Tales From The Front Row

Chelsea vs. Derby County : 31 October 2018.

A Frank Fest.

During the day, I mentioned to a work colleague – fellow Chelsea fan Paul, who came up with us for the Huddersfield Town game last season – that I didn’t want the return to Stamford Bridge of Frank Lampard to dominate things too greatly throughout the evening’s game with Derby County. In 2017, Frank appeared at half-time against Swansea City, and everything on that day was nigh-on perfect. Tons of affection for Frank, flags in honour of him, and feelings between player and fans reciprocated nicely. He took the microphone, and his words were of love and appreciation. So, we have already experienced a “Frank Lampard Day” at Stamford Bridge, and I wasn’t too keen on things getting awkwardly out of control during the upcoming game. Frank was returning as a former hero, but as also a rival. The League Cup is not high on my list of priorities each season, but here was another game we needed to win. I had visions of it all going a bit OTT.

I said to Paul :

“We need to get behind our team. We need to win the game.”

But I knew how these things develop these days. I was sure that there would be songs for Frank Lampard throughout the game.

The Gang Of Five.

The Chuckle Bus was at capacity on the drive to London; PD, Sir Les, Lord Parky, Glenn and I were crammed inside as PD took over driving duties once again. There was the usual heavy traffic and we were not parked until around 6.30pm. There would only be time for a couple of liveners in “Simmons Bar” down at the bottom end of the North End Road, which was unsurprisingly busy, before the game. Of the five of us, only Glenn seemed super-excited about the evening’s match. Not that I was underwhelmed. Just not bitten by the same bug as Glenn. If anything, I was more excited about being able to watch the game from a slightly different perspective. As Derby County – some four thousand strong – had been given most of The Shed, Parky was bounced over to the West Lower. In a secret pact, the two of us had agreed to swap seats. I would be in row two of the West Lower, while he would be watching from my usual seat in row four of the Matthew Harding Upper. We decided to keep it a secret from Alan, PD and Glenn. In the bar, it was lovely to meet up with King Jim, among others, at a game again. Jim comes to the occasional match these days and it is always a pleasure to see him. There were people everywhere as I walked quickly towards Stamford Bridge. This was yet another full house at Stamford Bridge. Good efforts everyone.

Flags And Banners.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, the image of Frank Lampard on a banner – the same one as against Swansea City in 2017 – dominated the Matthew Harding to my left. It hung from the balcony, flanked by two other banners, although not all together at the same time.

“GOAL AFTER GOAL, GAME AFTER GAME” and “FOREVER A BLUE, FOREVER A LEGEND.”

And a legend he most certainly is. Our greatest ever player? Probably.

One Of Our Own.

Late on Tuesday night, just as I was finishing off my match report of the Burnley game, I heard through a Chelsea mate of mine that our former Chelsea player, youth team coach and manager Ken Shellito had sadly passed away. Ken had been a Facebook friend of mine for quite a few years, and although we rarely interacted, Ken seemed like a thoroughly decent man, and Chelsea through-and-through. I met him – very briefly – on two occasions. The first time was in 2008 after a CPO event in London when my friend Beth, from Texas – everyone knows Beth – and I enjoyed a few boozy hours in the company of some former players in a cosy boozer after the main event. Ken seemed overwhelmed by the attention and love that other fellow fans were showing him. He seemed humble and courteous. I only spoke to him for a few moments. I later saw him – maybe three years ago – in the Chelsea hotel before a game. Again, our meeting was fleeting. It is often said that had Ken Shellito not suffered a career-ending knee injury in the early ‘sixties, he would have been remembered as an England World Cup winner in 1966. Commentators from that era say his presence would have been assured. He was that good. In the end, he played just one game for England.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, I was aware of his presence at Chelsea as the youth team manager during our barren and financially-weakened years of 1975 to 1977. After Eddie McCreadie left our club before the start of the 1977/78 season – we were all mortified – the club turned to Ken Shellito to manage the team. Even though I was only twelve, I remember thinking that following McCreadie would be a tough act to follow. But our Ken did a reasonable job in his first season as we returned to the top flight for the first time since 1975. Pride of place were the two home victories against reigning English and European champions Liverpool. Everyone talks about the 4-2 FA Cup win in January, but just as impressive was the 3-1 league win in March, a game that I attended, and which fulfilled all my fantasies about Chelsea as unfancied underdog overcoming all of the odds. It was only my twelfth Chelsea game, but one which I wondered would ever be surpassed in terms of excitement and joy. I need not have worried, eh? In the following season, we suffered from the off and the club decided to sack Ken Shellito around the Christmas period. His Chelsea career was over. He spent many of the latter years in Malaysia with his wife Jeanie and young daughter. Until the end, he ran a training camp which I believe had links with Chelsea Football Club.

