just back from a trip over to the US, and then Clive Walker, who still looks as fit and trim as ever.

Neil and I were both philosophical after a disjointed performance. But we knew that we have seen such riches in recent years, that it is not hard to feel that “after Munich, so what?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I’ll still be there next week” I said.

Clive mentioned that he thought the game against Lyon would be vital to get more practice in before Huddersfield and the new league programme. But I have a feeling that the Sarri project might take a while to come to fruition.

Do we have the players to make it work? Watch this space.

See you all in West Yorkshire.

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Tales From Everything But The Game

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Chelsea vs. Scunthorpe United : 10 January 2016.

As I have said so often, although we are drawn to the sport of football through our love of the game, and to Chelsea because of our love of the club, it is the friends that we meet along the way that sustains the attraction and makes the whole process richer and more enjoyable. So, although the F.A. Cup has a special spice all of its own, and as our game with Scunthorpe United grew closer, my mind was not really focused on the game itself, but the social niceties which would be in store as the day progressed.

The game with The Iron would be our first of three home games in rapid succession, with games against West Bromwich Albion and Everton on the following Wednesday and Saturday. Three trips to London. Three trips to HQ. Three games in seven days. For us in Somerset, another six hundred miles on the Chelsea odometer.

Of course, we weren’t complaining.

And yet. And yet. I would be lying if I said that all of these home games occasionally didn’t fail to muster up the right amount of enthusiasm. Having seen so many games at Stamford Bridge over the years, I think this is only natural.

And this is where the “other stuff” comes in to the equation. The friendships, the chance meetings with mates, the shared experiences, the banter. I had no real expectation that the game with Scunthorpe would be a “cracker” but I was so looking forward to sharing a few laughs with some trusted pals in deepest SW6.

The first stop of a busy pre-match was to an old haunt, much visited in previous years, but off my chosen match day route for around twenty years. “The Chelsea Pensioner” is just over the railway bridge outside the main entrance at Stamford Bridge, and is therefore ridiculously well-placed for pre-game drinks. It was formerly known as “The Black Bull” and I first started going in there on match days with Alan and Gary – and Paul and a few of his Brighton mates, plus the brothers Mark and Paul – way back in our promotion season of 1988/1989. Tons of good memories in there. Plenty of beers too, in the days when I wasn’t shackled to a car, and when I used to travel up to London by train. Parky, PD and I enjoyed a pint with a few friends – Pete, Calvin – and it was nice to be back. I told Calvin about the time, in April 1989, when we were due to play Leeds United, and a coachload of Leeds fans slowly drove past. It was the week after Hillsborough, and on a day when the normal fever and fervor of club loyalties may have been weakened somewhat due to the horrible events of the previous Saturday, I can well remember the tension in the air as the baiting between the Chelsea and Leeds fans continued. I specifically remember all of the Leeds fans peering out from their coach, wearing what I can only adequately describe as Ku Klux Klan style head wear, hastily constructed from the day’s newspapers. It was an odd sight, a startling sight, one which has evidently left an impression on me after over a quarter of a century.

At just after midday, I headed up to West Brompton to meet my good friend Pete. I have known Pete since 1984, when the hand of fate threw us together, attending college in Stoke, on the same course, for a few years. Pete is from Scunthorpe and although he followed his father’s love of Newcastle United, his hometown team is also close to his heart, unsurprisingly. We headed off to The Goose, where the usual suspects were waiting, while we reminisced about the last time that we were at Chelsea together.

In January 2005 – in the third round of the cup again – Chelsea met Scunthorpe United. We traveled up together, drank in The Goose together, then watched from different stands as Scunthorpe took an early lead, only for Chelsea to come back to win 3-1. We memorably posed for a photo outside the West Stand, but that particular photo-call went horribly wrong.

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For that game, the six thousand away fans were housed in the lower tier of the Matthew Harding, as was the case on occasion in those days. I can well remember the surplus of claret and light blue balloons bouncing around on the grass behind Carlo Cudicini’s goal as the Scunthorpe scorer exuberantly celebrated. In that game, we were witness to a very rare event; a goal by Mateja Kezman. I remember it as a patchy Chelsea performance but an entertaining match, watched by a capacity crowd. Steven Watt and Nuno Morais played for us, in one of their very few starts. I was intrigued to hear from Pete that Scunthorpe, eleven years on, had only sold three thousand tickets. Despite being pummeled with hyperbole from various interested parties about the “magic of the cup”, here was proof that the World’s oldest cup competition was losing its allure.

