Tag Archives: CPO

Tales From Nine Counties

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Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 21 January 2012.

Way back in June, when the fixtures for 2011-2012 were announced, the date of the Norwich City away game was one of the fixtures that I was keen to see. Along with the match at Swansea City, these were the two most eagerly-awaited away trips of the upcoming season; I had only visited Norwich once before, I had never visited Swansea. These fresh away venues are the business. How ironic, then, that these two games would be scheduled to be played within ten days of each other. And it is doubly ironic that we get to play away games at all three of the promoted teams in this spell, with the F.A. Cup game at Loftus Road sandwiched between the two league games at Carrow Road and the Liberty Stadium.

I was up very early on Saturday morning and left my home in Somerset at 6.45am. I collected Parky from his village just over the Wiltshire border at just after 7am and we were on our way east for the second time in 24 hours. On the Friday, we had travelled up to Chelsea for the AGM of the CPO. I only decided to travel up, taking a day off work, at the last minute; I had decided that it was too important to miss. Parky needed no coercing to join me. The meeting was held in the Harris suite and was attended by around 150 Chelsea fans.

This was the first time that I had ever visited the corporate areas of the West Stand; it enabled me to see a couple of items of Chelsea history that had previously been hidden from me. I especially enjoyed seeing, up close, the original painting by Chris Chamberlain of the bustling street scene outside the main entrance in 1953. Located by the lifts to the left of the main reception area, it’s simply stunning. I could have spent ages examining it for details of a slice of our history. I well remember going on a Stamford Bridge tour in 1997 and getting a rush of blood as we walked past the magnificence of the famous Charles Cundall painting of the “82,905” game versus Arsenal in 1935.

Both are superb paintings.

On the drive to Chippenham, where we stopped to refuel and devour a McDonald’s breakfast, we spoke about the events of the CPO meeting. It was a heated debate, for sure, and I am not wholly convinced that the new board mirror what I feel about our spiritual home. However, at least the board agreed to withhold the issuing of new shares until the next EGM comes around. New director Gray Smith seems a thoroughly decent person and has been tasked by Steve Frankham to oversee a thorough review of current policies within the CPO. The main talking point from the floor was – obviously – the block buying of new shares and the implications if block buying could be allowed in the future.

I hope that the board will go ahead with the much-mooted requests for “one man one vote” in future.

There is more – much more – to be discussed on this most vital of matters over the next few weeks and months.

To be honest, I felt a little cheated that this mammoth journey (a 490 mile round trip for me) was taking place in the middle of winter. Is it me, or does it always seem that our more popular away games always seem to take place in the more inclement times of the football calendar? For Blackpool last season, see Norwich and Swansea this season.

At the very least, I was hoping for clear blue skies and fields lightly dusted with frost on the trip to Norfolk. Unfortunately, for the most part, the weather on the trip to Norwich was grey and miserable, with only occasional moments of winter sun lightening the sky.

The M4 motorway took me from Wiltshire and into Berkshire. The M25 took me around the northern Home Counties which nudge against the capital city; Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Essex. At about 9.30am, we turned off the M25 and headed north on the M11, up past Stansted airport, with thoughts of forays with Chelsea to Prague in 1994, Turin in 2009 and Leverkusen in 2011. The sun briefly made a cameo appearance, but then the clouds swarmed overhead once more. As we turned off the M11 and headed north-east, we listened to Terry Venables talking about his career in football on the Danny Baker Show on Five Live. A brief foray through Cambridgeshire was followed by a few miles in Suffolk.The A11 took us past Newmarket, one of the major venues for horse racing in the UK and home to the National Horseracing Museum. The main stand of the course was clearly visible to our east. We continued on, bypassing Mildenhall and Thetford, the traffic slowing as we hit some single-line roads. We were now in Norfolk. The landscape in East Anglia is rather uninteresting. It’s an agricultural area, with acres and acres of flat arable farmlands. We drove past fields full of sheep, then moorlands, then pig farms. The town names were solidly Anglo-Saxon – Attleborough, Wymondham, Wreningham – but the two US air force bases at Mildenhall and Lakenheath were close by.

As we neared the Norwich ring road at around 11am, a few landmarks looked semi-familiar from my only ever previous visit back in 2005. I have particularly fond memories of that trip as it signalled, for me anyway, the point in that tumultuous season when I felt that the championship – our first for 50 long years – was on the cards. I had travelled up with two mates from Frome – Glenn and Frank – and we had decided to stay overnight in a cheap and cheerful bed and breakfast. We met up with a few friends from London after a quick perambulation of the pleasant city centre. We had a few drinks in a city centre pub. On the walk down to the ground (it was a 5.15pm kick-off), we had heard that United had drawn 0-0 at Crystal Palace. On a bitterly cold Norfolk evening, we defeated Norwich 3-1 with goals from Joe Cole, Mateja Kezman and Ricardo Carvalho. We went eight points clear that night and, really, never looked back.

That night was a blast as we bar-hopped in and out of a few pubs and bars down by the River Wensum. One of our match day companions in The Sleepy Hollow – Rousey – joined in the fun and the sight of him on the dance floor is one of the surreal memories from that magical season.

Norwich 2005 was a top night – how would 2012 shape up?

Without knowing it, I drove right past Carrow Road as I followed signs for a city centre car park. Amongst the metal cladding of shopping malls and bowling alleys down by the river, the low main stand of Carrow Road easily blends in. We parked up at 11.30am, a full four and three-quarter hours after I had left my home village. We exited the multi-story and I soon realised that we were right in the middle of the pedestrianized walkway of The Riverwalk, the same entertainment complex where Frank, Glenn, Rousey and I had spent five hedonistic hours seven years ago. Since that visit, there had been substantial building work carried out along the river banks, with modern five and six story apartments looking over the fast-flowing river below. Norwich looked like a fine city and I lamented the fact that this would be just a fleeting visit.