After the teams entered the pitch, and after there was a mention of Glenn Hoddle and his recent hospitalisation, and then the tragedy in Leicester involving the City chairman Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, the players formed in the centre circle as an image of Ken Shellito was flashed up on the TV screens and we applauded the memory of both. It had been a horrid few days for us all.

I clapped heartily.

I knew him and yet I did not know him, but another loyal Chelsea servant and supporter has sadly passed.

Ken Shellito RIP.

The Team.

Manager Maurizio Sarri had unsurprisingly changed the Chelsea team for the visit of Derby County. In came a few squad players. Willy Caballero in goal. A back four of Davide Zappacosta, Andreas Christensen Gary Cahill and Emerson. A midfield three of Cesc Fabregas, N’Golo Kante and Mateo Kovacic. Up front were Willian, Alvaro Morata and Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

The Lowdown.

This was only my fourth game in the West Lower since its birth in 1997 and eventual completion in 2001. There had been previously been games against Coventry City in 2000, Leeds United in 2004 and Fulham in 2011. I was officially in row two, but the rows were staggered a little and I was effectively sat in the front row. I was as low down as I could possibly be. The view was far from great to be honest. It was lovely to see some players up close – in the first-half, Zappacosta, Loftus-Cheek and Kante especially – but I generally found it hard to concentrate as my perspective was so awful. Apart from a small wedge of around eight-hundred Chelsea fans in the south-east corner, where the away support is usually based, Derby had the entire end. In front of the Chelsea support, was a banner honouring Frank’s assistant.

“JODY MORRIS – CHELSEA THROUGH AND THROUGH.”

Jody’s story is pretty incredible. I remember seeing his debut in the 5-0 rout of Middlesbrough in 1996. He was quite a wild child in his youth. Who would ever have thought that he would develop into a respected coach? Certainly not me.

Soon into the game, a familiar face steadied herself, aided by a steward, and sat down in the front row a few seats away.

“Hiya Felicity.”

She looked fleetingly at me, but there was no reaction. She watched the entire game in silence, alone in her own world. Felicity used to watch the lads train at Harlington. She used to bring them cakes. I saw her, briefly, last season at a game and I was surprised to see that she still attends matches. I am sure she has some form of dementia, bless her, but it was a lift for me to see her still attending games, bedecked in her Chelsea coat.

I thought to myself : “Felicity. Chelsea through and through.”

Rammed.

The Shed was going to be the epicentre of any noise during the game. Derby had come in numbers. Four thousand? It seemed more like five thousand. They were making a din right from the start.

Derby have their own version of “the bouncy.”

“If you don’t fuckin’ bounce. If you don’t fuckin’ bounce you’re a red.”

They had one for Frank.

“Frankie Lampard is a ram. He hates Forest.”

And then one for us.

“Football in a library, tra la la la la.”

Déjà vu.

Here are some observations from our League Cup tie with Fulham in September 2011, which we narrowly won on penalties, and when I was also seated in the same section of Stamford Bridge.

“My seat was in row 6, all of the way down towards the Fulham fans in The Shed. I looked around and saw hundreds of unfamiliar faces. I heard a few foreign accents. I took a few photos of The Bridge from this new angle. I sat myself down – not much legroom – and prepared myself for a mind-numbingly quiet evening. It’s another cliché that the West Lower is one of more reserved parts of The Bridge. By the time of the kick-off at 7.45pm, the 3,500 away fans had all arrived and were singing their hearts out. The rest of the place took some time to fill up, but I was very pleasantly surprised to see few empty seats.”

