Tales From The Summers Of 1929, 1984 And 2024

Posted on August 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 17 August 2024.

Welcome to Chelsea 2024/25. This is my fifty-second season of continuous attendance at Chelsea games and the seventeenth year of these match reports. Last season, I celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game and also the first season of attending every single Chelsea match.

For the most part, it was tough as hell wasn’t it? All those new players, a new coach, new ideas. There was a massive disconnect at times – it came to a vitriolic head at Brentford – but at season end, everything appeared to be moving towards a common goal. We were a form team, the manager was getting the best out of his charges, we had reached a domestic final, we had nailed a UEFA spot, Cole Palmer was king.

And then it all fell apart.

Pochettino out, Maresca in.

Change, change, change where there should have been stability.

Over the summer, I felt increasingly disengaged from the love of my life as Chelsea’s bizarre recruitment policy kicked in again. It left me doubting my sanity at times.

The European Championships came and went with dwindling interest from me. It is a worry for me that my relationship with Chelsea Football Club might follow the same pattern as my relationship with England’s national team. I watched some of England’s games, not all. The Euros seemed to be taking place in an odd parallel universe for me this summer.

In truth, from a football perspective, my mind was elsewhere.

My non-league team, Frome Town, won promotion to the Southern League Premier South last season, regaining our place at step three of the non-league pyramid, last experienced in 2018/19. As I explained in these reports, the joy of last season and the sense of anticipation for the new season was a true highlight of the past twelve months. With an influx of new opponents and stadia, Frome’s 2024/25 campaign soon had the feel of Chelsea’s 1984/85 season for this football fancier. All those new away trips, all those new places to visit, the thrill of pitting our wits against teams in a higher level, the comparison was easy.

When the fixtures for Frome were announced, a few weeks after Chelsea’s, I quickly did some logistical planning. The upshot is that I ought to be able to see nine of Frome Town’s first ten league games of the season.

And if I am blunt and honest, I was actually looking forward to the first ten Frome games more than the first ten Chelsea games. Friends at Chelsea often talk about the dwindling connection between the club, the mother ship, and themselves over the past few seasons, but at Frome Town the connection gets stronger with every game.

Over the course of this season, where needed, I will perhaps report on the differing senses of connection and belonging that Chelsea and Frome conjure up.

However, season 2024/25 did not begin for me with a pre-season friendly involving Frome Town. It began at a stadium in Laranjeiras in Rio de Janeiro.

Let me explain.

After my incredible football-centered trip to Buenos Aires in February 2020, I have been mulling over another trip to South America for a while. I almost pushed the button on a trip to Rio de Janeiro last summer but the lingering threat of COVID and a few other issues put me off. In the summer of 2025, when I turn sixty, I am hoping to travel to the Eastern US for the first phase of the FIFA World Club Championships, so I quickly decided that I would look keenly at getting to Rio this summer. We never know how long we have left. It was time to get going.

The fixtures for the Brazilan Serie A were announced in March and I quickly focussed on the weekend of Saturday 6 July. Not only was this my birthday, but the fixture list had Fluminense playing Athletico Paranaense at the magnificent Maracana stadium on that date. Two things to mention here. It was widely rumoured that Thiago Silva would be returning to his first love of Fluminense in the summer and this sent me dizzy. Also, ever since seeing Roberto Rivelino in the maroon, green and white stripes of the Flumimense shirt in the mid-‘seventies, I have been in love with that kit, if not the team itself.

In early March, I decided to go for it. I sorted direct flights from Heathrow to Rio de Janeiro and eight nights in a three-star hotel a block from Copacabana Beach. There would be maybe three games in Rio, matching my three in Buenos Aires. It was all systems go.

And then nature intervened. The floods in Brazil forced a re-arrangement of fixtures and my dream date with Fluminense, and maybe Thiago Silva, was hit. Instead, it was looking like Vasco de Gama vs. Fortaleza on the Wednesday, Flamengo vs. Cuiba on my birthday and Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro on the Sunday. I’ll admit it; I was devastated that there would be no Fluminense game.

I waited for Saturday 29 June for take-off. Of course, Thiago Silva did indeed sign for Fluminense and there was talk of his first game being played in July. My annoyance in missing him play in Rio was palpable, yet I was sure that I was still going to have a superb trip. In the ten days before departure, I contacted Chelsea Football Club about sending Fluminense, temporarily, the huge Thiago Silva crowd-surfer flag that the “We Are The Shed” team created, and which marked his last ever game for us. One of the “We Are The Shed” folk is a friend and for a while it seemed that this idea was a runner. Alas, communication from Chelsea predictably dried up and the Thiago Silva flag has stayed in the bowels of Stamford Bridge. Sigh.

I landed at Rio’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport at 5.30am on Sunday 30 June.

I hoped that I would arrive at my hotel by 7am and I soon caught a cab that took me through a surprisingly grey and rainy city centre. The cab driver pointed out the Maracana to our right, a thin sliver of white amongst the grey buildings. My pulse rate quickened. After a twenty-five-minute journey, I walked into my hotel at 6.59am and so here’s my first “I work in logistics” comment of the new season. I wolfed down a filling breakfast and trotted out onto the nearby Copacabana Beach to get my bearings and to get those first day vibes. The weather was still disappointing but I was overjoyed to be setting foot on such a famous location.

My first football-related task of the holiday involved getting an Uber to take me a few miles north to the well-heeled Laranjeiras district of Rio. Here, the driver deposited me right outside Manoel Schwartz Stadium. This historic ground, dating from 1914 was originally Brazil’s national stadium, and home of Fluminense, founded in 1902, who played here until decamping to the Maracana upon its construction in 1950.

I liked it that I would be visiting the national team’s first three stadia in Rio – Laranjeiras, Vasco da Gama’s Estadio Centenario and Maracana – in chronological order during my stay.

The stadium soon captivated my heart and soul and, I think, was the absolute highlight of my stay in Rio. On that grey Sunday afternoon, I wandered in and out of its stands, and I truly fell in love with the place. There is an extra reason for this.

We need to go back to the summer of 1929.

From 29 May to 7 July of that year, Chelsea Football Club played a ridiculous sixteen games in South America; ten in Argentina, four in Brazil and two in Uruguay. This tour is of significance for two major reasons. Firstly, it represents Chelsea’s longest-ever pre-season tour of any nature. Secondly, no British team has toured South America since.

I had to smile when I heard that the current Fluminense president Mario Bittencourt say that he was so impressed with the way that Chelsea conducted themselves in the Thiago Silva transfer that he is now a Chelsea fan and hoped to schedule a friendly between the two teams at the Maracana at some stage during Silva’s contract.

This might well be silly lip-service, but you never know. Chelsea at the Maracana? Lovely. If I couldn’t see Fluminense on this trip, maybe on another.

I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, at Fluminense’s first stadium and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand, and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I would have probably feinted.

The stadium is still used for training games, and the occasional match involving some of Fluminense’s lesser teams. There is a small club shop, and I bought a few items.

That night I watched Flamengo play against Cruzeiro in a bar on Copacabana. David Luiz was playing for the home team and I felt surprisingly protective towards him. I liked him at Chelsea and I wanted to see him do well. Later, I watched a Copa America game between Venezuela and Jamaica in another bar and got talking to people from Chile and Venezuela. The common language was football. It had been an amazing first day.

The second day was spent touring the city in a mini bus with other tourists and it enabled me to get to grips with the scale and intensity of the city. Rio is ridiculously dramatic. It is a vibrant, sweaty and sultry city. Alas visibility was poor atop Corcovado and Sugar Loaf. There was a fleeting ten-minute stop outside Maracana, but I knew I would be back on the Saturday. That night I watched a game in another bar between Palmeiras and Corinthians, our two World Club Cup opponents in 2012 and 2021, er 2022.

The third day, the Tuesday, was spent on Copacabana, the weather now brighter, and I was so happy. Cristo Redentor looked magnificent against a deep blue sky above the hotels of the beach. I met up with a local guy that I had been put into contact with; Rudson would be my ticket broker for the week. He had texted me during my wander along the beach to inform me that, miraculously, there would be an extra Fluminense game squeezed into the schedule on Thursday. I was so happy. I would get to see them play. It amazed me that the fixture change had taken place only three days out. And we complain in England.

So, a change of plan. I binned the game at Vasco da Gama – in a rough area, and an expensive ticket, plus an odd pre-registration process involving QR codes and facial recognition – as I would now be going to Maracana twice.

I walked west to Ipanema, and ended up in Garota Café, a super-cool establishment once frequented by Antonio Carlos Jobim – yes him again – and Vinicius de Moraes who penned the bossa nova gem “The Girl From Ipanema” in 1964. I shared a photo on Facebook and there would be an online conversation later between a Chelsea fan – Ian – and myself about the bossa nova revival in the summer of 1984 in the UK involving Everything But The Girl and Sade. We talked about how amazing that summer was for us Chelsea supporters.

As I mentioned in the last blog of 2023/24, I felt a comparison between the summers of 1984 and 2024, but for slightly different reasons.

“I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years. Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.”

More of 1984 later.

I had walked four miles from Copacabana to Ipanema and took a cab back to the hotel.