In 2005, 6,000.

In 2016, 3,000.

I felt like saying “bloody hell, we’re the Champions of England. Where is the love?”

Tickets were competitively priced at just £30 too. Scunthorpe, the town, has been hit with job losses announced at its steelworks, but even so, I was taken aback with their projected turnout.

We met up with Alan and Gary – “Black Bull, 1989” – plus a few other good friends, Daryl, Ed, Andy and Sophie, out in the beer garden. Pete is well known at Chelsea among my mates. He is a veteran of many Newcastle United games at Chelsea over the years. I remember the first one that we attended together, a league cup game in 1992, when five thousand Geordies followed Kevin Keegan’s team down for a midweek game.

I digress.

Actually, let me digress further.

Back in 1991 – January, another F.A. Cup third round – I traveled with Pete for Scunthorpe United’s game with Brighton & Hove Albion on a bitterly cold Saturday. During that particular season, I was virtually unemployed for the entire duration, and so trips to Chelsea were relatively rare; I only attended ten games the entire season. Looking back now, it seems implausible that I chose to watch a Scunthorpe United game on a day that Chelsea were at home to Oxford United in the F.A. Cup. I would imagine that a few people reading this are lost for words.

It’s a head-scratcher isn’t it?

Looking back, I think that the lure of a trip to a new ground for a relatively cheap price won me over. What do I remember of that day twenty-five years ago? I remember watching from that odd, exposed, open to the elements sloping terrace along the side at the old Goldstone Ground. I remember Brighton winning 3-2. I remember a good few pints in the pub beforehand.  I remember former Chelsea players Clive Walker and Gary Chivers – plus Ray Wilkins’ brother Dean – playing for Brighton. I also remember their bloody awful kit; not only blue and white striped shirts, but blue and white striped shorts too, in a strange Brighton beach deck chairs meet Harlem Globetrotters fashion accident. Pete lived in Bristol in those days and on that day in Brighton, we met up with two Bristolian Scunthorpe United fans that Pete had bumped in to at a pub in the city a few months earlier. These two lads – I still find this odd to this very day – had chosen Scunny as their team by randomly sticking a pin in a list of teams. I wondered then, as I do now, if this is a common practice among football fans.

I suspect not.

It was a fine day out to be fair, spoiled only by returning to Pete’s car and hearing on the radio that we had lost 3-1 to Oxford in front of only 14,500.

Ugh.

However, these football stories, these football away days, these friendships. Bloody superb.

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Pete and I set off for the ground earlier than usual. Pete was to meet up with an old school friend that he had not seen in around thirty years. There was time for a quick photo of us outside the West Stand entrance. No mishaps in 2016.

We wished each other well, and I wondered if those two oddballs from Bristol would be in the away contingent, or if they had randomly chosen another team to follow.

I had time to quickly dip in to “The Chelsea Pensioner” a second time to have a quick word Rob and also Foxy, visiting from Dundee, just before heading in to the stadium. Rob told me a lovely story. He now lives in Essex, but was brought up in South London. Just recently, he found out that his grandmother used to work in “The Goose” back in the 1920’s, and – get this – first met Rob’s grandfather in “The Goose” when there used to be a boxing gym in the room above. In all of these years of Rob drinking in “The Goose” he was completely unaware of this. What a lovely story. In a similar tale, I found out during the week that my paternal grandmother lived in a house in Parkstone in Poole in Dorset right opposite a pub where I had a drink before a “Buzzcocks” gig in 2012. These stories, these twists of fate, send my head spinning.

I’m digressing again.

In the whirlwind of this pre-match, there was not even time to pay any attention to the team that Guus Hiddink had chosen.

Rush, rush, rush, and inside just as the two teams were marching across the turf.

Phew.