“The Fulham fans were getting behind their team, singing a whole host of songs, some of which I had never heard before. In comparison, the West Stand was silent and the MHU barely murmured.”

“A few chances for both sides, but from my angle, I was struggling to make sense of the shape of the play.”

“If I am honest, I wasn’t enjoying the game. The Fulham fans were making too much noise and I was getting rather frustrated with the lack of support from the Chelsea fans around me. In the West lower, many couples weren’t even talking to each other, let alone getting behind the team via songs of encouragement. Despite the songs of derision cascading down on us from the away fans, I couldn’t bring myself to truly despise them, unlike the supporters of other teams. I tried to put myself in their shoes. It reminded me of life as a Chelsea fan in my youth, railing against the bigger teams, forever the underdog. Forever the underachiever.”

“The referee blew his whistle to end the 90 minutes and I inwardly groaned. I had been in purgatory for the whole game – surrounded by predominantly silent fans – and I was only able to yell out a few shouts of support on a few occasions throughout the duration.”

In 2018, seven years later, I experienced a lot of these same feelings.

The First-Half.

After only five minutes, I was able to watch at close-hand as Ruben Loftus-Cheek played the ball to Davide Zappacosta. His low cross was comically turned into his own net by Chelsea loanee Fikayo Tomori. As easy as that we were 1-0 up. We were all over Derby County in the first part of the game.

It was deathly quiet in the West Lower. To my right, the Derby fans mocked us.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Within five minutes, however, Derby had equalised. The lump that is Tom Huddlestone played the ball out to Jack Marriott and it looked to me like the angle was too acute. Imagine my surprise when he calmly slotted the ball past Caballero. The away fans bounced.

Martin Waghorn, a solid rock of a striker, fluffed his lines when through on goal, seemingly tripping over the ball and wasting a golden opportunity.

On twenty minutes, as a move developed, I held my camera to my eyes and snapped a rather blurry photograph – certainly not worth sharing – of Zappacosta as he blasted across the goal. I looked up to see that the ball had ended up in the net. Another Derby OG, this time from their skipper Richard Keogh.

I took a few photos as Ruben wiggled his way towards goal, moving the ball nicely, but his shot was wide. Willian then blasted over.

Soon after, just before the halfway mark, Mason Mount played a perfect ball across the six-yard box. Caballero was not close to it. Waghorn poked it home easily.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

The away fans bounced again, and then aimed another dig our way.

“Shall we score a goal for you?”

I lost count of the number of times that Zappacosta, in acres of space, pleaded with his arms wide open to receive the ball from Christensen or Cahill. Often he was ignored. He is a basic player really, but he was again involved on forty minutes as he found himself inside the Derby box. Eventually the ball spun loose, and Cesc Fabregas was on hand to smash the ball in at Scott Carson’s near post.

Bloody hell, 3-2.

The highlight of the rest of the half was the magnificent way that Willian brought a high ball down with the subtlest of touches. It reminded me of Zola doing the same thing at Anfield in around 2003, when the Scousers in the Centenary Stand applauded him.

Banners.

At half-time, I checked out a few of the banners that I would not normally get a chance to see from my usual position in The Sleepy Hollow. I love the old “547 SW6” flag which pays homage to the old – and much-missed – HQ of the original Chelsea Supporters Club at 547 Fulham Road, which I used to frequent before home games until the mid-eighties. I still see one of the chaps who used to serve inside – Peter Kemp – at many away games, although we have never spoken. He is another who the “through and through” phrase could easily be applied. Behind and above me were banners from everywhere.

Adelaide, Vancouver, Devon & Somerset, York, Perth Western Australia, East Belfast, Bermuda, Slovenia.

Just in front of The Sleepy Hollow, a banner which has recently been added.

“ONE93 KERRY DIXON.”

Not So Super.

Five minutes into the second period, came our noisiest chant of the game thus far.

“Super, super Frank. Super, super Frank. Super, super Frank. Super Frankie Lampard.”

The noise roared down from the Matthew Harding. Frank, obviously, turned and applauded. But he then signalled “enough, support them on the pitch.”