However, events took a dark turn that evening. Unfortunately, I became victim to what I would term “Pele Belly” and was more-or-less confined to my hotel room for two days. I was so worried that I would not be able to chance going to any games. And I was horrified to think what the return eleven-hour flight to London might entail.

Fackinao.

I slept for long periods and raided the fridge for snacks. Thankfully I bought some “Imosec” and things slightly improved. I felt so tired though. On the Thursday, Rudson met me in my hotel lobby – despite living way north of the city, his office is on Copacabana – and gave me my Fluminense ticket. It cost around £30. Gingerly, I caught an Uber to Maracana. Despite still feeling delicate and tired, I absolutely came to life on that cab ride. The Uber driver was a Fluminense fan too.

In my travels around the city, just like I had done in Buenos Aires, I asked the locals if they were Flamengo or Fluminense. In Buenos Aires, it was roughly 60% Boca and 40% River. In Rio, it was weighted far more steeply to one side. It was easily 95% Flamengo, 5% Fluminense. I knew Flamengo were enjoyed the larger support base, but the scale shocked me. Not to worry, it made me dig in and like Fluminense more.

Those colours!

I was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium, unlike on Monday when our visit had taken place by the statue of the Brazil World Cup winning captain Hilderaldo Bellini at the south-east side. I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed comprehendible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one in reality and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had enjoyed a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.

As with the fans in Argentina, there were melodic songs rather than vitriolic and barked chants that the European supporters favour. There were no pointed arms, no staccato clapping, no rapid vocal jousting. The songs from the stands, with occasional flag-waving, were accompanied by rolling arm movements, as in Buenos Aires, and it reminded me of Max Bygraves and his “I wanna tell you a story” arm shrugs. All very floppy. Not aggressive at all.

I caught a cab – a Fiat, there are tons of Fiats in Rio – back to the hotel and slept well that night.

Friday was a quiet day. I visited a local churrascaria steakhouse in the evening and then the Lapa area of the city centre where the bars and nightclubs are centered. I was still 58, but in the UK I was 59. I sank a few beers to celebrate, but if I was honest I still wasn’t 100% and returned home early.

Saturday, my birthday, and a day of contrasts. I stayed in the hotel, again not wanting to chance it, but then booked an Uber to take me to the Flamengo vs. Cuiba game which kicked-off at 8pm. What I found nice about travelling anywhere in Rio was that I was invariably driven past the white walls of Laranjeiras stadium, as if the city was telling me “it all started here, remember.”

Later on, nearing Maracana, the city’s hills spotted with lights, the Uber driver played two Sade songs. This was magical. Truly magical. I instantly remembered the conversation that I had with Ian on the Tuesday. I leaned forward.

“Sade? Sade Adu?”

The driver smiled. I think she was amazed.

“Sade. Yes.”

It was one of those gorgeous moments where life does not get any better.

Sade. The summer of 1984. Rio de Janeiro. The home of bossa nova. The Maracana. Flamengo. The summer of 2024. My birthday.

Music. Football. Travel.

Bliss.

I was deposited in exactly the same spot as on Thursday, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift up to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and actually quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

“Diamond life, lover boy.

We move in space with minimum waste and maximum joy.

City lights and business nights.

When you require streetcar desire for higher heights.”

The second-half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more.

There was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of carioca – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to myself.

On the next day, I revisited Corcovado and took in the magnificence of the view of the city underneath the open arms of Cristo Redentor.

Another magical memory.

To complete the 1984 vibe, Everything But The Girl released a song in 1999 called “Corcovado” and it was in my mind all day long.

“Um cantinho e um vilao. Este amor, uma cancao.

Pra fazer feliz a quem se ama.”

For my final game of Brazil 2024, Rudson had booked me a driver to take me out of the Zonal Sud comfort zone and into the central part of the city. Vincius called for me at 6pm for the 8.30pm start. We made our way out, not only past Laranjeiras, but Maracana too.

There are four Serie A teams in Rio; Fluminense, Flamengo, Vasco da Gama and Botofogo. Interestingly, all originated in the affluent Zonal Sud area, some originally as rowing clubs. Botafoga’s full title is Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas. Botafogo now play at Estadio Nilton Santos – along with Garricha and Jairzinho, its favourite son – which was built for the Olympics of 2016. It’s in a pretty shady area. I was grateful that Vincius was with me. He parked up in a grimy side-street and walked me to the modern stadium.

“After you wait here” and he pointed to a statue of Garrincha.

Botafogo play in black and white stripes – like Juventus, an old flame – and I must admit I fell in love with an old Botafogo Kappa black jersey.

Very Juventus 1990.

There was time to relax and take in the local environs. Again, lots of street vendors, lots of replica shirts, lots of hustle and bustle. Both Botafogo and Vasco advertise themselves as the real clubs of Rio. Think Everton over Liverpool. Fluminense once had a tainted history of elitism and racism but thankfully that has virtually disappeared now. There are smaller clubs elsewhere in Rio. But, still, nowhere near as many pro clubs as Buenos Aires, the city that I constantly felt myself comparing Rio against during my stay.

I wolfed down another Heineken at a street side bar. Unfortunately, hardly anybody speaks English in Rio so although I was bursting to talk to the locals, I knew it was a futile wish. At the turnstiles, a camera took my photo as I entered. And we complain in England.

The stadium is a little odd. With a running track, the spectators are a long way from the pitch. One end was completely empty. In fact, both ends are single story but look like they can have extensions if required. The noisy section of home fans was therefore in the two tiers opposite the main stand where I sat. To my right were around 2,000 away fans of Atletico Mineiro, who now boasted Hulk in their ranks, who I saw play at Stamford Bridge for Porto. He is now thirty-eight.

Unlike at the Maracana, there was a full tifo display here, with vertical strips, a huge horizontal banner, flares and smoke. It was mightily impressive. The home team scored after just thirteen minutes via Luiz Henriques. Hulk’s far from incredible team mate Igor Rabello was sent off on twenty-five minutes, and the home team totally dominated the game. Two late goals from Cuiabano and Jefferson Savarino gave Botafogo a deserved 3-0 win in front of 23,000. I knew that Rudson would be happy.

“I am a humble man. I like Botafogo.”

Soon back at my hotel, I decided on a nightcap and popped over the road for a couple of beers in a small bar. Just like on night one, I lucked-out with some drinking companions. I chatted to a group of kit-wearing Botafogo supporters, a few of whom spoke English – thank heavens – and I had a great final hour of my final match day. They had been sat above me in the upper tier of the west stand. The youngest liked Chelsea – and Barcelona, ugh – and we spoke about all sorts. The group were all from Brasilia and one of them is the owner of a lower league team, FC Capital. It was a cracking end to my stay in Rio de Janeiro.

Nine days, eight nights, three stadia, three games, a few Chelsea moments, a truly unforgettable holiday. Rio truly loves its football. I have not stayed in a city where so many locals wear football shirts as a matter of course, going about their usual tasks. There were Flamengo shirts everywhere. Many wore the famous yellow of Brazil too. In Rio, it remains a working class sport. I hope to return one day.

“A corner and a guitar.

This love, a song.

To make those you love happy.”

The rest of my summer was spent trying to avoid most of the rumours about the comings and goings at Chelsea Football Club; my game plan was to try to get to game one, Manchester City at home, and then make my mind up about what I saw with my very own eyes.

Instead, I spent my time following Frome Town as their – “our”? – pre-season developed and merged seamlessly into the first few games in the Southern League Premier South. My travels took me to friendlies at Clevedon Town, Shepton Mallet and Westbury United, with home friendlies against Yeovil Town, Bath City and Swansea City U21s. There was an exceptional opening game in the league at fancied Gosport Borough – the last time I saw Frome play there in 2018, we lost 0-7 after ignominiously starting with only ten players – where a late Curtis Jemmet-Hutson goal gave us a wonderful 1-0 win. Frome were then brought down to Earth with two home defeats against Merthyr Tydfil – 0-2 – and Bracknell Town – 1-2 – in the week leading up to Chelsea’s league opener.

Before the game at Stamford Bridge, I had a walking tour of SW6. I walked from a new parking spot on Star Road to Stamford Bridge, then out to the Bedford Arms on Dawes Road to see Alan and Gary, then down the Fulham Road and Fulham High Street to see the usual suspects in The Eight Bells. It was a yomp of some three miles.

The Eight Bells doesn’t change. I was there from 2pm to 3.30pm, and although it was packed with Chelsea supporters – maybe sixty inside, maybe thirty outside – I only saw two Chelsea shirts. Both were worn by the younger element; excusable.

I met up with Parky and PD, Salisbury Steve, the Kent lot, and Deano called in too. He is off to Chile in November and I vowed to contact the Chilean family I met in Rio. A barmaid had travelled in South America with two friends for four months since the last time I saw her and there was a heady South American feel to the pre-match.

“Sixteen games in 1929. And we complain about pre-season tours in 2024.”

We caught a tube up to Stamford Bridge. Chelsea have adopted the “CFC – LDN” tagline for this season and there is signage everywhere in and around the stadium. The shite new kit is heavily paraded on every spare inch of Stamford Bridge.

Set aside under a section of the old Shed Wall is a bizarre display called “The Garden Of Eden”, some Xbox or Playstation nonsense involving Eden Hazard, geared towards the EA Sports generation that seems to account for a huge proportion of our global fan base these days. The display could easily have been in honour of Jeff Koons.