We spotted a busy bar with a few Chelsea fans outside on the patio overlooking a pedestrian bridge over the river. We quickly decided to enter. Two girls just inside the pub were selling bottles of Carlsberg and we dived in…what a good idea; certainly saved time waiting at the bar. The pub was called “The Queen Of The Iceni” – named after Queen Boudica, who took charge of an uprising against the Roman Empire.

How appropriate, eh?

Parky and I spotted a few familiar faces as we settled by the doors looking out onto the patio. The home fans were of course in the majority, with the bright yellow of their home shirts prevalent. I looked on aghast, though, at the number of them who were wearing the short-sleeved shirts over normal shirts and sweatshirts. Now, this is never a good look, even in unsophisticated Norfolk. To be fair, there were a few casuals amongst the home support, though; not everyone had the dress sense of a sweaty computer nerd.

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Daryl, Alan and Gary soon appeared, clutching bottles of Carslberg and joined us for thirty minutes of chat. They had journeyed up by train from London. I updated them a little with news of the CPO. Worryingly, Daryl commented that on his two previous trips to Carrow Road, both games had ended goal-less. The Norwich fans in the boozer sang a song berating their great rivals Ipswich Town, but this then stirred the fifty Chelsea fans into life.

“Carefree, wherever you may be.
We are the famous CFC.
And we don’t give a fcuk, wherever you may be.
‘Cus we are the famous CFC.”

With that, we supped our beers and left. We were outside the away turnstiles within five minutes, shaking hands with a few mates, catching up for a few seconds, smiles and laughter.

Carrow Road is a neat and tidy stadium, with double-deck stands at both ends. The low stand opposite is one of the smallest in the top division. The east stand, the one housing 3,000 Chelsea fans, was completed just before that game back in 2005. It is a plain stand with around 7,000 seats in a single, deep tier. Despite a high roof, the wind was bringing in rain as we stood awaiting the arrival of the players. Grey skies overhead. The spire of Norwich Cathedral was visible above the roof opposite. In the north east corner, the rooms of the Holiday Inn overlooked the away fans. It was a strange sight indeed. The hotel is built right next to the stadium. Ring any bells?

Several yellow and green flags were waved enthusiastically as the music blared. Believe it or not, Norwich City chose the same piece of classical music which was used for the Old Spice commercials back in the ‘seventies (aka “O Fortuna” from Carmina Burana.)

AVB went with Lampard again in the midfield, with no place for Oriel Romeu. Studge was recalled. We began well and Raul Meireles was involved in a few interchanges. We dominated possession throughout the first-half in fact, but Norwich were the ones with more definite chances. Grant Holt, who looks more like a lorry driver than a footballer, shot wide and I wondered if he would be able to be suitably patrolled by JT. Fernando Torres showed great fortitude midway through the half as he held off challenges as he danced into the box, before shooting early. His neat curler with the outside of his right foot caught Ruddy off balance, but the ‘keeper did well to push the ball around the far post. From the corner, Sturridge blasted over. The Chelsea crowd, loud in the first ten minutes, were getting quieter as our passing became sterile. Both sets of fans exchanged those famous barbs from the 2005 game;

“We’ve got a super cook, you’ve got a Russian crook.”

“We’ve got Abramovich, you’ve got a drunken bitch.”

I presumed that Delia Smith, the former City chairwoman, was in the crowd. The other famous City fan, Stephen Fry, was attending; according to Alan, he had been spotted in an executive box. At last the sun came out for a few fleeting minutes and the spire on the cathedral stood out. Our football did not. Frank Lampard grabbed his calf and fell to the floor. While we were down to ten men, a shot from Johnson was deflected, only for Cech to adjust and save. Frank was replaced by Florent Malouda. In the last minute of the first-half, Juan Mata rode a tackle, cut in and settled to shoot, but blasted over wildly. It was one of those halves. We had most of the ball, but Norwich had the chances. Work that out. The one highlight was the performance of the much maligned David Luiz, who was cool, calm and collected; intelligent positioning and confident possession were the hallmarks of his play. One dribble out of defence was sublime. But, in general, our play was again slow and laboured. Save from a few Ramires toe pokes away from Norwich players, I can hardly remember a tackle in anger the entire forty-five minutes.

At the break, Georgie from Bristol appeared with a photo on her phone of her with Gianfranco Zola. I presumed that he was in town to take part in the TV coverage.

Soon into the second half, a high ball was brought down with consummate ease by Juan Mata right in front of us all in the away section. It was probably the single most impressive piece of skill the entire game and reminded me of a similarly beautiful piece if skill by that man Zola at Anfield over ten years ago.

Although all of us were stood, the noise became negligible. The rising levels of frustration resulted in anguished bellows from the away contingent.

Me : “Move for each other!”

Al : “Sharpen up!”

Gary : “Come on Chels!”

On the hour, the ball fell to Torres in a packed penalty area. We stood on tip-toe to see what he would do. Time was obviously of the essence and he decided to toe poke the ball goalwards. I just saw the ball squirm past the far post.

Norwich screamed “fcukin’ useless” to the tune of “Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag.”

We replied “fcukin’ inbreds” to the same tune.

Just after, a flowing move from Malouda to Sturridge to Mata ended up with a low shot at the near post being turned around for a corner by Ruddy. Sturridge was having a particularly poor game; he was hiding for the most part and that is simply not good enough. We had a few half chances, but were not convincing at all. We were all surprised when Lukaku was introduced in place of Torres, who was having a half-decent game. Michael Essien was our final substitute; the final twist of the card. He replaced the fading Meireles. The entire away support pondered how Sturridge was still on the field. A strong Lukaku run brought cheers, but the play continued to be lacklustre, without invention, without fight. A timid shot from Mata after a nimble turn idly passed the near post. A wild shot from Malouda on ninety minutes ended up a good twenty yards high of the goal and, by then, the away support had long given up. A few had started to leave. I can hardly remember a worthwhile attack on Cech’s goal in that second period, though. This was a game we could have easily won. At the final whistle, the home crowd roared as if they had won.

Indeed, it felt like we had lost.

