Tag Archives: Didier Drogba

Tales From The Big Easy

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Chelsea vs. Blackpool : 19 September 2010.

With the Stoke City game a distant memory, the Blackpool match couldn’t come quick enough for me. Three weeks with no Chelsea game for me represented a real mid-season drought and the longest time I had “gone without” since late summer in 2003, when my mother’s ill health resulted in me missing four home games. I can remember my huge pleasure at getting back into the swing of things with a game at Wolves and I realised then how much attending Chelsea games meant to me. Back in 2003, I had missed the first three weeks of the Abramovich era – who were all these new players? That Wolves game was a landmark game in my Chelsea life…I can’t put into words the joy I felt at seeing the team play again.

Back to 2010 and an extra bonus – my mate Glenn volunteered to drive up, so I was able to kick back and relax. He called for me at 10am, dressed like a spokesman for Quicksilver ( his VW van even had a Quicksilver logo ) and Lord Parky was collected by 10.30am.

We were on the road.

The first portion of the drive up to London was spent discussing some sad news that has befallen one of our fellow Chelsea mates. PD had been working for one of the many tarmac gangs of Frome ( due to the many limestone quarries in our home area, Frome seems to be the centre of the road-gang industry in southern England ), when a piece of heavy machinery crashed into his lower leg. Details are still a bit sketchy, but PD is in a Bristol hospital and has already had three operations in an attempt to save his ankle and foot. We haven’t seen much of PD at Chelsea games recently, but he is a well-liked member of our little crew and the news came as a massive shock.

Our thoughts and prayers are with him.

The usual drive up the M4…a bit of chat about the team’s form of late, some musings on the Hate Derby taking place at Old Trafford at lunchtime, we even – briefly – spoke about the Somerset county cricket team…surely a first. Somerset are the “nearly men” yet again this season…the team lost two one-day finals this year, but also missed out on a first county championship in 135 years ( you think the Cubs have it bad! ) to Nottinghamshire. Both teams finished level on 214 points, but Notts won one more game during the season. I can’t say I’m a cricket fan, but I was gutted that my county lost out yet again. I played cricket for my school during the summer of 1980 and I was constantly reminded of the adage that the sport is “9 parts complete boredom and 1 part complete terror.” My maternal grandfather was the cricketer in my family and he was quite the sportsman, playing for my village cricket and football teams.

I had only ever seen Blackpool play once before – a game way back in the autumn of 1975. It was my fourth Chelsea game and the first one in the old second division. My parents were with me and we also invited my Uncle Geoff – a Spurs fan – from the nearest village to attend too. I remember little of the game, except the distinctive tangerine of the away team, plus players Bob Hatton and Mickey Walsh. We won 2-0…the most memorable part of the day was when Tommy Langley came off the bench to score the second goal. He ran straight back towards the bench from the North Stand end and, as our seats were right behind the Chelsea bench, it appeared that Tommy was running straight towards us. His face was a picture, his arms were outstretched and, for a moment, I thought he was running straight towards me to give me a hug. Mum took a shine to young Tommy from this moment and he was her favourite Chelsea player for many a year. I reminded Tommy of my Mum’s infatuation with him when I first met him a few years back. Lovely memories, eh?

12.30pm Glenn had parked his van on Bramber Road.

The usual start to the day in Chelsealand…breakfast, then into the boozer. Reg the landlord must have found his feminine side as the pub was festooned with colourful hanging baskets.

With the United vs. Liverpool game on Sky, the pub was rammed and the twelve or so of my mates were huddled together in a corner. There were five or six Blackpool fans on the next table and there was no trouble. I nipped out to get a “Get Well Soon” card for PD which we all duly signed. I showed a few of the lads some of my photos from my recent trip to Philadelphia and spoke with Daryl about my visit to Yankee Stadium, then our proposed “50th Birthday Bash” to NYC in 2015…we hope to see the Mets vs. Yankees series that summer as it coincides with our fiftieth birthdays, plus Daryl’s brother Neil too. That promises to be a memorable holiday, no doubts.

The United goals were met with stony silence, but the pub erupted when Gerrard’s too goals were scored. Then silence again on 84 minutes.