I agreed with Frank. It annoys myself and quite a few others how a sizeable section of the Chelsea support wastes no time at all – every bloody match – in singing about Frankie Lampard scoring against West Ham, Dennis Wise scoring against Milan and Demba Ba scoring against Liverpool. And yet there are few raucous songs in support of players actually playing.

And yet I thought back to September 2014 when we watched in horror as Frank Lampard played as a substitute for Manchester City against as at The Etihad. I cannot lie. I can’t hide the truth. I can’t hide from the sense of hypocrisy I felt. I did sing his name that day. We had, though, not been able to give him a proper send-off at the end of the previous campaign. His last game in Chelsea colours was the insipid 0-0 with Norwich City when he was substituted by Jose Mourinho at half-time. It was as an inglorious end to a Chelsea career as I have ever seen, certainly not befitting one of our all-time greats. He did not appear in the final game away to Cardiff City. So, in my defence, I think there were extenuating circumstances for the songs at Manchester City in 2014. I thought, as did many, that we had not said “goodbye and thank you” in a way that was correct. And here was an opportunity to show him some love. After all, we might not have seen him as a player ever again. That is my explanation for it. If you don’t agree, sue me.

But we said thankyou to him then, in the autumn of 2014. And we said thank you to him at Stamford Bridge in the January of 2015. And again in February 2017.

Enough was enough.

Suffice to say, I didn’t join in with the singing of his name during the game in October 2018. I’m not so sure I even sung before the game if I am honest.

The Second-Half.

Would more goals follow? I expected so. I had been impressed with Derby. We had played beneath ourselves, almost disinterested almost. We worked a few forays into the Derby box in the first part of the second-half but there was no cutting edge. On the hour, a Cahill header from a corner was palmed over by Carson. If I am honest, by now I was finding the game rather painful to watch. Everything was squeezed into a narrow field of vision. And we were hardly in exhilarating form.

David Luiz replaced Andreas Christensen.

Pedro replaced Ruben.

Marriott forced a fine save from Cabellero on a quick break. Mount then shot wide. Derby were still in it. There was a moment when the away fans reacted noisily and passionately to a shot, igniting the entire away end, and I longed for the days when our home fans were similarly partisan. Those days, the days when the atmosphere was venomous, seem so far away now.

Yeah, I know. A familiar story.

A great cross from Zappacosta – him again – found Morata in acres of space but his header was not worthy of the name. Another header from Morata went well wide. The same player then jumped with great body shape, twisting in the box to meet a Willian corner and getting a great deal of power on it – another photo too blurred to share, damn it – but Carson did well to save.

Two saves from Caballero kept us ahead. A hand was dabbed on a close effort from Keogh and he then smothered another Mount shot. Things were getting nervy now. An effort from Marriott was saved. Then the old warhorse David Newgent, a late substitute, shot across Caballero and I watched, painfully, as the ball seemed to be going in. Thankfully it hit the far post, and miraculously bounced back straight into big Willy’s arms.

Phew.

Not long after, the final whistle blew and we counted our blessings.

It been a strange old game. It had not been pretty. But, on Halloween, we were thankful it didn’t turn into a horror show.

Into the last eight we went.

Shots.

As I was watching from a different viewpoint, it would have been amiss of me not to take a greater share of photographs than usual. I took over two-hundred and fifty with most in concentrated bursts, and the majority before the game and then after. Here are a few from the match itself.

Frank & Jody.

There was the inevitable post-game hugs and handshakes between the players and management of both teams. All eyes were on two of our own.

Pictures.

A gallery of some of the images of the night. Down low, the immense height of the East Stand still staggers me. It was even more impressive when it was first built in 1974. There was no stand like it in England.

Postscript : 1985.

On the drive home in PD’s Chuckle Bus, I happened to mention a video clip to Glenn that I had revisited during the week but which was first aired on a “Facebook / Chelsea In The Eighties” group at the start of the year. In the quarter finals of the League Cup in the 1984/85 season, we drew 1-1 at home to Sheffield Wednesday. We then drew the replay at Hillsborough 4-4, and then beat them 2-1 in the second replay at Stamford Bridge. I didn’t attend any of those games, but I can remember watching the highlights of them all on TV. Wednesday were huge rivals with us in that period. At the end of the final game, there was a pitch invasion, such was the hysteria among our support in reaching a semi-final for the first time in thirteen seasons.