This was as poor a performance as I can remember this season.

Juan Mata and Michael Essien turned towards us, walked a couple of steps and applauded us. They were already on our side of the pitch. My eyes were fixed on the rest, though. Only one made the effort to walk over to us. John Terry clapped us and did his trademark sweeping point to us all. Respect to him.

Contrast this to the QPR game. In that game, Chelsea had lost, but both the team and fans had given everything. All of the players had walked over to applaud us at Loftus Road. Them and us together – the way it should be. At Norwich, I guess the players knew, deep down, that they had massively underperformed. But that is – of course! – no bloody excuse for blanking the loyal three thousand who had travelled hundreds of miles to support their efforts. As we silently exited the bright yellow seats, fans muttered their disapproval of the manager.

I said to Long Tall Pete “I’m fully prepared to give him time, but he does himself no favours.”

Outside, Parky was waiting alongside Daryl.

“You and your bloody nil-nil draws, mate.”

Three out of three.

Parky, hobbling on his crutches, and I, hands stuffed in my pockets, made a bee-line for the car. However, my usually reliable logistical planning had backfired and my central parking location meant that it took us a full hour to hit the ring road. The long road home appeared never-ending. The rain lashed down and I gritted my teeth. However, I was so tired that I took a power nap of around 15 minutes at a filling station somewhere near Thetford.

Thankfully, a Red Bull – as always – revitalised me and we were on our way once more. Parky slapped on a Blondie CD and we fastened our seat belts for the return trip home. Bolton’s 3-1 win over the Scousers cheered us a little and our usual array of corny jokes and wisecracks kept us going. I will leave the introspection to others, but this game in deepest Norfolk annoyed me. The team just didn’t show any fight or passion. That, my friends, is inexcusable.

I eventually reached home at 9pm. It had been a long day.

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Tales From Chelsea, Pimlico And Brixton

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 29 October 2011.

We had heard that Reg was going to open up The Goose at 10am and so we set off early from the West of England. I picked up Parky just after 8am and headed east. Barely over 48 hours earlier, we had travelled the self-same 100 miles for the CPO meeting, unsure of the outcome and riddled with doubts about the future of the club.

We need not have worried. In a watershed day in the history of the club, a solid message was sent back to the board by the CPO shareholders.

“Don’t tread on us.”

This was going to be a long day for Parks and yours truly. In addition to the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game at 12.45pm, we were staying up in London for the Sham 69 gig in Brixton in the evening. On the drive up to town, we spoke about all sorts. As people have commented, it has been an exhausting and troublesome week for us at Chelsea.

Lots to chat about, no doubt.

However, on this busiest of days, part of my focus was elsewhere. My home town club Frome Town have been enjoying a very enjoyable season in the Evostik Southern League (formerly the Southern League, the League that Chelsea leap-frogged way back in 1905.) This season represents the highest that the Robins have ever played in the non-league pyramid. I have been to three games thus far (a great win, a dull loss and an entertaining draw) and hope to go to a few more as the campaign develops. After the game against Brackley a few weeks ago, I went out in town with Glenn and San Francisco Bob and we ended up watching a Two-Tone tribute band and for a few silly hours, I felt like Frome was the centre of the universe, not Stamford Bridge, as I spent time chatting with old school friends about the town and the team, drinking lagers, reliving some memories and feeling connected. It was a great night. It made me realise a few simple truths about the role of the club within the local community and that feeling will stay with me. I obviously feel a sense of family with Chelsea, but I sometimes let my mind wander and contemplate how lovely it must be to support a “one team town” such as Newcastle United or Portsmouth and to be a local resident of that town. I feel a strong bond to Chelsea Football Club, but not necessarily to London itself. For residents of SW6, I guess that bond to CFC is even stronger.

I saw my first ever Frome game in around 1972, some two years before my first Chelsea game. For many years – 1986 to 2009 – I don’t think I saw a single Frome game, but my interest has been rekindled recently, lured no doubt by recent successes, but I was also keen to contrast my experiences with Chelsea.

Get some perspective. Get another angle on the madness of this obsession with football.

However, not everything was rosy. Part of the deal for Frome’s promotion in May was that a new stand – including seats – has to be built by the end of March or the club, currently in seventh place, would be automatically relegated.

Now is not the time to rail against this ruling, but it does annoy me that Frome’s ground at Badgers Hill is neat and tidy, nicely appointed, safe and secure. It has a stand for around 80 seats, a covered stand holding 200 and the place can easily hold 2,000 I’d imagine. Yet the powers-that-be have enforced this absurd ruling on the club and so £20,000 needs to be raised.

The Fighting Fund currently stands at £4,500 and the pressure is now on to step up the fundraising to reach the target. There has been talk on the unofficial fans’ forum about asking the town’s most famous new resident Johnny Depp for a few thousand, but I’m not sure if that has any mileage.

Step forward my good mate Steve, a real football enthusiast, who has supported Frome Town through thick and thin since his first game in around 1974. While we were heading east to Chelsea by car, he was heading East to Frome by foot, covering the 12 miles from his home in Shepton Mallet by foot on a sponsored walk in order to raise funds. San Francisco Bob, NYB Mike and I had already pledged a substantial sum towards Steve’s walk and my target was to raise additional funds from my mates at Chelsea during the day.

As the day developed, the pledges increased and Steve updated me on his progress –

“Halfway…getting warm now…Chantry…Whatley…three miles to go…sat in the Vine Tree…100 yards to go.”

In London Town, I was parked up at 10.30am and we were soon in the Yadana Café. Breakfasts were ordered and I spoke with CSG’s Pete, Liz and Cliff – and Parky – about the last three weeks, the CPO meeting on Thursday, the way forward, the whole nine yards.

And I left the café with £12 for Steve’s walk – a great start.

Ideally, I set the target at £20 for the day, but I was off to a flyer.

We headed around the corner and entered The Goose, already busy with morning boozers. Here, the chat continued about the CPO meeting – and so did the pledges for Steve.