Ours was a strong team. However tempted he was to play a smattering of youth players against Scunthorpe, Hiddink resisted. Of course, there are two schools of thought here. On one hand, he had chosen to respect the competition and to play virtually a first XI. The opposing view, he had missed the chance to give valuable experience to a few, and most notably Ruben Loftus-Cheek, the recalled Patrick Bamford, and maybe a couple of others.

Begovic

Ivanovic – Cahill – Zouma – Azpilicueta

Ramirs – Fabregas

Willian – Oscar – Pedro

Diego Costa

I could not help but look for comparisons with 2005. Firstly, the away fans were, of course, neatly tucked in the South-East corner. There were no balloons. In fact, I could hardly believe my eyes; virtually every single one of the three thousand away fans were seated. This really surprised me. Most away visitors to Chelsea stand these days – as do we on our travels – and especially those on the lower tier, where sight-lines are not wonderful. Where was the sense of fun, Scunny? Where was the magic of the cup? They were pretty quiet too. I wondered what Pete, sitting at the rear of the upper tier, was making of it all.

He soon texted me “4-6-0.”

There was no false nine involved, either. Every yellow shirt behind the ball, every one covering ground, but relatively few tackles flying in. Scunthorpe’s plan was that of containment.

On the rare occasions that the away team moved the ball in to our half, there was optimistic cheer from the away fans. It was quite endearing, in a highly patronising way.

Bless ‘em.

However, I wasn’t getting too complacent. Even after being 2-0 up against Bradford City last year, we still managed to bugger it up.

Thankfully, we soon went ahead. Ivanovic, as far forward as ever, picked out the fine run of Diego Costa with a low cross from the right. Our number nineteen squeezed himself between two defenders and managed to guide the ball low past their ‘keeper. There was a warm sense of relief, but nothing more. We were up and running against a team that was already looking beaten. A lovely, sweetly struck drive from Fabregas caught us unawares, but the Scunny ‘keeper Daniels did well to tip over. Pedro and then Oscar shot at goal as our easy dominance continued. Scunthorpe’s attacks were rare. A fine block – ouch! – from Gary Cahill and then a magnificent sliding tackle on Williams from King Kurt were the defensive high points for us throughout the first-half.

None other than Gary Chivers – Brighton, 1991 – was on the pitch with Neil Barnett at half-time.

Hiddink appeased many supporters with the introduction of Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Oscar as the second-half began. Willian had frustrated us throughout the first-half with his woeful corners, but went close with a free-kick.

Then, a moment of concern. Kevin van Veen was sent through on goal and three Chelsea defenders were drawn towards him. From our vantage point at the other end of the stadium, it looked like too many cooks spoiling the broth, but Ramires got the closest of all to the Scunny attacker, who collapsed just inside the box. My view was unsubstantial, but the bellows of derision from the away fans after the penalty appeal was waved away suggested we had got off lightly.

Pete sent me another text : “Clear pen shocker.”

At last the away fans rose from their seats, especially in the lower tier, and their noise levels increased. Elsewhere, it had been morgue like. It was great to see so many youngsters at Chelsea for once, but the singing had been dire. I only joined in a few times. Another difference to 2005 no doubt.

With Scunthorpe getting back in to the game, a fine move down our left ended with the masked man Azpilicueta playing a low ball in to the path of Loftus-Cheek, who adeptly slotted the ball home just inside the post. I was happy, but immediately dismayed that I just missed photographing his slide down below us.

We could relax a little, though this Chelsea supporter was still fixated on the game with Bradford City less than a year ago.

Kenedy and Traore came on to replace Pedro and Diego Costa in the last twenty minutes and although Scunthorpe rallied again – and their supporters too, bless ‘em – we managed to keep them out.

It was far from a great game. I will be honest, I didn’t enjoy it too much. We did enough, but without making the pulse race. But our little unbeaten run goes on. We are up to five games now. By next weekend, let’s hope that we are up to seven.

And Wembley is one game closer too.

Job done.

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Tales From Yet Another Semi-Final

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Chelsea vs. Swansea City : 9 January 2013.