The first programme of the new year had a striking cover. It consisted of an “upshot” from the middle of a players’ huddle. It reminded me of the famous scene from Stanley Kramer’s “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” when the protagonists realised that they were at last “under a big dubya” and they peer over the hidden treasure.

I am not so sure what treasure we will find at Chelsea this year, but it will be a mad world for sure.

Inside, Stamford Bridge looked the same, but as kick-off approached, there were a couple of “I Hate Modern Football” moments. For a while now, in addition to the Dug Out Club nonsense, we have been treated to the sight of around twenty well-heeled individuals watching the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from the West Stand touchline. It looks ridiculous. And God knows how much they pay for the privilege. In close proximity to all of this baloney, a young DJ was set up to spin some discs at a booth and my eyes rolled to the heavens.

In that crucial thirty minutes before kick-off, it would be nice to be able to sing our own songs, adding to the atmosphere nicely – just like we used to do decades ago – rather than be voyeurs to some dance music being pumped out to disinterested spectators.

When I showed a photo of this ridiculous scene to a Brentford fan at work, he commented “it looks like a wedding.”

Women in posh frocks, blokes in tailored shirts and trousers, children at play, a DJ booth, the green grass below. It could easily be a scene from a summer wedding.

That ain’t football.

I could hear the cariocas in Rio laughing at us from six thousand miles away.

I shook hands with Charlie and Alan who sit alongside us. Sadly, Charlie’s father and Alan’s brother Gary passed away on 29 May after a battle with motor neurone disease. Gary’s last match at Stamford Bridge was the last game of 2022/23. Along with their father Joe, Alan and Gary had been sitting alongside us since 1997. Glenn and I attended Gary’s funeral in Crawley at the end of June. He will be missed.

RIP Gary Buchmann.

As 4.30pm approached, another new-fangled addition at Stamford Bridge. In addition to flames alongside the East Stand, there were fireworks and blue fumes from atop the East Stand.

As Alan said “we will get banned for bringing in flares, but it’s OK for the club to fill the air with blue smoke.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Caicedo – Lavia

Enzo

Palmer – Jackson – Nkunku

Or something like that.

Even from afar, our new kit looks shite. Maybe I will write more about it later.

We started well with a fair amount of the ball. I immediately sensed that the battle between Marc Cucarella and Jeremy Doku was going to be entertaining.

Decent noise too. The usual songs.

Enzo was ahead of Lavia and Caicedo. The Argentinian began well.

Then calamity, Doku swapped sides and on eighteen minutes, he gained a yard of space and sent in a low ball into the box. It evaded our defenders, Bernardo Silva touched it on, and Erling Haaland fought off a late challenge from Cucarella to stab home.

Here we go.

Chelsea 0 City 1.

Bollocks.

Nothing about the goal looked dodgy, but VAR was called into action. The goal stood, no surprises.

City had three thousand in the far corner and they were chirping away as you would expect.

Just after, the Conor Gallagher song, to be expected really. I didn’t join in. I was already pissed off with our transfer policy and the new season wasn’t even half-an-hour old yet.

City went close again via Kevin de Bruyne, but Chelsea were having a share of the play. The ball was played in as Enzo made a Lampard-esque run into the box. He was clattered but no decision.

At the other end, a shot from Doku was deflected and Sanchez did ever so well to tip the ball over.

I liked the look of Romeo Lavia, breaking up play and physically strong.

A nice move involving Cole Palmer and Christopher Nkunku set up Nicolas Jackson. A lay-off to Enzo, but his shot was blocked.

City were finding angles to play through us, and we had to rely on Sanchez to spread his legs wide to block a shot.

At last some noise.

CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.

“Come on lads, hit the runners early.”

Just before half-time, a goal from Jackson after Ederson spilled a Palmer effort, but I had soon spotted the linesman’s flag.

VAR…no goal.

The spectators watching on, quite bewildered.

There was a lovely through ball by Jackson in to Nkunku but he did not do himself justice.

Boos at half-time, but surely for Anthony Taylor rather than for our performance. I was relatively happy at the break, though. We had played better than I had expected. This was always going to be the toughest of tasks. Lavia had been excellent.

Soon into the second period, Enzo and Jackson became entangled in front of the City goal just as Jackson was about to strike and the Chelsea fans’ frustrations rose.

Sanchez saved well from Haaland at the other end.

We lost our way a little as the second-half progressed.

We became quiet, City too.

58 minutes : Pedro Neto for Nkunku.

He almost got on the end of a chance, close in, with his very first touch, after a fine ball from Palmer to Enzo, whose cross almost reached the substitute.

“CAREFREE – WHEREVER YOU MAY BE.”

A nice rumble of noise again.

Neto then beat his man and sent over a fine cross that Enzo headed on. The move was kept alive, the ball found Jackson whose acrobatic stab at goal was well saved by Ederson.

67 minutes : Marc Guiu for Jackson and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Romeo Lavia.

80 minutes : Renato Vega for Cucarella.

On eighty-four minutes, Mateo Kovacic, who had grown into being the game’s most impressive player, picked up a loose ball from Wesley Fofana and ran with pace through the middle of our pitch. As he aimed at goal, I uttered the immortal “Fuck off Kovacic” and he duly swept a strike past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

The bloke sitting between PD and Alan, who had not sung a single note of support for the team all game, got up and fucked off out, the City fans did a Poznan and that was that.

Chelsea 0 City 2.

Did anybody, anywhere, really expect anything different?

Next up, Servette Geneva in the Europa Conference on Thursday.

See you there.

Estádio Manoel Schwartz, Laranjeiras.

Fluminense vs. Internacional, Maracana.

Flamengo vs. Cuiabá, Maracana.

Botafogo vs. Atlético Mineiro, Estádio Olímpico Nilton Santos.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City, Stamford Bridge.

Tales From The Arabian Peninsula

Posted on February 20, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Al Hilal : 9 February 2022

Of the many irritants involved with my recent footballing past, nothing continually manages to annoy me more than the Chelsea chant “We’ve won it all” which is sung with gusto by thousands, some of whom should definitely know better. I roll my eyes every time I hear it. I am pretty sure I have never sung it. The fact of the matter is that due to our meek 0-1 loss to Corinthians in Yokohama in 2012, there was still one prize remaining for us to claim. In those days it was known as the World Club Championships. Earlier, when it was a one-game final between the South American and European Champions, it was known as the Inter-Continental Cup. Now, rebranded again, it is known as the FIFA World Club Cup.

After our win in Porto last May, we were presented with the chance to have another stab at it. I openly hoped for a return visit to Japan; I loved my time there in 2012, an almost perfect trip. We waited and waited. There were rumours of the United Arab Emirates, there were rumours of Las Vegas. Talk about one extreme to the another, eh? In December, it was decided that the delayed 2021 World Club Cup would take place in Abu Dhabi in February 2022.

My immediate response was this.

“I’m going.”

But then I became slightly side-tracked with my boycotting of the Qatar World Cup of 2022, and pondered whether it would be hypocritical for me to go to Abu Dhabi. All things considered, I decided that Abu Dhabi was “on.” Initially, a few friends seemed interested too. In the end it boiled down to PD and myself. On the face of it we are an unlikely pairing, as different as chalk and cheese – with me a very soft brie – but we are good friends and I began preparing a list of things that we needed to sort out.

But.

The worry of COVID19 tests, registration procedures, and the possibility of the pandemic flaring up again, and the risk of getting caught in Abu Dhabi, COVID-positive and thus forced to miss even more time off work ate away at me.

Heading into the last few days of 2021, I was still 50/50 about the whole damn thing.

Then the game dates were announced. Others began booking. I re-examined all the clutter that would get in the way of a trip to the Arabian Peninsula. The tests, the forms, the costs, the risks.

And then I did it. I booked our flights. We were on our way.

But did the stress, anxiety and worry disappear? No. Did they fuck.

However, with each passing week, things began to drop into place. I sought advice from a few good friends. Other friends sought advice from me, the fools.

The Alhosn App would haunt me for weeks.

Then at the Brighton game, I was aware that I was coming down with something unpleasant. It knocked me for six to be honest. I was off work for the best part of a week and I even missed the Tottenham league game, damn it. After the tests, it was found that I had been hit with a campylobacter infection. This, I have to admit, just got in the way of the last few things that I needed to do before the trip. These were a few dark days. It absolutely clouded my thinking and hindered my planning.

There was one last remaining worry too. We were off to Abu Dhabi on the first Monday in February. On the Saturday, we were set to play Plymouth Argyle in the FA Cup. Like a few people I know, I didn’t attend the game. I just couldn’t risk catching COVID again at Stamford Bridge. But I still spent the day in SW6.

It was one of the oddest days. Because Parky and PD still wanted to attend, I drove them up but then occupied myself for a few hours. I fancied a walk, rather than sitting in my car for three or four hours, and so I meandered down through the deserted streets of Fulham to Craven Cottage. I arrived at the Johnny Haynes statue bang on 12.30pm, just as the game was kicking-off at Stamford Bridge.

How odd did that feel? Oh, very odd.