It was great to spend some nice time chatting with Julie and Burger for the first time since the game against West Brom. We exchanged stories about all sorts. They are now 18 months into their England adventure and the biggest compliment I can pay is that they just feel like locals. I can sense that they are desperate for their first Champions League away game. That is always a seminal moment in the life of any Chelsea fan.

In The Footsteps Of Rene Lacoste.

Burger – black.
Chris – dark blue.

As we left the pub at about 12.15pm, I can honestly say that the game against Arsenal had not been mentioned once the entire day; not in the car, the café or the pub.

Too much other stuff going on.

As for the sponsored walk, another £16 had been added to the coffers.

Ironically, Glenn’s season ticket was being used by his mate Steve Malpas, who used to play for Frome Town back in the early ‘eighties in the glory days of Bertie Allen, Colin Dredge and Steve Walkey…but I digress

As I turned the corner outside the site of the former So Bar, I heard the usual “WWYWYWS?” being uttered by a little mob of Arsenal fans as they made their way towards the away end. By the way, it seems that the knuckle-draggers amongst our support that used to frequent the So Bar have now decamped to The Imperial on the Kings Road. I very rarely used to go inside the “So”, but after hearing a few songs about Auschwitz on my last visit two years ago, I soon decided it was not the place for me.

I bought a programme, then put some money in the collecting tin being held out by two members of the armed forces and was given a poppy. On the walk to the turnstiles, I had a quick chat with CPO director Rick Glanvil. I passed on my best wishes to him and said that I hated to see him caught in the crossfire on Thursday at the CPO meeting. He is a good man and I hope he escapes unscathed.

I got to my seat just in time to capture the Pride of London flag being passed above the heads of the denizens of the MHL.

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This would be our nearest home game to Armistice Day, November 11th, and so the Chelsea Pensioners walked the teams out onto the pitch. We played with a red poppy embroidered into our royal blue shirts, always a nice touch.

I have to be honest; I had no problems with the starting eleven being selected by the manager. There are still unanswered questions about the right side of our defence (which two out of Alex, Luiz, Ivanovic and Bosingwa?), but I had to go with the manager. He alone knows how the players have trained this past week, who has injury niggles, who are best suited to the upcoming game. I surely had no problems with the midfield three of Mikel, Lampard and Ramires, nor the front three of Mata, Torres and Sturridge.

After the game against QPR last Sunday, I mentioned that it had been a crazy game.

Well, this one surely matched it.

A brief synopsis.

We began the livelier, with Ashley Cole playing in Fernando Torres in the inside-left channel, but the Boy from Fuenlabrada shot wide. Soon after, Daniel Sturridge attacked the bye-line right down in front of Parkyville, but his week right-footed cross was easily smothered by Szxcsxzscxzesny. Torres, loitering on the far post un-marked, would surely have scored had the ball reached him.

Then, Arsenal attacked at will, with Gervinho and Rip van Winkle spurning easy chances. Our defence was at sixes and sevens, or at least at twenty-sixes and seventeens. I lost count of the number of times that poor finishing or just bad luck stopped Arsenal from scoring in that first-half. However, we took the lead when the busy Mata sent over a lovely cross which Frank headed past the Arsenal ‘keeper.

We’ll take that – get in.

This was a very open game and, on 38 minutes, Arsenal equalised with another intricate passage of play which left our defenders flat-footed and embarrassed. Gervinho – he of the most ridiculous hairstyle ever – squared for Rip van Winkle to score past Cech. The Arsenal fans erupted.

Yet again, the away fans were out singing the 38,000 home fans and I’m only going to say one thing, damning though it is; this game was no different to any other.

Lo and behold, an in-swinging corner just before the break was deftly flicked home by The Captain and he reeled away in front of the away section, no doubt enjoying the moment.

2-1 at the break, riding our luck, but contented.

I popped out to the concourse to have a quick chat with San Francisco Pete, fresh from his Berlin marathon, and it made a change for us not to be moaning at the break.

The second-half was a horror show.

Arsenal equalised on 47 minutes just as I found myself putting my programme away; I only saw the shot from Santos fly past Cech.

Then the game’s pivotal moment. A break down below me involving Ramires and his path was blocked by a terrible challenge by their ‘keeper. It was obvious that the ‘keeper was not the last man, with two or three Arsenal defenders racing back to cover, but I honestly thought that the recklessness of the challenge warranted a red by itself.

Andre Marriner issued a yellow and we yelled our abuse.

That Frank’s fine effort from the resulting free-kick was superbly saved by Szxcsxzscxzesny just rubbed it in further.

Then, Arsenal went ahead with a goal from Walcott.

3-2 to the visitors and their fans celebrated wildly. Why do my eyes always get drawn to the away section in such circumstances? I hate that.

AVB made some substitutions and the game remained open. For 25 minutes, we chased the game, but without much pattern. Then, substitute Meireles chased down a loose ball and found Mata, who unleashed a dipping and swerving blast from 30 yards. While everyone around was wildly celebrating this amazing counterpunch, I was very impressed with the way that our new Spanish talisman shrugged off his advancing team mates and raced back to the halfway line for the re-start.

That said a lot to me. We unearthed a good’un, there.

Then, the screw turned further and JT slipped from a half-hearted Malouda back-pass on the halfway line. Van Persie raced away and netted past Cech.

Then, further ignominy as van Persie flashed a cracker past Cech from an angle and we groaned a thousand groans.

5-3.

Good grief.

I quickly dipped into my memory bank of past Chelsea games and tried to remember the last time we had conceded five in a league game. It was way back in the autumn of 1996 and a 5-1 loss at Anfield. Yes, over 16 years ago…we’ve been pretty lucky to be honest. It just goes to show how consistent Chelsea have fared over the most recent seasons. And the last time we conceded five at home in the league? Even further ago…Liverpool again, on my Dad’s birthday in December 1989.

Twenty-two years ago.

I think other teams would envy that record.

Ask Manchester United. They conceded six at home last weekend.