Our second domestic cup game in five days provided us with a Capital One Cup semi-final first leg against those entertaining and resourceful fellows from Swansea City. There had been virtually no “build-up” for this game. I’ve probably never been less bothered about a semi-final. Of course, there is a tinge of guilt about that, but we are in a frantically busy spell. After our nine games in December, there would be a further nine in January. It is unlikely that these two months have ever been more demanding. No time to sit back and relax; game after game after game. Of those nine matches in December, I missed four. There were various reasons for this – my trip to Tokyo sucked a lot of my time and resources – but I would be back on track for January. God willing, I hope to attend all nine. It will probably turn out to be my busiest Chelsea month ever.

Wednesday – Saturday –Wednesday – Saturday – Wednesday – Sunday – Wednesday – Saturday – Wednesday.

The nearest I got to an official build-up occurred at about 3.45pm in Chippenham. In the office at work, there are eight co-workers. There are only two who are also footy fans – typically, Liverpool and Manchester United. Andy, however, is not in to football at all. He is, however, from Swansea. Just before I left Chippenham on the drive up to London, I asked him –

“No banter, then?”

Seizing his moment, Andy bristled “no need, Chris. We’ll win tonight. 2-1.”

I smiled and said “oh – that’s banter, mate.”

He replied “and we’ll win 3-1 in the next game, too.”

I smiled again. This wasn’t a sign of me underestimating Swansea’s threat over two games. It was more a result of Andy’s new-found hobby of forecasting scores.

Semi-finals used to be a ridiculously rare event in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties.

From our famous League Cup semi-final in 1972 against Tottenham (I don’t remember it, but Chris Garland’ s finest hour), we went a complete thirteen years until our next one; another League Cup semi-final (in the guise of The Milk Cup) against Sunderland in 1984-1985.

Yes, that’s correct.

Thirteen years with not one single semi-final appearance in any cup competition.

Read it and weep.

Another League Cup semi-final followed in 1991 against Sheffield Wednesday, when it was known as the Rumbelows Cup.

And then came an FA Cup semi-final in 1994 against Kerry Dixon’s Luton Town (now a non-league team)…a wait of 24 years in that particular competition.

So, you hopefully get the message; these games were rare events for us Chelsea fans. To put it bluntly, from the age of 7 to the age of 28 (my prime, damn it!), I witnessed just two Chelsea semi-finals.

And now the other side of the coin.

The Swansea City game would be our twenty-fifth cup semi-final in twenty seasons.

1993-1994 FA Cup
1994-1995 European Cup Winners Cup
1995-1996 FA Cup
1996-1997 FA Cup
1997-1998 League Cup
1997-1998 European Cup Winners Cup
1998-1999 European Cup Winners Cup
1999-2000 FA Cup
2001-2002 League Cup
2001-2002 FA Cup
2003-2004 Champions League
2004-2005 League Cup
2004-2005 Champions League
2005-2006 FA Cup
2006-2007 League Cup
2006-2007 FA Cup
2006-2007 Champions League
2007-2008 League Cup
2007-2008 Champions League
2008-2009 FA Cup
2008-2009 Champions League
2009-2010 FA Cup
2011-2012 FA Cup
2011-2012 Champions League
2012-2013 League Cup

Our winning percentage in these ties? 63%.

For our legion of new fans; you lucky gits.

But, let’s go back to 1985, the year the drought ended. Season 1984-1985 was a classic Chelsea campaign. We had won promotion in 1983-1984, with the likes of Colin Pates, John Bumstead, Micky Thomas, Kerry Dixon, Pat Nevin and David Speedie entertaining us along the way. We found the transition to top flight football to be relatively easy and the season was memorable for a successful Milk Cup (named after the sponsors, the Milk Marketing Board) campaign. Sheffield Wednesday were memorably dispatched over three tumultuous games in the quarters and we were paired with Sunderland in the semis. We unfortunately lost the first-leg at Roker Park on a bitterly cold night 2-0. The return leg was originally pencilled in for Wednesday 20 February. I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent at the time and can remember walking to the train station, buying a paper and then being shocked to see that the evening’s game was not listed. The winter had been particularly cold with many cancellations and I picked up another paper to see that the game had indeed been postponed. It’s amazing to think that in these days of internet and smartphones, a person living in the Midlands would not have known that a football game in London had been postponed, but it shows how the world has changed. I can certainly remember my crestfallen walk back to my house on that Wednesday afternoon. I was gutted. This would have been my first ever home midweek game too; living in Somerset, a trip to Stamford Bridge on a Wednesday would have been nigh on impossible. The game with Sunderland was rescheduled for Monday 4 March; it was my 55th Chelsea game.