The video that I spoke about was a rare six-minute clip – never aired on TV – at the end of the game, when the cameras were left to roll and the immediate post-match euphoria was captured for eternity. It shows an edgy mass of lads – honestly, virtually no females – in The Shed, The Benches and the North Stand singing and chanting and taunting the away fans. It shows a few scuffles with the police, trying to keep order, and of a vibrant, excited and noisy Stamford Bridge. Nobody wanted to go home. The areas mentioned were full of lads. Jeans and jackets. Hardly any Chelsea colours, it was 1985. Lads standing on the fences. Attitude. A baying mass of humanity. Police horses trotting up and down in front of The Benches. And the noise was loud, as loud as hell. I quickly fumbled for my ‘phone and thankfully found the video. The commentator, who spoke briefly about wanting to see a few unruly Chelsea fans get hit by the truncheons of the Old Bill, was Peter Brackley, who recently passed away.

While Parky slept, and PD and Les were silent in the front, Glenn and I watched – intensely and intently – at the images from thirty-three years ago.

We were mesmerized.

“We’re going to Wembley. We’re going to Wembley. You’re not. You’re not.”

“You come all this way. And you lost. And you lost.”

We even caught a hearty rendition of Chelsea singing “You’ll never walk alone.”

It was a Chelsea song too in those days.

And all because we had reached a League Cup semi-final.

On the drive home, we had heard that we had drawn Bournemouth – again, same as last season – in the final eight, and I knew that if we were to be victorious in that game, the difference between 1985 and 2018 would be vast. And I understand that. In 1985, Chelsea Football Club was a different beast. In 2018, we are ridiculously successful. Reaching a League Cup semi really is no big deal.

But it would be bloody lovely to have some of that adrenaline, passion and boisterousness once again. Or just 50 percent of it.

We can dream, eh?

 

Tales From The 5,500

Derby County vs. Chelsea : 5 January 2014.

After a few days of depressing weather, Derby County away in the Third Round of the F.A. Cup was just what the doctor ordered. Despite the protestations of the Aston Villa manager Paul Lambert – did he honestly say that the F.A. Cup was a hindrance and that his players would rather be rewarded with money rather than silverware? – over five thousand Chelsea fans had happily bought tickets to follow the boys in royal blue in our first game of the 2014 competition.

And heaven knows we have owned this trophy in recent years.

2007 Manchester United.

2009 Everton

2010 Portsmouth

2012 Liverpool

Four out of four.

In 2014, let’s make it five out of five at the new Wembley.

I had driven up to Derby with Parky and his son-in-law Kris. At just after midday, I pulled in to the car park at Derby’s Midland Station after avoiding the match-going traffic headed for the car parks around the Pride Park Stadium. From what I had seen of it, Derby looked to be in reasonable health. Rolls-Royce (jet engines in addition to cars these days) and Bombardier (trains and planes, but not automobiles) are still located within the city. There were new shopping centres and signs that the recession had not bitten too painfully. This was only my fifth visit to the city; all four previous trips were, unsurprisingly, for football.

The first of these came in 1986 and – shock horror – did not involve Chelsea. Three college mates (Steve – Derby, Bob – Leeds and Pete – Newcastle) and I bumped into each other at college in Stoke on a Friday afternoon and made the quick decision to travel over to Derby by train that evening to see the Rotherham United game. If Derby won, promotion from the old third division would be gained. I have much respect for fellow Chelsea fans who only watch Chelsea, but I used to be partial to the occasional non-Chelsea game in my younger years. Looking back, during my time at Stoke, this didn’t happen too often, though. I remember the odd match at Stoke City, Port Vale, York City and an aborted trip to Crewe Alexandra, but nothing excessive. Chelsea, then as now, was the main drug of choice. However, on that rainy May evening twenty-eight years ago, the four of us squeezed our way into the side terrace at the old Baseball Ground to watch a Derby County team, which I am sure included Steve McClaren, rather nervously defeat Rotherham with a late winner to win 2-1. There were wild scenes in that ridiculously packed mosh-pit of a terrace, underneath the upper tier. I’m so lucky to have experienced the madness of packed terraces back in those days.