That, of course, does not mean that this loss to a resurgent Arsenal didn’t hurt.

It did.

Oh boy it did.

I sat, slumped, in my seat for ages at the end of the game and it made me ill to see the Arsenal fans, all three thousand of them, staying in the away section long after the home fans had left, bouncing like fools.

And yet – we had won 4-1 and 3-0 at the Emirates in recent years and those were the best of days. If we play football in the top flight, there will always be occasional thumpings. As the above comments prove, we have avoided these like no other team in the top flight in recent years. And so, this craziest of seasons continues on with yet another wild scoreline.

Manchester United 8 Arsenal 2, Manchester United 1 Manchester City 6, Chelsea 3 Arsenal 5.

We had best be wary of Manchester City…they beat United, who beat Arsenal, who beat us.

Oh boy.

After the game, we arranged to meet up at the Lillee Langtry, under the shadow of the Empress State Building and Earls Court Two at West Brompton. I walked along the infamous Seagrave Road, the road mentioned repeatedly by Bruce Buck on Thursday as the debate about walkways and bridges to the north of The Bridge grew hotter and hotter.

I had to admit to myself, the distance between Stamford Bridge and Earls Court would not be far. It would be almost as close as Highbury and their new stadium.

Still the CPO proposal dominated my thoughts and I sighed once more.

We reached the pub at 3pm and had a quick post-mortem. It wasn’t pleasant. Simon’s son Milo was especially subdued. This had been his heaviest home defeat in his 15 years. The fact that he lives in deepest Arsenal territory made his gloominess all the more relevant. He was dreading school on Monday.

Burger and Julie, then Andy Wray and Daz arrived. Within about twenty minutes, we had moved on past the depressing events we had just witnessed. Andy, always fearing the worst of the weather in England, was wrapped up for the cold with a heavy jacket, gloves, scarf, balaclava, snow goggles and wellington boots.

I thought he was slightly overdressed to be honest.

And still the pledges for Steve’s walk came in thick and fast.

It ended up at £50. A great effort.

I spoke to Steve on the phone – Frome had drawn 1-1 – and he was very pleased with the support from SW6.

While Andy and Parky spoke about the clothing requirements for his next visit in November, Daz and I rabbitted for ages about the CPO meeting and the fallout from it. We spoke of the way forward. We both reflected on one of the closing statements uttered by Bruce Buck on Thursday, once we had asked him what the board’s next move would be.

“Well, we’ll go back and talk to Roman…”

…and Daz and I both shouted

“NO…TALK TO US!”

In a nutshell, that demonstrates the gulf that exists between the interested parties.

Oh boy.

Time was moving on. I heard Parky talking to Andy about bearskins for the Liverpool game, but we had to leave. We bode fond farewells and headed on.

We walked to Earls Court tube, then headed down to Pimlico. Back in the early to mid ‘seventies, Parky was in the army and was stationed at Pimlico Barracks for a few years, luckily no more than two miles from Stamford Bridge. He gave me a great little tour of his old stomping ground and we stopped off at his old local, The Morpeth Arms, on the banks of the Thames. It was a superb, cosy pub. I enjoyed hearing his tales from his youth and we knocked back a Peroni apiece.

From there, we caught the Victoria Line to Brixton, south of the river.

Brixton is Brooklyn to the Manhattan of Kensington and Chelsea. It certainly felt odd to be south of the river.

However, we thoroughly enjoyed the concert at Brixton Electric, formerly The Fridge, and we saw three bands…The Skets, Control and Sham 69.

I was into the punk movement in my early teens and Sham’s “Tell Us The Truth” album was the very first LP I bought, way back in 1978.

Well, they didn’t disappoint. Parky and I loved it. Jimmy Pursey, the gregarious front man, was mesmerizing and had the crowd in his hands. We bumped into two other Chelsea fans during the evening and I am sure there were many more. Sham were always firm favourites in The Shed.

The gig finished at 10.15pm and we slowly made our way back to the car. By this time, the chats in the Lillee, the visit to Pimlico and the concert in Brixton had helped dissolve the stern memory of the football.

In fact, despite those five goals, it had been a fantastic day.

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Tales From The Tourist Trail

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Chelsea vs. Genk : 19 October 2011.

The game with Genk seemed to develop a split personality throughout the evening; all well on the pitch, but far from well off it.

Parky and I left Chippenham at 4pm and we endured a crazy mix of weather as I drove eastwards towards London. There were gloomy clouds and then rain one minute, but blue skies and autumnal sun the next, with an iridescent rainbow near Swindon thrown in for good measure. Traffic slowed around Heathrow and it meant that we weren’t parked-up until 6.45pm.

After all of the emotion of the CPO issues of recent weeks, the focus was now on the size of the crowd for our Champions League game with the Belgians. As I walked into The Goose, I was surprised how few people were inside. It was even quieter than for the Leverkusen game a few weeks back. Over by the bar, there was a smaller-than-usual assortment of my usual mates amongst the pub regulars. We briefly spoke about our predictions for the size of the crowd, bearing in mind the much-discussed boycott which my friend Rob had initiated around a month ago. Although I understood Rob’s reasoning for the boycott (at very least, it made the club aware of a level of discontent amongst the rank and file about a 33% increase on last season), I could not turn my back on this game. The reasons for this are varied, but I have to admit that one of the foremost reasons was that I wanted to maintain my eight year long run of consecutive home games.

And by a typical quirk of fate, the game against Genk would be my 200th. I simply couldn’t stop on game 199, could I?

To be fair, I spoke to Rob on Saturday about the boycott and everything was OK between us. The club, to be fair to Rob, had been forced into action by the negative publicity about the boycott and we had heard firm rumours that several thousand free tickets had been handed out to anybody with the vaguest of links to any of Chelsea’s academy teams. Call me cynical, but I was sure that the West Lower, opposite the TV cameras, would be full. The club’s inability to sell out clearly added more points to the ongoing discussions about a new stadium, too. Talk between a few of us by the bar were off all these “off-field” matters and the upcoming game was simply not discussed at all, save for confirmation that Genk had brought over a full three thousand.