Some 28 years later, I can remember lots about that day, though little is very positive. I attended some lectures in the morning and then caught a lunchtime train from Stoke down to Euston. I remember getting over to Chelsea really early and lining up at The Shed turnstiles. The kick-off was the usual 7.45pm, but as the game wasn’t all-ticket (games very rarely were), I wanted to make sure of my place in the stadium. By 4.30pm, I had joined the back of the already 500 strong line as it wended its way down the Fulham Road. There was real, uncontainable excitement in the air. Supporters were just so thrilled to be watching a semi-final at The Bridge for the first time in 13 years. I remember that the early evening was bright and sunny. It just felt so strange for me to be in London at that time of the day. I was totally thrilled by the whole experience. My first semi-final. My first mid-week game. And hopefully a trip to Wembley, that sacred ground, at the end of the evening.

Fantastic.

As crazy as it sounds, I got in the ground as early as 5.15pm. In those days, it was about £5 to go in The Shed and you could then show your Chelsea membership card at a gate into the West Stand Benches, pay an extra £1 and get a seat in the enclosure. These were magical times at Chelsea. And I always felt that The Benches were my spiritual home. My first ever game – in 1974 – had been in the Benches too. I sat with Alan – and a few other mates…Mark, Leggo, Dave, Rich – in the very back row, right on the half-way line. From 5.15pm to 7.45pm we waited. The stadium soon filled-up. The Sunderland hordes…some 5,000 strong…filled a few pens in the large, sweeping north terrace to my left. The night fell. It got colder.

Chasing a 0-2 deficit from the first leg (Dale Jasper’s far from finest hour), we broke through after just 6 minutes when Pat set up Speedo. The 38,000 crowd exploded. If I was to try to recreate in words what the noise was like back in those days, I would fail. It seemed like the world would cave in. After this opener, with more to hopefully come, it is very likely that the entire Benches would have jumped up, landed on top of a neighbour, pushed themselves upright, hugged a neighbour, yelled, screamed, with faces contorted with near-orgasmic delight.

We were, however, stunned when former Chelsea favourite Clive Walker equalised down at The Shed.

Oh boy.

The noise continued into the second-half, however. We would not go meekly. We had a few chances and they hit the bar. Walker scored their second.

We were losing 2-1 on the night and 4-1 overall.

This is when it got nasty.

Fans in the East Lower ripped up their seats and threw them on the pitch. Fellow citizens in The Benches, away to my left, ripped up the wooden struts and launched them onto the pitch. A pitch invasion was attempted. The Old Bill attempted to quell the situation. There were policemen and photographers swarming everywhere. Police horses raced around the pitch from behind The Shed. Chelsea fans again attempted to get the game called-off by encroaching onto the pitch. Believe it or not, when Sunderland scored their third goal, a policeman was standing inside our six yard box.

Then, with disarray all around me, a Chelsea fan – John Leftly – ran onto the pitch from a few yards away and tried to assault Clive Walker, the former hero turned villain.

By this stage, I was mortified and in deep shock.

So much for Wembley.

I was deeply saddened by the hooligans. This was the real face of 80s hooliganism. Wanton violence and destruction, yobbish and callous behaviour. This was just after Millwall at Luton. Just before Leeds at Birmingham. Just before Heysel.

I was pig sick and couldn’t muster a cheer as Pat lobbed the goalie from 8 yards to make it 2-3 on the night.

No one cared.

I remember I walked back to South Kensington tube just to avoid the inevitable trouble which would have occurred at Fulham Broadway; not only between Chelsea and Sunderland, but West Ham were down at Wimbledon in an FA Cup tie on that night and I didn’t fancy being in the vicinity when the ICF came through Fulham Broadway.

It was a long train ride home back to Stoke-on-Trent that night.

28 years later, the Chippenham to London drive only took two hours and fifteen minutes. On the short walk from the pub to the stadium, I happened to glance at the poster on the window of a bookie.