It was a different world.

The Baseball Ground, irregular stands, double-decked behind the goals, squeezed in amongst iron foundries and tight terraced streets was a classic football ground. The pitch was always muddy. The atmosphere was first class.

My second visit took place in 1987, when I again made the trip by train from Stoke-on-Trent to Derby. This time, I had returned to my college town for my graduation ceremony on the Friday and had stayed in town until the Sunday for the televised game with Chelsea. This was a poor match which we lost 2-0. The only two things that I can remember from the game is the appearance of some Chelsea pensioners, guests of Ken Bates, on the pitch before the game, and me getting pushed against a crush barrier so badly that I ended up with bruises around my waist.

A different world indeed.

Then, with Derby County now playing at Pride Park, two further games; a 1-1 draw in 2001 and a 2-0 win in 2007. Strangely, of the two matches, the draw was a better contest. The latter win was as dour a win as I can remember.

We dropped into the “Merry Widow” pub, one of a few “Chelsea only” pubs in the city centre, but the place was packed and the beers were served in plastic glasses. Despite the appearance of many old black and white photographs of former Derby players adorning the white brick walls, which on another day I would have like to have studied, we soon moved on.

A few hundred yards away was the “Mansion Wine Bar.” This was also packed with Chelsea, but was a far more pleasant environment. We chatted with Burger and Julie, just arrived from their home in Stafford, and it was lovely to bump into them once more. We enjoyed their company for an hour or so and then set off – in the drizzle – for the stadium.

We had heard, through texts, that Nottingham Forest had walloped West Ham 5-0 in the lunchtime match.

Happy Chelsea fans, fed-up Derby fans.

They hate Forest.

Pride Park – sorry, iPro Stadium – is located amidst car dealerships, superstores and themed restaurants. Its location is pure 21st Century, especially compared to the more intimate surrounds of the old Baseball Ground. Welcoming the spectators outside the main stand is a bronze statue of Brian Clough and Peter Taylor, holding the 1972 League Championship trophy. The statue isn’t great; the figures are more like caricatures than anything else. Derby County play a minor role in the story of the European Cup in my life; their match with Juventus in 1973 is the first European Cup match that I can ever remember seeing on TV. Those were the glory years for Derby County; how strange that a statue of Brian Clough also exists in the town centre of their most bitter rivals, Nottingham Forest.

Inside the packed concourse, there was a little confusion. My ticket was printed with “Turnstile 51-54, Stair 5” but it seemed these numbers were incorrect. After painstakingly studying a book of logarithms, a slide rule, a calculator, a heart monitor, an air-pressure gauge and a thermometer, the steward advised me to use “Stair 58.”

I think that the presence of 5,550 away fans had caused the ticketing department at Derby County to throw a wobbly.

Anyway, with minutes remaining, I was in.

“Stoke at home in the next round.”

“How boring!”

I fancied a new ground, like all 5,499 others no doubt.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, I couldn’t help but notice the Derby mascot sprinting around the pitch, pumping his fists, geeing up the crowd. It didn’t seem right to me. This chap – in a ram’s mask – was just wearing a Derby kit, but with no extra “padding” around his waist. Surely mascots should, by nature, be slightly rotund, just like Stamford, for example…thus increasing their comedic value. This wasn’t very good. This wasn’t very good at all.

May I suggest a mascot for the modern age? An overweight mascot, beer in hand, wheeled out on to the pitch on a sofa, where he just sits in the centre circle for ten minutes before getting up out of his seat and falling, head first, on to the floor?

That would appease me more than this super fit, super lean Derby County numpty.

On several occasions before the match, the announcer had implored the home supporters to get involved and make some noise for the players.

“Show us the black and white.”

This resulted in a rather lukewarm response, with only a small percentage twirling their bar scarves, in the style much beloved on Tyneside a few seasons ago.

Unlike the 14,000 down the road for the Forest versus West Ham game, I was very pleased to see a near 32,000 full house. The teams appeared. There were a few surprises, no more so than the return of Michael Essien, the captain for the day. No room, still, for Juan Mata.

With Oscar, Ramires, Willian and Luiz all playing, it was almost like watching Brazil.

Up front, Samuel Eto’o made his F.A. Cup debut.