There were a few bouquets, wreaths and cards on the gate in front of the cottage in memory of the Fulham fan who had recently died at a game there. One card was from a close relative. It brought a tear to my eye.

With the score at 1-1 on ninety minutes, the game at Stamford Bridge went to extra-time.

But we had other plans. In order to meet pre-flight requirements, I had arranged for PD and I to have PCR tests at Heathrow at 5pm. With that in mind, the lads had arranged to leave on ninety minutes even if extra-time was required. Bless them. Just before 3pm, they joined me in my car. Despite a little problem tracing PD’s registration for the test, both PCR tests were taken and the three of us returned home.

It was indeed, one of the oddest days. Good job we eventually won.

Driving home, I was heard to mutter “would love Luton away, before they move to their new stadium, never been to Kenilworth Road.”

On the Sunday morning, texts came through to both of us. We were both negative.

Get in.

I finished packing early on Monday morning and called for PD in Frome at 5am.

Rather than a flight from London, I had managed to save some money and fly from Manchester. The drive up went perfectly. I had parking booked from 9am. We arrived at 9.05am. There was a long wait to check in…always a nervous time, even in normal times, but our PCR tests were quickly glanced, our bookings reconfirmed, we were on our way. I spotted a few Chelsea fans that I knew in the line too. And, ominously, one Palmeiras fan.

I remembered the 25,000 Corinthians fans in Japan.

It was a lovely irony that we were setting off from City’s airport using their airline. It was even more delicious that other friends were setting off in a “Manchester City” liveried plane at Heathrow.

“Here’s what you could have won.”

The 12.35pm flight was delayed an hour. With the inherent four-hour time difference, we touched down at Abu Dhabi airport at around 12.30am in the small hours of Tuesday.

Glenn and I had spent a few hours in the same terminal building en route to watch Chelsea play in Australia in 2018. Who could have thought that I’d be returning to see us play in the desert in 2022? This almost mirrored my movements in 2012 and 2017. In 2012, I transited in Beijing en route to the 2012 games in Japan. Yet in 2017, I exited the Beijing airport to see us play Arsenal at the Bird’s Nest Stadium in 2017.

Funny game, football.

On arrival at the airport, we were ushered into a PCR testing area. It was all very simple and straight forward. I was impressed. We then caught a £20 cab over to our hotel, a journey that took half-an-hour. The impressive Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque was floodlit as we drove past, certainly an impressive sight.

The “day one” story did not come to a clean and simple ending unfortunately. We arrived at our hotel a few blocks from Abu Dhabi’s beach at around 2am. The hotel had not noted my late arrival – although I had an email to say they had – and so only had us staying for five and not six nights. After six or seven calls to other hotels, the concierge managed to get us in for one night at a lovely five-star hotel.

Phew.

At 3am, we fell asleep.

We woke to see that the infamous Alhosn App had been updated with our two negative test results.

Such relief.

This now cleared us for the game on Wednesday.

The Tuesday was spent relaxing at our original hotel. The management had upgraded us to a lovely suite on the fifteenth floor with a room each. Our rooftop pool was perfect and Paul wasted no time in soaking up some rays.

The view from the terrace summed up Abu Dhabi; white bricked houses and homes, mosques and minarets, high-rise apartments, sky scrapers in a business district on the horizon, the gulf and some man made islands too. We had a brief excursion to see the local beach. Our route took us past three or four expensive car dealerships; Bentley, Lotus and the like. But, like China, there were no advertisement hoardings anywhere. Acres of steel and glass, a modern city, but one that need seem so alien to me. I’d need a month to work it out.

There was a “Fado” Irish pub in our hotel and on the Tuesday night we met up with Della and Mick from Kent before Mike and Frank, veterans from Japan in 2012, strolled in at about 10pm. There were a group of around eight Chelsea fans I semi-recognised at another table. The two ladies of the night soon disappeared due to the lack of interest being directed at them. Pints of Peroni were at the £9 mark. Ouch.

“Another Peroni please.”

Tons of Chelsea stories, tons of Chelsea laughs. It was a great night.

Not so far away, Palmeiras had beaten the Egyptians 2-0. They were waiting for us in the final.

Wednesday was game day. After a late start – due to us both being sleep deficient and the alcoholic intake of the previous night – we welcomed Foxy down to our hotel. He, again, was a veteran of Japan 2012, and due to his life on the ocean waves was well versed to the ways of the UAE having spent many times in Dubai, though only a limited amount of access to Abu Dhabi. We loitered around the pool area and then zipped inside the adjacent restaurant where I had a very healthy pre-match meal of grilled chicken with a pear and blue cheese salad. It certainly differs from a Sunday roast at the Eight Bells or a Greggsfast on the A303.

The game was to begin at 8.30pm, and we wanted to ease into it. We caught a cab from our hotel at 5pm. By 5.30pm, we had gained entrance to the super sleek Dusit Thani hotel opposite the Mohammed Bin Zayed Stadium. The local Al Jazira football team plays at this stadium, but they had lost to our opponents Al Hilal from Riyadh in Saudi Arabia by the score of 6-1 on the Sunday. In the other second round game, Al Ahly from Egypt had beaten Monterrey of Mexico 1-0. By an odd twist, we had beaten Monterrey in our semi-final in 2012.

Al Jazira, Al Hilal, Al Ahly, Alhosin. We just needed Al Yankovic, Al Molinaro, Al Jarreau and Al Davidson to show up and we would be totally flummoxed.

We settled in at a quiet bar in the hotel. I met up with Robert, a Yorkshireman who once lived in Houston, but has flitted between Dubai and Baku in recent years – he is employed within the oil industry – and I last saw him out in Baku. I leisurely enjoyed two pints of Peroni although the prices were a little more expensive than at our hotel; up to £13 here.

Foxy spotted three lads sat at the bar opposite; their shirts were Celtic, Leeds United and Ajax. A lad with a Barcelona shirt was stood behind them.

“Brave or stupid.”

On the next table were two Saudi lads, timidly sipping two small glasses of lager.

“Cheers lads.”

They smiled.

“Bet this is like a trip to Benidorm for them.”

Now the moment of truth. At 7pm, we left the bar and walked over a pedestrian bridge, which went up and over a busy road, to get to the stadium. At the entrance gate, a check of the ticket, a check of my Alhosin App, and we were in. My small pocket camera was waved through too.

After all the worry and stress…my smiles were absolutely authentic.

I was happy. I mean, really happy.

It was 7.30pm. An hour to kick-off. My immediate goal was to try to find the stadium’s wifi password, but this was an impossible task. My data had run out and so I would be jettisoned from the outside world until I could hook back up with a hotel wifi. But not to worry. Life goes on, eh? In the concourse, there was a group of around twenty Muslims, including a few Chelsea supporters, kneeling on mats and praying to the west.

I got mine out and prayed for myself.

Our tickets placed us midway into a half in the lower tier of the northern side stand. The view was decent. Over the course of the hour, we spotted a few familiar faces; Scott, Roy and Margaret, Leigh and Darren. Later, I would spot the increasingly familiar face of Astrijd vlogging away a few seats to my right. Robert from Baku was close by. Dave Johnstone was spotted. Elsewhere in our section, there was a tremendous mix of people. Local Chelsea fans, Chelsea fans from further afield, Al Hilal fans – dressed in blue – and even fans of other competing teams. I won’t lie, it felt odd to be in and among the opposition. I tried to spot Chelsea fans that I knew from home in the lower tier behind the goal. No luck. Lots and lots of Chelsea flags though. Good work!

The consensus was maybe one thousand Chelsea from the UK. Maybe a few more.

At various moments we were treated to the stadium lights being dimmed and then spotlights flying around, but then a couple of morons asking us all to “make some noise.”

The British contingent stood with our hands in our pockets and muttered obscenities beneath our breath.

Using a few screeches from AC/DC as a scene setter seemed a very odd choice I have to say.

Soon, the kick-off was upon us.

Chelsea in all yellow. I loved that. Bollocks to Borrusia Dortmund. Al Hilal in all blue. The teams lined up. The end to my right housed the Saudi militants – perish that thought – and they put on a fine show with steamers and banners.

Chelsea :

Kepa

Christensen – Silva – Rudiger

Azpilicueta – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Havertz – Ziyech

Lukaku

Facemasks were worn by many. Mine was on and off every ten minutes.

The game began and Al Hilal soon pounced on an early mistake but a weak shot caused Kepa no concerns.

Soon into the game Al Ultra turned on his loud speaker and tried to stimulate the Al Hilal supporters around him to cheer the team on. It sounded so much like an imam and a call to prayer. It was such a surreal sound.

We grew into the game. It wasn’t a particularly hot evening. I was wearing jeans as were many others. Hakim Ziyech immediately caught my eye and looked to be keen and interested to set up chances for himself and others. Thiago Silva looked his usual composed self. Dave was often wide right, unmarked, but we often chose to ignore him. The chances began to stack up with Lukaku just missing out on passes and crosses. One strong run from him on twenty-five minutes impressed me. If only he could show such willingness to create opportunities for himself more often. Kovacic was running the midfield. We were well on top.

Our support was trying its best but we were easily out sung by the opposition.