Pah.

Alan spoke of the enjoyable trip to Slovakia during the week. He said that they spent a few moments in the bar at the Holiday Inn, where the team were staying. Dutch Mick had walked over to Patrick Van Aanholt and spoke to him in Dutch. Florent Malouda appreciated this show of fraternity and apparently bought Dutch Mick ( who is originally from London ) a bottle of wine as a “thank you.” It is not known how many times Dutch Mick mentioned the phrase “for sure” in his dialogue with Patrick.

Mike from the New York Chapter – in his trademark shirt from last season – showed at about 2.30pm and I showed him the US photos too…it didn’t seem real that we had met up in a bar in Greenwich Village only ten days earlier. Then Burger and Julie called in, full of pleasing stories of how they are acclimatising to life in Staffordshire, duck.

On the walk to The Bridge, I read with interest in the programme about a 21 year old “avid” Chelsea fan from Lancashire, who was attending her first ever game.

Avid, eh?

I had to wonder why she never saw us play at Manchester United in 1995, Bolton in 1997, Blackburn in 2003, Wigan in 2005 or Burnley this year?

Just before the teams entered the pitch, there was a moment’s applause in honour of the late Chelsea and Tottenham Hotspur forward Bobby Smith, who played for us in the ‘fifties. The away corner in The Shed housed the eager Blackpool support and they resembled the orange-clad hordes of Nicosia from last season. Just two flags, though.

What a first-half.

We only had to wait two minutes for the opener. We played the ball around with ease and I think Blackpool’s only touch was the hoof out for the resultant corner. Drogba whipped the ball into the six yard box and Kalou smashed it in.

Here we go again.

On eleven minutes, a strong run and endearingly unselfish play from Drogba set up Malouda with a sweeping ball into the goal area which was inch perfect in its execution. Malouda couldn’t miss – and didn’t.

I unfortunately was in the middle of a comfort break when our third goal was scored, a Drogba deflected goal after nice work by The World’s Best Left Back.

Oh boy – coasting.

As Drogba came deep to help defend, Glenn piped up –

“Drogba…what are you doing back there?”

With that, he won the ball easily, advanced and spun a delightful ball into the path of Kalou with the outside of his foot. Kalou sent in a ball to Malouda and we were four goals to the good. Alan and myself had great pleasure asking Glenn –

“You were saying, mate?”

Every attack was a joy to behold. Each time we broke, I sat back and wondered “how will we create a goal scoring chance this time?” What a goal scoring run we are on at the moment and long may it continue. Amazing times in our history…and all this without Messrs. Anelka, Lampard and Terry.

At half-time, I heard a PA announcement and I recognised a mate’s name. Steve works for a former supplier of our company and his name was announced as part of a treat his wife had arranged for him – he was watching in one of the executive areas of the West Stand. It reminded me of when I was a child and my parents would often write in to Chelsea DJ Pete Owen and I would often get my name read out on the “Pre-Match Spin” show. The first time this happened – it may well have been the Blackpool game in 1975 actually – I remember being very embarrassed, with me thinking that everyone in the stadium was aware it was me.

Dennis Wise was on the pitch at the break.

I’ll be honest, the second-half was a let down, but we are – of course – so splendidly spoilt these days. To be fair, Blackpool – spurred on by the deep Bristolian twang of Ian Holloway – put on a good show and tested Petr Cech on a few occasions. They did well and played it on the floor, probing away. We are so lucky these days – even the less successful teams play it on the grass, unlike the “route one” football employed by many teams back in the grim ‘eighties. In those days, teams like Sheffield Wednesday and Wimbledon would start every attack with a hoof up the field from a ‘keeper, there would be a midfield scramble, the ball would break to a full back who would then chip it up into “the channels.” A further heading duel would ensue, then possession would be lost.

Back in those days, the atmosphere at games was better, but the football could be bloody awful.

The away fans mainly stuck to their “This Is The Best Trip I’ve Ever Been On” chant throughout the game and it certainly seems to sum up their Premiership experience perfectly. They’ll probably get relegated, but I’m sure they will have fun along the way. There will be as many ups and downs for them this season as a rollercoaster on their famous Pleasure Beach.