The skies were grey and the rain still fell.

The Chelsea section, amassed in one bank in the south stand, was soon making their presence felt with tons of noise. I was right behind the goal. Just behind Parky and Kris, just in front of Cookie, Scott and Andy from Trowbridge. Familiar faces everywhere I looked.

The Derby support tried its best to rally against us; in particular their lads to my right were soon getting behind their team. Soon into the game, they made me laugh. I guess this is their “signature chant” but they soon picked out one unfortunate Chelsea fan and, as one, began their routine by clapping and pointing –

“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause…“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause… “You!”(point)…”TWAT!”… pause…“You!”(point)…”TWAT!”…pause… “You!”(point)…”TWAT!”

We were laughing along at that.

I was wondering if this was the modern day version of a song that Derby fan Steve used to mention back in the ‘eighties. In those days he said that the DLF – usually located in the C stand at the Baseball Ground – used to sing this at away fans –

“Sing something simple, you simple TWATS.”

The first-half was often an even affair. Derby certainly caused us a few problems early on with their blond haired starlet Will Hughes getting a lot of the ball. Our defence held strong. We seemed to find it difficult to get behind the Derby defence and our main form of attack tended to be shots from distance. A low raking shot from Ramires which bounced off the post was the nearest that we came to scoring.

The Chelsea songs kept coming, with the “Willian” song and the “Mour-in-ho” (eliciting a wave from Jose) the most popular.

“You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea, you make me happy when skies are grey.”

On the pitch, there were green boots, pink boots, orange boots and a pink ball.

I had visions of Brian Clough turning in his grave.

No goals at the break. A replay was the last thing we wanted.

As I departed down the stairs at the half-time break, the same weary voice that had endeavoured to get the crowd going before the match was once again asking the home crowd to get involved. This time, it seemed that a camera was roving the stands and picking out supporters, with their image appearing on the “jumbo” TV screen. The whole sorry affair seemed to be a tad embarrassing.

“Come on, look at the camera. See your face on the screen. That’s it, the person in the purple jacket, well done. Give us a smile.”

I silently groaned.

Of course, this sort of crowd participation gets a much different response on these shores compared to my experience of watching baseball games in the US. Even when home teams are getting slaughtered, the roving cameras tend to garner a much more positive response from home fans, with people smiling, waving, acting the fool and even dancing. In the UK, we’re a lot more apathetic about this type of activity.

“Get that camera off me, you bugger.”

We are as awkward with cameras being pointed at us as Americans are with cutlery.

The Chelsea team were attacking us in the away section for the second-half. The noise levels soon resumed. Mourinho soon changed things, with Eden Hazard replacing Essien, with Rami moving back alongside Mikel. We had more of the ball and the pressure began to tell.

Just after an hour, Eden Hazard was clumsily fouled on the left. Willian sent in a lovely cross towards the nearpost where Mikel jumped unhindered to head in.

Yes, Mikel had scored again.

Mikel is rarely a threat at corners and so it was with joy and amazement that I saw him reel away and become smothered by his happy team mates. The away end roared.

The two chaps next to me who had been calling out Mikel were strangely silent.

Then, a massive disappointment.

A blatant, stupid, brain dead, humiliating dive in the penalty box by Ramires.

I think that the Derby fans had a ready-made chant for him.

Torres replaced Eto’o and Chelsea pushed for a second, calming goal. The Chelsea fans, way too prematurely for my liking, began singing about the final.

…”we’re going to Wemberlee, que sera sera.”

Thankfully, after a Torres pass, Oscar was able to dispatch a swerving shot past Grant in the Derby goal.

2-0, that’ll do, happy days.

In a matter of seconds, Fernando Torres – superbly backed by the 5,500 – worked two good chances for himself to no avail. Willian was my man of the match, full of endeavour and enthusiasm. He gets better with each game.

In the closing minutes, Jose Mourinho gave a first team debut to midfielder Lewis Baker.

The bloke next to me muttered “never heard of him.”

There was just time for Steve McClaren and Jose Mourinho to share a laugh and a warm embrace by the side of the pitch before the referee signalled Chelsea’s safe progression into the next round.

It had been a good day.

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