Once or twice, Ziyech danced and weaved into the box from the right and attempted that “far post” bender” that he loves. Other shots were blocked. Our dominance continued. Al Hilal were not in it. They hardly escaped their half.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

On the half-hour, Kovacic raced up field and released Havertz on the left. His first cross was blocked but on the rebound, he pushed the ball inside again. The cross hit an Al Hilal defender and the ball fell into the path of Lukaku who smashed it home from close range.

The goal was met by a guttural roar, from me especially.

I punched the air, then caught a few celebratory snaps.

Phew.

I just couldn’t face questions at work the next week : “How did that third and fourth place play-off go, Chris?”

We looked more confident after that goal. It must have calmed us; players and fans alike. We needed another, but Al Hilal now threatened a little. Thankfully, we looked solid and their attacks misfired.

We had dominated possession; 62% Chelsea in the first-half.

At the break, N’Golo Kante replaced Jorginho.

Soon into the second period, Kai Havertz broke away down in front of us and kept running. He drew the ‘keeper and chipped the ball over him from inside the six-yard box. It clipped the post.

Bollocks.

Another goal then would have steadied the ship. Sadly, the second-half was a mightily poor affair indeed. Al Hilal warmed to the challenge and threatened us on too many occasions for my liking. Our singing completely faded in the second-half. Their number seventeen Moussa Marega looked half-decent – a more mobile version of Lukaku – and he was aided in attack by Odion Ighalo, who used to play for Watford.

The move of the game brought me lots of pleasure though. A cross from Kante, after he ridiculously knocked the ball over the head of his marker, was headed back by Lukaku and Ziyech “faded” his shot to keep it down. The Al Hilal ‘keeper pulled off a fine save.

There was a magnificent block from Kepa on the hour mark; that man Marega’s shot was adeptly stopped by our young ‘keeper. Mohammed Kanno’s firm drive was then saved at full stretch by Kepa. The boy was keeping us in it.

There was worry and concern among all the Chelsea supporters now.

When Mason Mount replaced Ziyech with twenty minutes to go, there were boos around the stadium; although from The Netherlands and now playing for Morocco, he was obviously a local favourite.

A shot from the impressive Pereira went close.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Malang Sarr replaced Alonso, who had been his usual mixture of raiding wing play but defensive slips. Mount went close at the death, but that elusive second goal never came.

Thankfully, we held on.

Our possession had steadied out to 55% at the end.

It was a rotten second-half, but we had reached the FIFA World Club Cup Final. The gate was given as 19,751. I had said to PD that it seemed about half-full. The Al Hilal fans looked genuinely crestfallen. We just looked relieved.

PD and I slowly returned to the same bar as pre-match. We soon met up with Frank and Mike from New York. I met Dutch Mick too – also there in 2012 – and there was time for one last “Peroni” before PD and I caught a cab back to our digs.

We knew of several Chelsea fans who were flying over especially for the final; I was so pleased for them.

Now it was time to relax. And for a date with some camels.

Tales From The Clock End

Posted on January 27, 2016 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 24 January 2016.

I began the day early. This was going to be a long one. I had everything planned out. As with last season’s trip to Arsenal, there would hopefully be a little pub crawl for the four of us from the Somerset and Wiltshire border, ahead of meeting up with more friends nearer kick-off. This would be my tenth trip to Arsenal’s new stadium. For the vast majority of those games, and a couple at Highbury too, the meet would be at “The Shakespeare’s Head” at Holborn. Last season, after Parky and I went on an enjoyable walk on the north bank of the Thames in Chiswick and Hammersmith, we arrived late, just as the pub was reaching a Magic Hat crescendo. This year, we would be aiming for a walk through the West End before joining the massed ranks of the Chelsea Loyalists. It was going to be a fine day out.

The actual football itself worried me of course. I am sure that I wasn’t alone with those thoughts.

As I set off at just before 8am, I turned the car radio on. I was automatically tuned to Radio Two, and a Sunday morning show was playing a musical version of “The Lord’s Prayer.” On a day when I might be seeking for divine intervention in the quest for goals and points, I thought that this was quite apt.

The Chuckle Bus was fully laden for the trip to the capital. PD and myself in the front. Glenn and Parky in the back. When I had picked up PD, we both agreed on one thing.

“I’ll take a 0-0 now.”

Whisper it, but I was almost expecting us to get gubbed.

“I can see us losing 3-0.”

Glenn, who was coming with me to Arsenal for the first time since those two back-to-back FA Cup games in 2003 and 2004, was much more upbeat.

“Nah, we’ll do ‘em.”

The roads were quiet. We parked at Barons Court and rode the dark blue Piccadilly Line in to the West End. The pubs were relatively quiet, but it made a nice change to be seeing a different part of the city. Our ramble took us slowly east.

“The Sussex.”

“The Round Table.”

“The White Swan.”

“The Sun.”

“The Shakespeare’s Head.”

We were able to relax and enjoy each other’s company. Football was only part of the equation. Each of the first four pubs were cosy and full of character. “The Round Table” is a particular favourite of mine, its reputation slightly tarnished only because it brought back memories of Tottenham away last year, when we assembled there prior to heading north to N17. We stumbled across a few familiar faces in “The Sun” – off the beaten track really, quite a surprise – and then headed off to the last pub of the day, which – unlike the others – is far from cosy. Outside, my work colleague Bruno was waiting for me. It was just a minute or so before 2pm.

Bruno : “Hey, you’re on time.”

Chris : “We work in logistics, mate.”

Bruno is from Fortaleza in northern Brazil and had been working alongside me in our office in Chippenham and then Melksham since late Spring. He, typically, is a devoted football enthusiast. While studying in Portugal, he played for a lower level football team, somewhere in the Portuguese footballing pyramid, and his eighteen year old brother is currently on trial with us here in England. His team back home in Brazil is Palmeiras, from San Paolo, the city which hosts our 2012 World Club Championship opponents Corinthians. I was tickled to hear that Bruno has nothing but bad things to say about Corinthians. I heard a whisper that he had a slight inkling towards Arsenal, but I think it is fair to say that since we have been sharing the same office, my devotion to the Chelsea cause has inevitably worked a little magic on him. Throughout the week, I had semi-seriously joked that his life would change on Sunday 24 January 2016.

“Your life will never be the same, Bruno.”

Bruno studied for his Master’s degree at Bath University – he has loved being in England – but was yet to see a football match of any description while over here. Luckily, a ticket became available at the very last minute from a good mate, and so I was very happy to be able to invite him along. The timing really was perfect. His last day of work with us was on the preceding Friday and his flight back to Brazil would be on the Thursday. His wife had left for Brazil a week or so ago. This really would be a royal blue send off. There was just the worry about sending him away from Arsenal with a fine Chelsea performance. I knew that he would enjoy the experience of being in and among three thousand of us, but the actual match result was not so clear.

Regardless, I soon introduced Bruno to a smattering of my match-going companions in the large and noisy pub. Very soon, the boozer was reverberating with a few Chelsea songs. I could see that Bruno was impressed.

“I can see why this takes up so much of your life, mate.”

We were stood next to Alan and Gary. I casually mentioned that Gary has missed just one home game since 1976…”Sheffield United at home, 1992, Jason Cundy scored, we lost 2-1, chicken pox”…and this blew Bruno away.

“Fantastic.”

As always, Arsenal away brings back memories of 1984. I spoke to Bruno about that momentous day, and showed him a YouTube clip of Kerry scoring in front of a packed Clock End.

“Our first game back in the top flight in five years.”

“You were there, right?”

“We were all there, Bruno. And there is an entire book, in which I have written a few words, devoted to that one game.”

By the end of our hour or so in the pub, Bruno was asking about membership and season tickets.

I had a little chuckle to myself.

The team news came through.

Courtois – Ivanovic, Terry, Zouma, Azpilicueta – Matic, Mikel – Oscar, Fabregas, Willian – Diego Costa.

Inside the tube, full of Chelsea, there were songs, one after the other.

“Make way for the champions…”

Bruno was full of smiles.

On the walk from Arsenal tube station – I was a little dismayed that I didn’t have enough time to show Bruno the classic art deco stands of Highbury – there were a few more Chelsea songs, but these soon petered out as we got closer to the towering stadium.

There was that odd little Arsenal chant as we walked up and over the railway lines.

“What do you think of Tottenham?”

“Shit.”

“What do you think of shit?”

“Tottenham.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s alright.”

Away in the distance, an altercation between rival fans, an echo from the past.

A shove, a punch, a stand-off, a kick.

There was time for one last photograph of Bruno and myself outside the Clock End, and we were inside.

We only reached our allotted seats with a few seconds to spare. As usual, I was positioned midway back, firmly behind the corner flag, alongside the usual suspects. Glenn was in the front row. PD was further back. Bruno towards the rear. The sky was full of low cloud. The air was still and mild. This seemed like a typical footballing day in the capital. A grey day on the surface, but full of colour – red, white, blue – underneath. The undulating upper tier of Arsenal’s stadium matched my thoughts of the day thus far. There had been lovely highs in the five pubs with good friends, but now my thoughts were full of worry about the ensuing ninety minutes.

Our play from the offset looked calm and assured. I was quickly impressed. There was efficiency in our movement and passing. This was as good a start as I could ever have hoped. I am not sure if the mind plays tricks, due to the fact that the stands are so far from the pitch at The Emirates, but there always seems to be tons of space down our right at Arsenal’s new stadium. Ivanovic and Willian were soon exploiting it.