A few fans from Bristol, a city which is 20 miles from my home, were in the pub and I happened to bump into one of them, Tim, at the Stiff Little Fingers gig which I saw in Bath on Monday.

What a small world we live in, eh? Even on a “night off”, Chelsea still manages to enter my life.

It was a great gig and the two of us reminisced about Monday and previous SLF gigs, going back to 1982, when I saw the band in Bristol for the first time.

There was only time for a Coke and I was then on my way. The evening air was surprisingly cold but I was well-wrapped up. As I joined the match-going crowd at Fulham Broadway, the numbers grew. I bought a match programme and made my way towards the turnstiles for the MHU. All around me were the voices of Londoners and tourists alike.

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“The Liquidator” was playing on the PA as I made my way to my seat. I quickly scanned to see how many were in the ground. Less empty seats in The Shed than against Leverkusen, but swathes of blue seats were visible in the top corners of the East Upper.

I was sat by myself for this game. Alan, for a change, was over in the East Lower. Gary was ten seats away and there were a few familiar faces dotted around in their usual seats, but it was plainly obvious that many tourists were close by. Throughout the evening, I spotted many of them taking cheesy photographs of each other, posing with those half-and-half scarves and also the blue-and-white flags which had been placed on every third or fourth seat.

Typically, I was concentrating on the size and make-up of the crowd and only really concentrated on the team just before the game kicked-off.

No JT, no Mata, no bother.

Torres was in – good news.

After Copenhagen last season, Genk were the latest team to show up at Chelsea in a deep pink away kit. It seems to me that pink is the current flavour of the month in alternate club colours. In club rugby, too, not that rugby should really affect anything that goes on in football. About ten years ago, every team seemed to have a black away kit all of a sudden. Don’t bet against the loons at Adidas kitting us out in cerise or fuchsia by 2015.

What a fantastic first-half of flowing football.

On just 6 minutes, Fernando Torres narrowly beat the Genk offside trap and steadied himself before deftly poking the ball past the ‘keeper. In a moment which was all-too-reminiscent of last season, the ball touched the left-hand post and bounced away. Just after, the ball found the recalled Raul Meireles some thirty yards out. With no Genk defender closing him down, he advanced a few yards and despatched a thunderbolt into the goal. The ‘keeper must have been unsighted because he hardly moved a muscle as the ball flew past him.

After the celebrations had subsided, the young Chelsea supporter to my right tore up his betting slip as he had nominated Torres as the first goal scorer.

Soon into the game, I couldn’t help but notice that the 3,000 away fans were singing in English and, after a few repeats of the same ditty, it dawned on me that they were singing –

“We all agree – Chelsea supporters are w@nkers.”

The lack of a response from anyone in the Stamford Bridge crowd made me wonder if they were, at least in part, quite correct. Yet again, our once vociferous home support went missing for virtually all of the game. At least the Chelsea players were causing me no grief.

On 11 minutes, the ball was played to Frank Lampard and I spotted Torres twitching on the shoulder of the last man.

“Play him in” I bellowed…Frank must have heard me as his slide-rule pass allowed Torres to advance a few yards and stroke the ball into the net. This was the quintessential New Chelsea Goal and it was a joy to witness it. Torres wheeled away down to “Celebration Corner” and was joined by his team mates.

Lovely stuff.

Torres’ movement was magnificent in the first quarter, in fact. He was buzzing.

Despite being two goals down after only a few minutes, the away fans were – as is so typical – making all of the noise. They did their version of The Bouncy but it was very noticeable that the central section of the away fans in the upper tier of The Shed were not joining in. Down below in the lower tier, one thousand Belgians were jumping like loons and a same amount in the flanks of the upper tier, too. I guessed that the more reserved folk in the central area were the Genk equivalent of Chelsea’s Exec Club…and I wondered if letters of complaint from Mrs. Vandenblink, Miss de Vries and Mr. de Wooters were going to be addressed to the Genk club about the “noisy and boisterous” behaviour of the other fans in that section.

On 27 minutes, a magnificent glancing header from Fernando Torres past the luckless Genk custodian made it 3-0. Torres was on fire and we were loving it.

I was tempted to send a text to the few Liverpool fans I know saying “thanks for the goals” but thought better of it.

On 32 minutes, a lovely flowing move from our defence eventually found Torres in the inside-right channel. With the merest of glances, he sent over a beautiful cross with the outside of his right foot towards a leaping Frank Lampard. Unfortunately, his jump at the near post resulted in a header which flew past the post.

That would have been a goal for the ages.

The Genk fans then became the latest away fans to turn in a rendition of Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough”, with requisite bouncing.

Another flowing move soon followed, involving Torres, Lampard and Nicolas Anelka but Nico shot wide. Just before the break, on 42 minutes, we had a free-kick on the right and Malouda’s inch-perfect cross found the head of Ivanovic and his emphatic downward header made it 4-0.

Wow.

What a lovely way to celebrate my 200th consecutive home game (and incidentally my 850th. Chelsea game too.) I had crazy thoughts of equalling and, perhaps, surpassing the 8-0 against Wigan Athletic in 2010. No thoughts of Jeunesse Hautcharage, though…not yet, anyway. However, despite some lovely football on show, the stadium was almost devoid of sound in the home areas. It certainly seemed to me that the large proportion of tourists in The Bridge had a negative effect on the atmosphere. I tried to equate the increase in the price for a Champions League game from £30 last season to £40 this season to this reduction in the noise levels. I’m not sure if I came to any definite conclusions. However, by simply pricing out – say – 5,000 of our more established and vociferous working class fans and simply replacing them with 5,000 tourists or new fans (unaware of the Chelsea subculture) surely has to have an effect. And this is where we are as a club. The club is happy for this dilution of our traditional support and, it could be argued, possibly even encourages it. More tourists equal more Megastore sales. More match day revenue. Ker-ching.

Meanwhile, thousands of our out-priced fans were watching at home on the TV.