Michu : First Goal Scorer – 7 to 1.

“Yep, that Michu is a cracking player. We’ll have to watch him” I thought as I rushed past.

Along Vanston place, I overheard a couple of Chelsea fans running through a couple of “Ba” songs. Three songs to his name on Sunday, with plenty more to follow no doubt. On the ascent up the six flights of stairs to the Matthew Harding Upper, an irate fan was loudly berating Benitez about the dropping of Ba and the insertion of Torres.

Inside the stadium, I soon noted that Swansea’s away following was a lot less than I had expected. I’m sure that Swansea has never appeared in a major cup final. Therefore, was this their first-ever semi-final? Either way, I certainly expected 3,000 (if not 6,000) followers from South Wales to attend the game at Stamford Bridge. There was a large section of around 800 seats unused in the upper tier and the lower tier wasn’t 100% full. Therefore, I guess that they only had 2,000. I remember Burnley bringing down 6,000 in 2008 for an early round in the same cup. I suppose many Swansea fans thought “been to Chelsea last season, not going again.”

I found this a bit sad really. The tickets, after all, were only £25.

Alan was sat elsewhere in the MHU with Gary. It felt decidedly odd to be sat by myself at a home game. I don’t think it has ever happened in the 15 years of having a season ticket; either Alan or Glenn is always sat alongside me.

A quick scan of the team; Ross in goal. A sturdy back four of Ash, Gary, Brana and Dave. Luiz and Rami holding in the deepzone. The three amigos of Oscar, Mata and Hazard in the shallowzone. Torres as the target man.

The game began and the first song from the home fans poked fun at the Swansea contingent.

“Is that all? Is that all? Is that all you take away? Is that all you take away?”

Swansea sang “Land of my fathers” all through the night.

The Swansea away kit made me smile. Although the red / white / green mirrored the colours of the Welsh flag, these are also the colours of Hungary. Our former manager Dave Sexton so admired the ground-breaking football of the Hungarians of the ‘fifties – Puskas, Hidekguti, Kocsis et al – that he chose the national colours of Hungary as our away kit from 1972 to 1974, which was also reprieved in 1975-1976. I looked down on the players and had a sudden and heart-warming thought. The last time I had seen that lovely combination of red shirts, crisp white socks and light green socks in a live game was at the Bristol Rovers vs. Chelsea game in November 1975. For a spilt second, I was transported back to Eastville Stadium, the Tote End, Rover’s blue-and-white quartered shirts and their “Smash & Grab” strikeforce of Alan Warboys and Bruce Bannister. On that Saturday afternoon, my mother and I had seats among the home fans and we saw us win 2-1. There were quickly lovely memories of a goal from Teddy Maybank and Bill Garner getting sent off.

Red / white / green.

A classic Chelsea combination. And – the magic of memory – I was a ten year old boy once more. Incidentally, the red / white / green bar scarf was often seen on The Shed for many years. It remains a cult item of clothing amongst Chelsea fans to this day. My friend Daryl sometimes wears his; it looks fantastic.

On ten minutes, a really exceptional move cut through the Swansea defence and Ramires seemed certain to be able to shoot early. Instead, he held on to the ball slightly too long and was only able to poke the ball towards goal. The ‘keeper saved easily.

We began the game well. On 16 minutes, the RDM minute. Although I only clapped for around 10 seconds at Southampton, I clapped for a few more against Swansea. I looked around and had a quick vox pop. In the MHU, maybe one in five were clapping. Down in the MHL, it was nearer 50/50. In the East Stand, maybe one in ten. In the West Stand? Who cares about the West Stand?

The travelling fans were making some noise…

“We’re Swansea City, We’ll Sing On Our Own.”

On 22 minutes, Azpilicueta – who was defending well – struck a low shot just past the Swansea far post. From a similar location a week earlier, SWP had been more successful. On 25 minutes, the best chance of the game; a sublime Hazard dribble set up Juan Mata, but his shot was weakly hit and straight at the ‘keeper. I noticed that the entire MHL were standing; always a good sign that the spectators were “up for it”, yet the noise was again pretty poor. On the half-hour, an Oscar back heel set up Mata, but he shot wide. Then a fantastic ball from David Luiz from deep picked out Oscar, but he had a poor first touch and the ball bounced away. Luiz was having a pretty good game, though he tended to react to play rather than being able to predict play. On many occasions, his speed came to his assistance. His tackling was fine, his reading of the game not so good.