Chances were traded, but there were no real threats on either goal.

While I waited to hear any noise from the home support, our corner quadrant was full of noise. Of course, I lament the atmosphere in the home areas of Stamford Bridge on virtually a weekly basis, so I can’t be hypocritical and say too much. However, the silence at The Emirates shocked me. Yes, home areas are usually quiet at most stadia these days, but Arsenal seem to continually set the bar high – or low – and it gets worse with every passing season.

A fine move found Willian inside the box, but his volley was wildly off target. However, it hit an Arsenal defender, allowing him a second bite of the cherry. Petr Cech – I’m over him, by the way – easily blocked Willian’s snatched follow-up.

Soon after, Willian played the ball in to space, dissecting the Arsenal line, and Mertesacker felled Diego Costa. There was a slight delay, but in my mind I was hoping that the much-maligned Mark Clattenburg would show a red card. He didn’t let me down. Get in. The Chelsea contingent roared. This was going too well. Bizarrely, Wenger took off Giroud.

A few minutes later, the ball ricocheted out to Ivanovic, lurking in space on the right. He wasted no time in punching the ball low in to the box, and I had a perfect view as Diego Costa met the ball perfectly. The ball crashed in to the net, past Cech, 1-0 to the champions.

The south-eastern section of the Clock End erupted. I punched the air continually. Such joy.

“He’s done it again.

He’s done it again.

Diego Costa.

He’s done it again.”

This soon morphed into the more sinister –

“He’s done you again.

He’s done you again.

Diego Costa.

He’s done you again.”

Arsenal never really threatened us in the rest of the first-half. Our defenders were supremely solid, no more so than the captain, who was simply dominant. We had a few chances. A towering header from Ivanovic was headed off the line. This was fantastic stuff. Our section was in full voice, almost embarrassingly so. Elsewhere, the residents of the Emirates – middle-class, middle-of-the-road, middling – were deadly silent.

Arsenal’s best chance of the half fell to Flamini – I struggled to acknowledge that he was still playing for them – but his flick was well over. Arsenal appeared to be missing a cutting edge, as always.

I briefly met up with Bruno at the break.

“Enjoying it, mate?”

“I know you hate the word, Chris, but…awesome.”

The second-half was a different affair. There was less noise from the away fans as the game carried on. I think the nerves were increasing as the minutes passed by. Soon in to the second period, Fabregas, who was enjoying his best game for ages, danced in to the box. He was upended, and bounced into the air. I felt that Fabregas overdid it.

Wenger brought on Alexis Sanchez. Chances were still at a premium. Courtois was hardly troubled. Mikel was enjoying another masterclass in controlled containment, and alongside him Matic was playing better than usual. Only his distribution let him down at times. Diego Costa, the Arsenal irritant, was replaced by Loic Remy. We watched the clock on the far side. Inside, I was surprisingly confident that we would hold on. Eden Hazard replaced the excellent Oscar.

In the last part of the game, the defenders seemed tired and dropped further and further back. Our sporadic breaks up field soon ran out of steam. Remy’s touch had deserted him; he was poor.

An almighty scramble followed as Thibaut dropped a cross at the feet of several Arsenal players. The ball was frantically hacked away. A couple of half-chances for Arsenal were blocked. Courtois, at last, had a real save to make, falling to his left to save from Monreal. At the other end, Willian broke free but scuffed his low shot wide.

Five minutes of extra time.

Then four.

Then three.

Then two.

Then one.

The whistle.

Glenn was right.

We did’em.

We all met up after the game. Bruno, the boy from Fortaleza, had bloody loved it. The mood was buoyant. Glenn, especially, was full of smiles.

The Arsenal support was obviously glum as they headed back to Middle Earth.

The seven of us headed back to civilisation. On the tube, our faces were full of smiles. The red and white scarfed Gooners had their heads buried in their programmes. Their misery was our joy.

Ten visits to the Emirates in the League with Chelsea, and our record is excellent.

Won 4

Drew 4

Lost 2

Goals 14-9

I wished Bruno well as we alighted at Kings Cross.

“Take care mate, safe travels, stay in touch.”

It had been a good day.

Tales From The Edge Of The World

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Corinthians : 16 December 2012.

The manic city of Tokyo was my home for five days and nights. To be honest, despite Chelsea Football Club providing me with the reason for travelling across such a large segment of the Earth’s surface, the trip wasn’t about Chelsea. It was about Tokyo. As always, I’m never happier when I am exploring fresh cities and foreign fields. Tokyo certainly didn’t disappoint.

The excesses of Thursday night and Friday morning, inspired by our safe passage into the final of the World Club Championships, had left me with a large hangover when I awoke at around midday on Friday. The jet-lag had kicked in too. Regretfully, I had to sleep on for a few hours, thus missing out on a trip with Mike, Frank and Foxy to the Tokyo Sky Tree tower in the north-west of the city. I eventually arose from my slumber on Friday afternoon and headed down to Shinjuku on the Fukotoshin line. I knew that I would certainly get my share of sensory overkill in Shinjuku.

Shinjuku train station is allegedly the busiest train station in the world. Down below street level, there was a rabbit warren of tunnels, elevators, lifts, stairwells, walkways to allow for transfers between stations, bustling passengers and a plethora of signs. Luckily, I had my “Pasmo” travel card to hand and found travelling the Tokyo tube relatively easy. Shinjuku station was also a shopping centre in its own right. It was a hive of activity. I made my way up to street level –oxygen! – and was bedazzled by the line of skyscrapers which greeted me. Tokyo even has its own version of The Gherkin, but it cowered in the shadow of loftier buildings. I soon bumped into another gaggle of Corinthians; they were easy to spot amongst the natives. Most were wearing Corinthians scarves, jackets or shirts. I again asked them how many Corinthians were over from Brazil. They commented that 20,000 had flown over, but their ranks were boosted by some of the 350,000 natives of Brazil who now live in South-East Asia. The numbers amazed me.

I walked down a few blocks, my eyes blinded by the neon, my face chilled by the wintry breeze, my ears listening attentively to the different cadences of a strange language which fascinated me. While I waited to cross a busy road, several trains passed over head on an elongated bridge. Tokyo’s transport existed on several levels; underground trains, street level cars and cabs, elevated trains floating over busy streets, rising and falling expressways with cars. There appeared to be apparent craziness, yet everything came together in perfect order. It was a beguiling sight. And everything was clean, so immaculately clean. Apart from the methane. Don’t talk about the methane.

I found myself underneath yet more neon at Yasakuni Dori. This seemed like the very epicentre of Tokyo. An Alicia Keys song was being played on massive video screens and her voice easily drowned out the noise of the traffic down below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDvceBND8Ws

I disappeared into the hub of Shinjuku, my senses working hard to rationalise all of it. Shops selling electrical goods, fast food eateries, girly bars, music shops. All of human life was there. I spent two hours or so walking at leisure in and around the crowded narrow streets. I dipped into a ridiculously cramped “Scottish bar” and sat alongside two whisky-sozzled natives. Before I could order, I was presented with a hot towel to refresh myself. I flicked through the food menu, which included a haggis pizza, but just decided on a drink. I ordered a pint of Strongbow cider, which was on special offer for the night, for 1,000 yen. That equated to £8; oh boy. However, the other regular beers (imports from the UK) were £12 a pint.

I wandered around some more, now needing sustenance. To be truthful, I again felt like a complete outsider. I peered at many restaurants, yet couldn’t decipher much of what was on offer. I entered two nice restaurants, but was told “reservation only.” Damn.

In the end, I chanced my arm on a more down-at-heel restaurant with no frills. Again, I was presented with a hot towel before I had a chance to order. I decided on a set meal which included a small bowl of soup, fried pork and king prawn, a small salad and a bowl of boiled rice. With a beer, this still came to around £23. The weirdest thing about the meal, though, was that the restaurant played a loop of Christmas songs from the ‘seventies and ‘eighties while I was eating.

“Walking In A Winter Wonderland. “

“Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time.”

“They Said There’d Be Snow At Christmas.”

“Well, I Wish it Could Be Christmas Every Day.”

On my walk back to Shinjuku, I discovered an amazing place. Tucked right against the train lines, was a ridiculously narrow passageway. It immediately reminded me of the madness that I experienced in the Chinatown area of Bangkok last summer. Here, within a space of around thirty yards were around fifty ridiculously small street cafes, seating no more than ten customers at a time, all at the counter, with food being fried in front of them. The smoke was billowing out from inside the kitchen areas and the air was heavy with an array of herbs and spices.

It was simply wonderful.

In that portion of Friday night, I think I managed to take away with me a few sacred memories of Tokyo. I sometimes feel it’s best to explore a foreign city by myself, away from distractions, letting everything slot in to place. I thought about Japan’s physical location on the Earth’s surface; in normal maps, out on a limb and away to the east, almost abutting the International Date Line. And then I thought about what I had so far witnessed. Tokyo was clearly different. So different in fact that I soon came across a phrase which I thought encapsulated my feelings for it.

To me, being in Tokyo seemed like existing on the edge of the world.