We took our foot off of the pedal in the second-half and, looking back, it seemed inconceivable that we didn’t score any more. We had a typical Kalou one-on-one fluff on 63 minutes, a Malouda volley was palmed over on 64 minutes and Ashley Cole annoyingly decided to take an extra touch with his favoured left peg on 75 minutes when he really should have slammed it in with his right.

The World’s Best Left Back Who Can’t Kick With His Right Foot.

On 86 minutes, Drogba blazed over.

The finishing was so woeful that I am convinced I saw Alan Mayes miss an open goal on 73 minutes, Teddy Maybank head the cross-bar rather than the free ball on 85 minutes and Dave Mitchell fall over his feet in the last minute when clean through with only the ‘keeper to beat. Blackpool then scored a consolation goal via a Graham Wilkins own goal at the death. What a strike. He doesn’t miss from there.

Our support had become pretty docile as the game progressed. We had only been momentarily roused on a few occasions. I think we need a stern test to re-focus ourselves…we have had it too easy. Manchester City next Saturday will be just about perfect.

As I joined the buoyant crowd on the Fulham Road – even the Seasiders looked happy – I enjoyed a bit of banter with a colleague by phone who is an “avid” Manchester United fan. He commented that we had enjoyed the easiest start to a new season he had ever seen.

I replied –

“True. We haven’t played Everton or Fulham yet.”

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Tales From The Last Chelsea Weekend Of Season 2009-2010

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Chelsea vs. Portsmouth : 15 May 2010.

When I was growing up back in the ‘seventies, the only three teams to win The Double were Preston North End, Tottenham Hotspur and Arsenal. I always used to think that the chances of any team replicating these feats were pretty remote. Back in those days, the FA Cup was won by a wider selection of teams than the current era of The Big Four. It was with some amazement when I looked on as Liverpool won the double in 1986 ( and winning the league at The Bridge in the last game of the season to boot. )

Since then, it’s all got a bit crazy.

Manchester United won their first double in 1994 ( and beat us in the FA Cup Final ). Arsenal again won it in 1998 and United won their momentous treble in 1999. Arsenal then repeated winning both League and Cup in 2002 ( and guess who they beat in the Final? ). With all of the power in English football now being narrowed to three or four financially potent clubs year on year, I can only see Doubles becoming more commonplace.

Time, then, for Chelsea Football Club to make our mark.

Throughout the week – what a week, one of the best ever – with my mind full of the thought of being Champions once more, I was buzzing with excitement not only for the FA Cup, but for thoughts of The Double.

The Double.

Just the sound of it makes me go all light-headed.

We had the day planned perfectly – the tickets, the pubs, the logistics, the accommodation, the timings – and when I left work on Friday, the whole weekend lay ahead…a tantalising thought.

FA Cup Final Day 2010 began for me with my ‘phone alarm sounding at 6am. After a few minutes of deliberation, I decided to keep the lucky Henri Lloyd polo theme going – navy blue, this weekend. I left at bang on 7am and I soon received a text from His Lordship.

“Buzzin mate. Are we there yet?”

The last five seconds of a Depeche Mode song came to an end on the CD player and then the familiar synthesised opening sequence of their version of “Route 66” started. The route from my home to Wembley Stadium is becoming my own version of The Mother Road these days. The UK version though – west to east – not the US one, headed west from Chicago to LA, more than three thousand miles all the way.

In three years, this would be Chelsea’s eighth visit to the sparkling and shiny new Wembley.

We live in interesting times, alright.

The weather wasn’t sure. It couldn’t make up its mind. I collected Parky from his house – three Chelsea flags on posts on the front lawn – and flew a similar flag from my rear window.

We were on our way.

The weather brightened but then soon clouded over. Parky opened up a can of Fosters at 8.30am and he toasted our club as we headed past the Madejski at Reading. The mood in the car was super-confident and we were both buzzing. Just a wonderful feeling of anticipation pervaded our conversation. We were parked-up at Chesson Road, just of the North End Road, at 9.30am and soon met up with two visitors from six thousand miles away. Bob Clark and Andy Wray were in town, visitors from The Golden State, and we met up at Bob’s hotel. We then caught a red London bus up to Marble Arch – a lovely route past Harrods and Hyde Park Corner – and we reached The Tyburn at about 10.30am. The sun was out and the vibes were perfect.