A text from Philadelphia summed up my thoughts too –

“Plenty of chances. One of these will go in, no?”

Right after, an Ivanovic error gave the ball away. It was played in to Michu – yes, of course – and he slotted past the diving Turnbull.

It wasn’t what Philly Steve nor I had meant.

Just before the break, Ivanovic turned nicely and, attempting to make up for his error, struck a sweet shot which the ‘keeper did well to turn wide.

There were a few boos at the break. Former custodian Dave Beasant was on the pitch at half-time; looking pretty fit and healthy. Beasant memorably injured himself while at Chelsea by dropping a bottle of salad cream on his toe. True story.

To be honest, we were playing OK, moving the ball around nicely. However, Torres – apart from winning a ball out wide and playing the ball in for others – was quiet. Swansea were clearly a better team than QPR, but it was noticeable that it was all eerily similar to that game seven days before. I joked with the guy next to me –

“I have a ticket for the away leg but, to be honest, I was hoping for a big win tonight and then I might not bother with the second leg. Give myself a night off. Well…it looks like I’m going to Swansea.”

We were worse in the second-half, no doubts. With every passing minute, the frustration rose with the team and manager alike. David Luiz shot wide from a fee-kick and he then had a low shot saved. But chances were at a premium. In truth, Swansea were well marshalled and didn’t really need to attack. Frank Lampard and Demba Ba were serenaded as they warmed up in front of the family section.

“We got Demba Ba. Say we got Demba Ba. We got Demba Ba. Say we got Demba Ba.”

Frank replaced Ramires and I predicted that Frank would score a last minute penalty. He rattled in a trademark shot which was well hit, but an easy take for the Swans’ keeper.

With only ten minutes remaining, Demba Ba appeared on the far side of the stadium and the applause rang out. Torres was the man to be substituted and then, to my sadness, the stadium was full of boos, perhaps the loudest I have ever heard for a Chelsea player. I just wished that those same fans had reached similar volume levels when we were in possession and attacking. Like most people who have been steadfastly attempting to defend Torres, I am finding this an increasingly difficult task. Yet, here is the crunch; discuss his faults away from the game by all means, but please support him while in the stadium. Not just Torres, any player. Surely this is the golden rule of Chelsea Fundamentalism?

To be fair to Ba, in those ten to fifteen minutes, he made a massive impact. He had two good headers and was also sent sprawling in the penalty box, but was bizarrely booked for simulation. Marin replaced a poor Oscar, but further catastrophe was just around the corner. Ivanovic’ back-pass to Turnbull was intercepted by Graham who rounded Turnbull and slotted in.

0-2.

There was a tumultuous rendition of “One Di Matteo, There’s Only One Di Matteo, One Di Matteo” immediately after this second goal – I didn’t join in – and I wondered what the members of the board were thinking. The final twist of the knife saw a rampaging Ba blast the ball in, only for an offside to be given. Unsurprisingly in these circumstances, a volley of boos echoed around the emptying stands at the final whistle.

I have heard a few fans call this particular brand of the beautiful game “Feast and Famine Football.” This is certainly the Chelsea of old; the Great Unpredictables. After the win in Southampton, Bob in California quite succinctly called it “Bi-Polar” football.

On the walk to the car, I realised that attending games at Stamford Bridge is not enjoyable at the moment. That’s a terrible thing to be forced to admit. Thoughts turned to the away leg. We have the capacity to turn things around in the second-leg, but we will be foolish to chase the game in a gung-ho fashion right from the start. With Dyer, Routledge, Britton and Michu playing their own little brand of tiki-taka in deepest Wales, Swansea could easily increase their aggregate lead.

Which Chelsea will show up? Please send your answers to our usual address.

As I drove home, I got some comfort in the fact that, at least in Swansea, I will be amongst the more vociferous members of our support. At that point in time, I was grateful for any positives that I could find.

The only other positive was that Swansea Andy didn’t text me.

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