Tokyo was a city which was living by different rules, a city inhabited by 18 million polite and orderly natives, a city existing at a different pace and a city which miraculously worked. It was the biggest conundrum ever; it was a maelstrom of order. Tokyo shouldn’t work, but it clearly does. Millions existing together in a sparkling neon fantasy world. This was a space age city of tomorrow which was already here today. And it thrilled me like no other.

I was up early on the Saturday (3am early – my body clock was now officially frazzled) in order to meet the others at their hotel at Ikebukuro at 7am; this was the day of the long-awaited trip to Mount Fuji, the snow-capped mountain which overlooks the city from around 100 miles to the west. Opposite my hotel was a small (everything is small in Tokyo) McDonalds which was conveniently open for 24 hours. With thoughts of many McBreakfasts on trips to Chelsea games with Lord Parky, I ordered two McMuffins and a coffee. It bemused me that the seating area upstairs was populated with customers who were sleeping.

Live and let live.

At 7.30am, we clambered on a coach which took us down to the city’s bus depot. I spoke to Frank about seeing my second famous volcano of the year, after Naples’ magnificent Mount Vesuvius in February. This would be Foxy’s second volcano of the year too; he hails from Dundee, where the city’s less-famous volcano is the now extinct Dundee Law, which overlooks that city on the banks of the silvery River Tay. On the twenty minute coach ride, I saw another sight which made me gasp. Adjacent to the Tokyo Dome – a baseball stadium in the style of the Minneapolis Metrodome which is right slap-dash in Tokyo’s city centre – I spotted a tall roller coaster with associated loop-the-loop shapes that was right alongside it. I was gobsmacked. Imagine a three-hundred foot roller-coaster alongside Madsison Square Garden in New York.

No, neither can I.

Only in Tokyo.

We changed buses and, as Frank and Foxy had a cheeky smoke, they were lucky enough to witness a geisha wedding. Typically, there were a few Corinthians fans on our trip to Mount Fuji.

Ah, Mount Fuji; you mischievous temptress. Although I had already seen the crisp and iconic lines of this fantastic mountain from Mike’s hotel room on the Thursday, on Saturday she was shrouded in mist. We spent from 7.30am to around 6pm on a coach, a cable-car, a boat and a bullet train, but we still didn’t officially see Mount Fuji. It was a major disappointment. The clouds strangled Mount Fuji in a vice-like grip all day. However, at least we got to experience a little of Japan’s scenery outside of Tokyo’s 24 hour neon. The Japan that we saw from the coach was green and mountainous. We stopped half-way for an authentic Japanese meal which I wasn’t particularly enamoured with. There were just too many odd textures and tastes. Never mind, we washed it down with a beer. At every juncture in the day long excursion, we visited shops. This at least gave us plenty of time to witness Fun Time Frankie as he amassed the biggest variety of tat to the east of Coney Island. What he’ll do with a Little Kitty fridge magnet I will never know.

Later that evening, we had a drink in the bar at the Metropolitan Hotel, and then bought some tins of beer in a store opposite Mike’s hotel. We sat in Mike’s hotel room, listened to some music, chatted about football, music, Tokyo and the craziness of our simple presence in the city and watched the self-same city prepare for another night of fun, with lights sparkling down below. We were then out in the winter air, zipping through Ikebukuro train station, with the Christmas music still playing on internal speakers…

“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle All The Way…”

(“Oh What Fun It Is To See Chelsea Win Away…”)

In the distance, I also heard a few bars of the de-facto Japanese song of this year and all others; the one I featured in Tokyo Part One –

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGs_vGt0MY8

So delicate, so atmospheric, so serene…so Japanese.

It will forever take me back to December 2012 in Tokyo.

We hopped onto a train – dab hands at this now – and revisited the 1863 Bar from two nights previous. A few other Chelsea fans called by too; first a couple of Aussies, then Darren Mantle, who had been to see a Tokyo derby match that afternoon with a few other Chelsea fans. He reported that there had been flags, loudspeaker-toting capos, scarves, rhythmic chanting, but no animosity to the other team.

That simply won’t do.

Despite the lure of an assortment of local nibbles that “Andy” the barman put on the bar for us to tuck into, we were all very tired. With a big match ahead on the Sunday, we called it an early night and I was back at my hotel at about 1am.

Sunday was the big finale.

Typically, Sunday was crystal clear. The skies were magnificent and devoid of cloud cover. I shook a fist at Mount Fuji but was soon thinking of other things. I was on a solo mission to make up for lost ground and I travelled across Tokyo on my Pasmo travel card in order to visit Tokyo Sky Tree. En route, I helped myself to a hot coffee in a tin from one of the thousands of vending machines which seem to be everywhere in Tokyo. That hit the spot; perfect.

I ascended from several layers of elevators at Oschiage tube station and the Sky Tree took my breath away. I was hopeful that I would soon be in the two viewing galleries, with all of Tokyo spread out before me. There was only one problem; the 3,000 yen admission fee. However, this was the least of my worries. The place was ridiculously busy and I was given a ticket (which was not an admission ticket, but simply acted as a ticket to allow me to buy a ticket at a later time that day) which implied that I would not be able to ascend the tower until 5pm, some five hours away.

Oh bugger it.

However, unlike several football managers that I dare not even mention, I had a Plan B.

I back-tracked and headed down to trusty Shinjuku yet again. I had read that the Tokyo Metropolitan Office building allowed visitors to visit the viewing gallery on the 22nd floor – for free, nonetheless. I had also remembered that Mike had said that the bar used the hotel in “Lost In Translation” afforded magnificent views of central Tokyo, too.

As it happened, I stumbled across the hotel – The Park Hyatt – and quickly tried to blend in with the diners at the restaurants on the 44th floor (great views) and the 52nd floor (sublime views) while I took advantage of the clear glass windows. My camera went into overdrive. I spent a good 45 minutes looking out at all points of the compass from the two levels. The views were magnificent. The hotel is right in the very centre of Tokyo, so I was right amongst it. In fact, if “Tokyo” is entered on Google Earth, the “red dot” (how appropriate) is a hundred yards from the hotel.

I was smiling from ear-to-ear as I hopped around the hotel, taking it all in. Tokyo is just simply massive. At last, I was able to photograph it and do it justice. To be honest, I was quite light-headed as I descended the floors and got back to street level. Fantastic stuff. I soon bumped into yet more Corinthians fans. I had heard rumours that Corinthians (or – as they pronounced it…Coreeeeenchia’) fans had sold cars, left jobs and even sold houses to travel to Tokyo. I wanted to know if this was true.

“Sure, it’s true. This cup is massive. We love this team.”

I had a little moment to try and equate what I had just heard with my feelings for the trophy which would soon be “up for grabs” some twenty miles away in Yokohama. There is no doubt that England, if not the whole of Europe, regards the Champions League as the biggest and most prestigious trophy on offer in World football. And – to be honest – I think that this is quite correct. It was the reason why some 40,000 Chelsea foot soldiers invested time and money to travel to Munich in May, yet only 17,500 of those were able to see the game. That only 600-800 had travelled out from the UK to see the two games in Japan did make me feel a little uneasy about how we as a club regarded the World Club Championships. Especially compared to the 30,000 Corinthians who were in every bar, every restaurant and on every street in Tokyo. This, however, was South America’s big moment to shine against Europe. It was their one chance to put one over on the moneyed ranks of UEFA. It was akin, in my mind, to the invasion of 80,000 Scotland fans back in the ‘seventies every two years for the England vs. Scotland game. Scotland owned Wembley in those days. It was their one chance to get one over the auld enemy. Well, in 2012, Tokyo was owned by the black and white Corinthian hordes from Sao Paolo.

To be honest, it reminded me of us being outnumbered in Munich.

With that, I stumbled across a “Soccer Shop” on the main walk back into Shinjuku. The place was festooned with shirts from clubs in Europe – you can guess which ones – and there were many items representing the World Club Championships, especially its two finalists. Interestingly enough, throughout my stay in Japan, I had not clocked eyes on a Japanese person wearing a single item of merchandise from any European club. Not one. The only such item I saw on the entire trip was a Liverpool scarf being worn by a boy on the London to Beijing stage. Despite better judgement, I stumped up 3,700 yen (or about £30) for a Corinthians T-shirt. I sometimes get souvenirs from my various football trips around Europe (a St. Pauli scarf here, a Juventus pennant there…) so a Corinthians shirt was no big deal. I balanced this by buying a Chelsea / World Club Championship key fob for 1,000 yen.

I zipped back to my hotel, decided on my match-day attire (maybe it was because I was now a Tokyo native, but this now took mere minutes as opposed to a longer period of time on a normal match day) and set off for the game. I again changed at Shibuya, then caught the JR Express to Kikuna and then on to Shin-Yokohama. It only took me around 45 minutes. I strolled over to the Chelsea pub just as Foxy, Matt, Mike and Fun Time were mid song. Anna and Kev were there too. A few other familiar faces from home; the three guys I had met in Kuala Lumpur were sat at a table inside. Outside, of course, the streets were awash with “Coreeeenchia”. Some were sat inside a street side bar with guitars and hand-held drums, blasting out a song for the passers-by. I disappeared off to purchase some tinnies from a store, then re-joined the boisterous crowd. Two locals drove past in a blue convertible which was festooned with Chelsea-flags, but which also had “Blue Is The Colour” booming out of its stereo-system. The car stopped in front of the pub – holding up the traffic – but enabled the Chelsea fans to join in.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pea04tAMGNw

Frank was all over it.