Several members of The Bing – Daryl, Ed, Rob, Neil and Alan – had just arrived and we greeted each other and ordered breakfasts and pints. There were a couple of Pompey fans in the pub and I wished them the best of luck.

“I think we’ll need it” said one.

We then sauntered up to The Duke Of York and stayed there from 11.30am to 1pm. The place was busier than previous years and again we spotted a few Pompey fans. Two ladies of a certain age were ridiculously attired in bizarre headwear ( one had an Appache head dress on ) and they both had the Full Monty of Pompey shirts and scarves. It’s all well and good supporting your team in the club colours, but there’s no need to look like Christmas trees. We looked on aghast. A few more troops arrived – Mike and Steve, then Alex, from the New York Chapter.

Lacoste Watch

Parky – lemon
Bob – navy blue
Millsy – white
Daryl – royal blue

Deano was inside the boozer and he had a spare. I made a few phone calls but couldn’t shift it. I’m not sure if it was used or not. I was going easy on the beer intake and didn’t fancy missing the pre-match this year. Andy left us and made his way to The Green Man at Wembley. At about 1pm, we agreed to make a move and we walked the half-mile to Baker Street tube.

We passed quite a few pubs and each one had an assortment of Chelsea fans spilling out onto the pavements. And there, opposite the tube at Baker Street, was the daddy of them all… The Globe. There were about 300 Chelsea out on the pavement, ringed by police, celery flying. We spent our pre-match in 1997 at The Globe, but it gets too manic for our liking. The tourists on the double-decker busses were looking on and I wondered what was going through their minds.

We caught the tube up to Wembley Park, the tube station which sits at the northern end of “Wembley Way” ( or rather Olympic Way to give it the correct title. ) I thought back to my first ever visit. I am not sure of the exact timings, but I am pretty confident that in around 1972 or 1973 ( before my first game at The Bridge in fact ), I managed to talk my father into visiting Wembley Stadium after we had paid a visit to an uncle in Southall. In those days, Olympic Way wasn’t pedestrianised and so my father, in his Vauxhall Viva, parked up outside one of the many warehouses and exhibition halls and we walked up to the grand old stadium, site of so many incredible football games from its debut in 1923. I remember scampering around, walking up to the base of the Twin Towers, like it was yesterday. The abiding memory is of the dirty cream colour of the towers and the battle-ship grey of the stadium walls. It was certainly in need of a lick of paint, but it looked wonderful. It had presence, even to a seven year old.

We – SF Bob, NY Mike, NY Steve, NY Alex and myself – slowly walked towards the stadium, the arch dominating the skyline. The arch is obviously much higher, but nothing can beat the Wembley towers for visual impact in my mind. All that history, all those memories from 1923, 1953, 1970, 1997 and more. The White Horse Final, Sir Stanley Matthews, Ian Porterfield, Bobby Stokes, Alan Sunderland, Ricky Villa, the Scousers scaling the walls in 1986, Robbie Di Matteo…

Outside the imposing Bobby Moore statue, which overlooks the whole area, I briefly met my Pompey mate Rick and his excited eight year old son Matthew. From the darkness of our sixth form days when our teams were in Divisions Two and Three to an FA Cup Final together. What a wonderful moment as we smiled and shook each others hands.

Then, inside the stadium and the walk up to the top level…I was saddened to see that none of the escalators were working. I was wondering if the Tory governmental cuts were already having an effect. We had seats right behind the west scoreboard, as central as it is possible to get. I was inside at just after 2pm. I scrambled down to the front of the upper tier and painstakingly tied “VINCI PER NOI” to the balcony. I didn’t think either team had many flags and banners and I wondered why none of the large Chelsea banners which are ever-present at The Bridge had made it to North London. Looking back, my banner may well have been the longest Chelsea banner present. It was it’s first appearance at Wembley, actually. I hoped Carlo might spot it. At the other end, more Pompry fans were inside early and I noted a couple of their flags –

“Against All Odds.”