And there has to be a distinction here between overseas Chelsea supporters and just tourists. The former understand the rituals and the culture of watching our club and add to the match day experience by involving themselves in it. The latter happen to find themselves in central London on a holiday and visit Stamford Bridge out of curiosity or on a whim. It is unlikely that they add to the Chelsea experience. There were two Spanish lads to my left – nice enough lads, pleased to be at the game – but they were probably Real Madrid, Espanyol or Real Betis fans. They didn’t sing, nor clap, nor shout. And I guess there were hundreds like them dotted around the stadium.

A trim Paul Elliott was escorted around the pitch by Neil Barnett at the break and “Jamaica” was given a wonderful reception, and even the away fans applauded him. A nice touch.

The second-half, unfortunately, didn’t quite reach the peaks of entertainment as the first-half, despite some luscious play at times from a free-spirited Luiz and the re-born Torres. On 56 minutes, the move of the match began right on our goal-line in front of the away fans with Bosingwa winning a tackle. The ball was then played out through the midfield and Malouda raced clear only for his shot to be smothered by their ‘keeper.

Still the away fans swayed, bounced and sang.

Next up was a song, in Belgian for a change, based on Boney M’s “Rivers Of Babylon.”

As the night progressed, I continued to take photographs of the game, though I am noting that I am finding myself taking more and more abstract photos…of corner flags, of press photographers, of shadows, of angles, of moonlit shapes on the stand roofs, of small details.

On 58 minutes, a Lampard penalty shout was waved away and memories of Tom Henning Ovrebro momentarily returned. AVB replaced Lampard with Kalou on 67 minutes and I’m afraid a few negative comments were aired. I hoped he would silence the critics and he had a few stereotypical aggressive runs at the right-back. On 71 minutes, Jose Bosingwa was out wide and I shouted “go on – attack the near post, Torres” and I watched as the right-back rifled in a low cross towards Nando. His shot was blocked, but the oft-maligned Kalou was on hand to prod the ball home.

5-0.

Job done.

The away fans then sang “Always Look On the Bright Side Of Life” and this garnered a few claps from the Chelsea fans who were still breathing. In fact, the most ironic moment came towards the end when the away fans had the temerity to hold their blue and white scarves aloft and sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” This caused a noisy round of booing from the home areas and was possibly the loudest the Chelsea fans had been all night.

As I made my way out of the seats, I brushed past CPO director – and club historian – Rick Glanvill, who was in conversation with leading SayNoCPO campaigner Tim Rolls. We exchanged pleasantries and there was an awkward moment when I think both of us wanted to utter a few words on the CPO proposal, but we let the moment pass. Rick is a good man and I think the whole proposal must be weighing heavy on his mind.

Out in the cold Fulham streets, the Chelsea fans quickly dispersed and I was at least thankful for the reduction in match day traffic. I pulled away from my parking space bang on 10pm just as Henry Winter was commenting on our match on Radio Five Live. He was full of praise of our current form and mentioned that “under Villas-Boas, there is no background noise…Chelsea just get it done.”

Music to my ears.

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Tales From Stamford Bridge

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Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 October 2011.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep.

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

Nah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he was finding the cold, bless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories, memories.

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

Fantastic stuff.

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

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

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

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

“THIS IS OUR HOME.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hugs and backslaps.

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

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

Simon and I spoke about the lack of atmosphere.

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

Instead, it was like a morgue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good stuff.

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

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

Superb.

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

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

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Tales From The Fortress

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 30 November 2008.

Fortess Stamford Bridge – yeah, big joke, eh?

I’ll try to keep things nice and concise for this report, but will be referring back to 1983 at least once, and to Friday a few times too.

Fasten your seat belts – it’s gonna be a rough ride.

A late start from Frome, where we had sleet and snow as we departed at 10am. I had watched the highlights of Saturday’s games on “Match Of The Day” and rarely had the weather at all of the games been so bad. The poor souls at Sunderland looked frozen. As we teared past Stonehenge, I did wonder what weather the Gods would throw at us again. I’m fed up with all of this football in the rain. Sad to report that Dave and PD aren’t getting much work still – this, along with the utterly depressing performance from the boys on Wednesday, gave the trip up to London a bleak feel. Even six hours before kick-off, we were all fearing the worst.

Anyway, into the café on the Lillee Road and a gorgeous fry-up again. Now then, the first reference to Friday. For the first time in my life, I attended an official Chelsea Football Club function – the 2008 CPO Luncheon at the Hilton, Park Lane…Beth always goes and she coerced me into going this year. We met up at Stamford Bridge at 9.15am and – until we departed our separate ways at 11pm – had a fantastic time. I won’t mention every minute detail, but my mate Glenn, from Frome, was a big Marcel Desailly fan ( he favours Milan, too – the poor misguided soul ) and so I presented Glenn with a signed “Desailly 6” photograph I had for him. He was well chuffed.

Into “The Goose” at 12.45pm and a few pints of lager. Some of you will remember that we bumped into Pat Nevin, amongst others, in Moscow…well, I knew that Wee Pat would be at the CPO Lunch and so I got him to personally sign two 8 by 10 photos of Pat with both Alan and Daryl. This was a surprise for my two mates, so they were pleased too. I must have around ten to fifteen close Chelsea mates, but I would describe Alan, Daryl and myself as the Inner Circle…between the three of us, all the important decisions are made!

To be fair, the mood in the boozer was quite subdued. The Bordeaux game was the topic of conversation. I guess any team is only as good as their last performance and ours was flat and lifeless. So – lots to groan and moan about. Daryl voiced the opinion that getting Eidur back from Barca wouldn’t be a bad move come January…a fine idea. Rob arrived and was full of chat about France…he had met up with Alan and Gary out there. After a shedful of beers one night, they found themselves drinking the almond liquor amoretti.

After six of these, Rob was leading the singing of “Chelsea Amoretti.”