A local – wearing Chelsea scarf and (worryingly) reindeer horns – suddenly appeared in front of me, smiling and acting as if we had arranged to meet up. I guess he was just happy to meet an “authentic” Chelsea supporter. He was carrying his two-year old son, fully attired in Chelsea kit, and as he turned around we saw that the boy had his name – “Sora” – printed on the back above the number “25.”

Maybe this was a Japanese pun. Maybe the father had named his son after Zola and Sora was the Japanese pronunciation of it. Either way, we quickly serenaded him.

“Sora! Sora! Sora! Sora! Sora! Sora! Sora! Sora! Sora!”

The little lad started laughing and smiling, then clapped his hands excitedly. It was a brilliant moment.

The beer was going down well. The others wanted to head off to the stadium, but Matt and I were more than happy to stay outside the bar, drinking in the atmosphere, lapping it all up. We talked very briefly about our experience in Japan. I said that I found the Japanese to be very reserved, but once a link of communication existed, they suddenly became very friendly, almost to the point of giddiness. As a contrast, I found the Thai people to be more open and friendly from the start. Matt, who has visited around 40 countries and is clearly an experienced traveller, commented that there is an over-riding fear of shame which permeates all of Japanese life; that it is best to stay silent, to be reserved, to keep your cards close to your chest, rather than be socially embarrassed by doing or saying the wrong thing. I found this fascinating.

Although, the third/fourth place game was taking place in the stadium, I had no time for it. With around 45 minutes to go to the kick-off, we eventually made a move. Once inside the entrance plaza, we bolted down some Japanese style fish and chips. We showed our tickets and we were in. The Corinthians fans were still in the ascendency and were full of song. As a solid mark of defiance, I slowly and deliberately bellowed out “Champions of Europe – We Know What We Are” repeatedly for thirty seconds.

Once inside the stadium, the difference between the game on Thursday was very marked.

The place was packed. Not only that, Corinthians banners and flags were simply everywhere.

At the other end, a single banner “Gavioes Da Fiel” took up eighty yards of balcony. This was their biggest fan group and their biggest banner. But elsewhere, there were other banners; too many to name. There were Corinthians behind us in our section, there were banners above us; we were well-and-truly outnumbered in Yokohama.

Your city? Your stadium? Your cup?

Before we had time to think about too much, the pre-game pageantry had begun. News filtered through that Frank Lampard was starting as captain. I hoped that sentimentality hadn’t clouded Benitez’ decision to start him. It was, after all, Frank’s first start for ages. After Luiz’ ground-breaking start in a defensive-midfield position on Thursday, Benitez chose to play Frank alongside Ramires, so Luiz reverted to his central-defensive position alongside Gary Cahill. A surprising start went to Victor Moses, ahead of Oscar.

The teams entered the pitch. The Corinthians at the other end unveiled a large white banner which floated over the heads of the occupants of the lower tier. There were balloons. There were flags. There was a black, grey and white version of the Union Jack. Was this an ominous sign for us boys from Blighty? In response, we managed to squeeze a few blue flags of defiance onto the balcony above us.

It was certainly magnificent to see Frank lining up with the officials and the Corinthians’ captain. The teams then lined up on the centre-circle and the FIFA “Moment Of Hope” took place. I am sure that this was always planned to take place, but I personally thought that it had deeper poignancy after the shocking, yet oh-so predictable, events in Connecticut which so shocked the global community.

The Chelsea support seemed to be more boisterous, yet significantly more nervous too, compared to the game against Monterrey. The terraces were packed. Foxy got the beers in; good lad. I had to juggle beer with cameras, with songs, with support. I was aware that I was remarkably tense and I had to have a quiet word with Frank who seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for a Chelsea game.

Orlin’s wife Katerina told me to relax after a Corinthians effort flew wide.

Relax? I’d like to be able to…

I thought that we looked pretty comfortable in the first-half. Of course, the big moment was the effort from Gary Cahill which the Corinthians’ keeper Cassio somehow managed to block on the line. Our biggest scare was when Cahill seemed to send the lively Guerrero to the floor. Thankfully, the referee waved away the penalty claim. Guerrero was also involved when a move ended with Emerson shooting against the outside of the post. The best move of our first forty-five minutes ended with Victor Moses curling a lovely shot at goal, but Cassio again managed to save, clawing it around the far post.

I thought we were the better team at the break to be honest, although there was little between the two sides. I just hope that our class told. After a noisy start, we had even managed to silence the 30,000 Brazilians in the stadium.

Chances were at a premium in the second-half and I sensed a lack of conviction and enterprise in our play. I certainly sensed a dropping off of our tempo compared to the first forty-five minutes. A few half-chances were traded. Then on 69 minutes, a quick break into the heart of our defence caused me to experience a fear of impending doom. After so many games, I must have some sort of sixth sense. Lo and behold, although an initial shot was blocked by Cahill, the ball spun up and into the path of the waiting Guerrero. Cech seemed to be caught between a rock and a hard place. The ball was headed home with Cech stranded. The two defenders on the line could do nothing.

The Brazilians roared. Flares soon followed. I was crushed.

Benitez rang the changes with Oscar and Azpilicueta replacing Moses and Ivanovic. Our best chance of the entire game then arrived when the ball was sent pin-balling around inside the Corinthians penalty area. Typically, it fell at the feet of Fernando Torres. This was his moment. He only had the falling ‘keeper to beat. He had no time to weigh up the options. His instinctive prod was the wrong response and the ‘keeper blocked.

Oh boy.

Behind us, the Corinthians were making their presence felt. Earlier in the game they had bellowed disdain at David Luiz, the former Corinthians supporter. Now, one of their number waltzed down into our section and waved a large Corinthians flag. There was some shouting and posturing. After a small scramble, the flag’s metal pole was broken in two.

There was little penetration for the rest of the game and our cause was not helped when Gary Cahill lashed out; he was shown a red card. Then, a moment of hope. Oscar broke and sent over a fantastic cross towards the six-yard box. Torres rose and headed home. The ball smashed into the goal, right at me.

Get in!

I turned to my right, briefly saw Orlin going do-lally, but then heard the horrible words “he’s given offside.” Emotions turned 180 degrees. Pandemonium to agony in a spilt second. Mata even had one last chance to equalise, but his shot from an acute angle hit the outside of Cassio’s post.

The whistle blew and I just wanted to leave the stadium. I wasn’t really surprised how much this hurt. This was probably our only chance to ever be crowned World Champions. The only modicum of solace was for the thousands upon thousands of Corinthians who would now go home with a smile on their faces; I had no reason to dislike them.

I walked briskly back to Shin-Yokohama.

I was by myself now.

Walking through the train station at Shibuya, I was still feeling a little sorry for myself. I then realised where I was.

I was in Tokyo.

And I smiled the biggest smile of the five days away from home.

What a trip.

Although the city looked as beguiling as ever, I returned to my hotel at midnight, via one last lingering look at the neon up at street level.

I had to be up at 4am. I was so worried about the alarm not working on my phone that, once I awoke at 2am, I daren’t not go back to sleep again. I carefully packed my bags, tucked away all of my memories and headed down to the hotel lobby. A few Corinthians were coming in from a night of revelry.

It was their time and not ours.

I walked the mile or so south, past bars which were still open, to catch the bus to Haneda from good old Shinjuku station at 4.45am.

On the short thirty minute ride to the airport, I chatted to two Corinthians fans. We were all animated in our love of football and I thoroughly enjoyed the engaging conversation that we shared. One of them favoured Chelsea as his “European” team. I sensed that the other guy favoured Arsenal. They wanted to know about the size of our support and where our support came from. Had we been successful prior to Abramovich? Who were our main rivals? I was able to pass on tons of information for them to take home with them. Corinthians’ main rivals are Palmeiras and Sao Paolo. We had many things in common. For example, all three of us loved our club in a far greater way than our national teams. I was able to review our remarkable march to the Munich final in May and they were aware of every game, every twist and turn. Corinthians had won the Copa Libertadores with a win against Boca Juniors. Corinthians had only 1,500 tickets for the game in La Bombonera; perhaps this half-explained the 30,000 in Tokyo. At least they were assured of tickets in Japan, as bizarre as that seems.

There was a lot of sarcasm aimed at Corinthians in Brazil since they had only won the Copa Libertadores on one occasion. Like us, their biggest ever trophy triumph took place in 2012 and 2012 alone. Additionally in 2000, Corinthians were invited to take part in the inaugural World Club Championships as the reigning Brazilian league champions when Brazil was the host country. The fact that they won that 2000 Final is viewed as being a hollow trophy, by Corinthians and their rivals alike, since they had not won the Libertadores first.

The smiles of the two Corinthians sitting opposite proved to me that they had now won it fair and square.

Fair play to them.

Despite Chelsea’s loss, this football-powered chat high above the streets of an awakening Tokyo on the narrow expressway on the way to the airport was a brilliant end to my stay in the craziest city of them all.

Ah, the bittersweet ache of leaving a city as wonderful as Tokyo.

Over to Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBwrx0YHo34

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