The pub got busier and busier. I was wary I had to meet Beth at some stage…I owed her some money, £20 of which was for a bet I had lost with her. I had bet her that she would show at least one former Chelsea player at the lunch on Friday her new silver CFC belly button ring. The plan didn’t work and, despite a plan I had hatched with Clive Walker, Beth won her bet. Beth was doing a mini pub crawl by the sounds of it and I eventually met up with her in La Reserve, where she was enjoying a quiet drink with Mark Coden ( if that is possible…)

Into the ground nice and early for once, thus avoiding problems at the turnstiles.

Arsenal had the usual 3,000, but only two flags…a poor show. One of them was quite simple and effective – The Arsenal – but I knew this would wind Alan up as he hates the way Arsenal are sometimes referred to in this manner, like as if they are The Bank Of England or The Royal Family or something. For virtually all of their history Arsenal Football Club have hosted some of the most pragmatic and boring football teams to come out of these Isles…only since Wenger took over, in 1996, has the more expansive style of football been evident. Tell that to the JCL Gooners in America…they were called Lucky Arsenal in the thirties because they only did “enough” to win, nothing more…1-0 To The Arsenal is about right. The football Arsenal played in my childhood and youth was dire, with Liam Brady a rare entertainer.

A nice atmosphere to start – this is more like it…the extra hour in the various bars and pubs that surround Stamford Bridge on match days seemed to have a nice effect. In between Chelsea attacks, I spoke to Alan about some of the events on Friday…the highlights were nice chats with Paul Canoville, Bobby Tambling, Ken Shellito, Ken Monkou, Colin Pates and Tommy Hughes. I think I worked out I managed to say a few words to 19 of the 63 former players present. I batted .332 – pleased with that!

I thought we were fine in the first half and played the nicer stuff. After a barrage of abuse at the start, Gallas got away quite lightly really. However, it was so funny when there seemed to be a bizarre reaction when Bosingwa’s fine cross was put into his own net by Djourou – it seemed that the whole ground thought that Gallas had scored. There were almost boos when we heard that #20 and not #10 had scored! Hilarious. Even more hilarious was Alan’s off the cuff comment…”when it comes to crosses, I’m like a midget nymphomaniac…I like them low and hard.”

To me, the formation resembled 4-4-2, rather than 4-4-3, with Deco very withdrawn and Kalou quite central. What did anyone else think? Although we were playing some reasonable football, I was concerned that the Chelsea players weren’t getting very close to the Arsenal midfielders. Thought Fabregas was being given too much respect. Why not man mark him? He was always going to be their main threat.

At half-time, I noted in the programme that Chelsea have recently tied up a deal with Los Angeles Futbol Club in which training programmes will be set up with Chelsea, plus coach-exchanges. They will be known as LAFC Chelsea. They play in Simi Valley. Anybody heard of this club before?

Of course, we all know what happened after the break. We did let Arsenal have a bit more of the ball, but at 1-0 I still didn’t see a real threat from them. The first goal did look a bit close to being offside from my position – admittedly many yards away – and this was borne out on TV. The calls went against us, no doubt. But we threw the game away in three crazy minutes. I was standing the entire time – evidence I wasn’t happy.

Too many players had poor games – Deco especially, but nobody came out with too much credit. However, fair’s fair – again thought Ivanovic played well. A solid performance from the man with the 1980 haircut. We had a good viewpoint of Terry’s awful two-footed challenge which should have resulted in a red. He’s having a patchy spell right now, no doubts.

At this point, I go back to Friday night – and also 1983-84 again. I had a lovely few words with Colin Pates, the captain of that fabled team and I made the point to him that in those days the fans weren’t experts on formations or playing systems – we just had ten pints in the pub beforehand and sung our hearts out. Colin laughed and agreed that there really wasn’t too many tactics in those days. A far more simple era really, though we didn’t realise it at the time. Players played – supporters supported. Easy.

Now then – excuse me while I get on my soap-box here. I have often lamented – at length – the decreasing levels of our home support of late. At times, I get so frustrated with the lack of effort, I honestly feel like only going to away games. With Chelsea 2-1 down to Arsenal ( Arsenal FFS! ), not only did our team not react in the right way, the home support simply did nothing. It’s like my car at the moment – the turbo is broken – and we just couldn’t get that extra boost…I was putting my foot to the floor, but not getting a response. My mate Daryl has commented to me today that we all thought that the Carling Cup Final in February was a low point, but yesterday was just as bad.

It grieves me like you can not imagine.

I noted the three lads – in their forties, been going for years, been sat behind them since 1997, but they rarely sing – just sat, arms crossed, not even talking, let alone singing and clapping. I leaned forward and said –

“Is there any chance you lads can start putting your hands together and supporting this team of ours?”

Albert turned around, annoyed with me, claiming he does support the club.

“Yeah, whatever mate, whatever.”

Of course, I felt bad about it on the drive home, but please tell me – who is right?

Managers manage. Players play. Supporters support.

We support – we don’t spectate.

Of course, things got very frustrating and Deco became the poster boy for the hate and derision raining down from the stands around me. I have a rule here – and I try my hardest to keep to it. When a player miss-hits a pass, or skies a shot, I try my damned hardest to say nothing, to stay silent. Not the fans around me – in the last horrible twenty minutes, with the noise getting louder and louder with every poor pass, I had to wonder what was going through the collective minds of those around me. If they truly love the club, why the hate towards certain players. One guy behind me was truly venomous. It made me feel sick.

On one occasion, JT lofted a lovely pass into the pass of Ash down below me and not one clap…not one. These people make more noise when players play badly than when we play well.

Can someone please explain that to me? I just think us Chelsea fans have been spoilt rotten and as soon as a defeat is on the cards, suddenly implode. We can’t cope. We blame referees. We blame the coach. We pick on players. We behave like petulant kids.

Not my Chelsea.

Back in 1983-84, my fourth game of the season was a horrible 1-0 defeat a home to Manchester City…twenty five years ago on Wednesday.

In 1983-84, I was gutted we lost. In 2008-2009 I am gutted we have lost our support.

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