“You Can’t Break Our Spirit”

“PFC 6.57”

The sun was shining now, but the place was quite subdued. There was none of the manic noise of 1997. I looked around and thought about how football has changed in my lifetime. When I was growing up, it was all about the atmosphere and the songs, the sense of belonging, the sense of making our own noise. In 2010, each fan was given a flag to wave, but the atmosphere seemed contrived. My mate Alan said as much to me as we chatted, waiting for our other mates to arrive. It’s a familiar irritant – the football may be better, but not the singing. Maybe we’re getting complacent. I don’t think the vastness of the new stadium at Wembley helps.

Unlike last year against Everton, when we arrived late and missed all of the pre-match – I swore never to be so disrespectful to the FA Cup Final ever again – I was able to sit back and take it all in. My match day companions Alan and Tom were in too. At about 2.45pm, the marching band appeared and a young female singer beautifully sang the Cup Final hymn.

“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.
The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee.
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Hold now your cross before my closing eyes.
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks and Earth’s vain shadows flee.
In Life. In death. Oh Lord – abide with me.”

I love this hymn and my bottom lip is usually quivering during the singing of this. However, in 2010, it seemed nobody else shared my sense of occasion and hardly anyone was joining in. This is again different to Cup Finals past. I remember bellowing it out in Cardiff in 2002. Oh well. Thankfully, once the teams entered the field and were presented to Prince William, lots joined in with “God Save the Queen.”

The Chelsea team provided no surprises for us. The new kit looked fine, at least from a hundred yards away. The pitch looked awful. All of my mates were alongside me now. We hoped for no repeat of Louis Saha. At kick-off, I noted many empty seats and some remained unused all game. The attendance was around 1,000 below capacity.

What a crazy first-half.

Chelsea enjoyed so much of the ball and constantly tried to move the ball into the danger areas. Our attacks were frequent and our chances came regularly. The Chelsea fans were in reasonably good voice but were not able to sing together as one unit. Portsmouth were not as loud as I had expected, despite their more rigorous flag-waving. Shots reigned in on the Portsmouth goal – and I almost lost count. A Frank shot flashed wide, then he saw a shot graze the angle of bar and post and Didier Drogba had two attempts blocked by James. On a rare break up field, a Portsmouth shot was diverted and Petr Cexch pulled off one of the saves of the season. Stupendous stuff from Big Pete.

Our support was heavily reliant on the “Campeones” chat and at times we were in good voice.

Ashley Cole had a great run deep into the Pompey box and he set up Salamon Kalou who was waiting in the area, just outside the six yard box and the whole goal at his mercy. We got ready to celebrate. He shot, but it hit the bar and the groan was heard all over the South-East. Soon after, JT hit the bar with a brilliant header. On 38 minutes, Didier hit a swerving shot which David James clawed the ball onto the bar, but the ball bounced tantalisingly close to the goal line. I envisaged the TV crews going into meltdown to see if the ball crossed the line. Texts were adamant that it was a goal, though later in the day, texts had the opposite view. Soon after, Didier hit the post again. This was just ridiculous.

Chelsea 5 Portsmouth 0 – if only!

It seemed that lots of spectators were late in getting back to their seats for the start of the second half, the corporate areas especially.

The first period of the second-half was rather worrying. Our domination had subsided and Pompey were enjoying a marked improvement in fortunes. Our end was quiet.

Michael Ballack was injured and was replaced by Juliano Belletti. It seemed that he had only been on the pitch for a few seconds when he had lost his man. My mate Alan sensed the danger and shouted –

“Don’t dive in! Don’t dive in!”

Belletti made an awful challenge and referee Chris Foy had no choice but to point towards the spot.

I decided not to take a photo of the penalty which followed – some kind of superstition I think. Thank heavens Peter Cech kicked the ball away with his trailing leg as he dived to he left. Seeing the ball bounce away is an image that will live long in my memory. That got us bouncing and the Chelsea end began roaring the team on.

“And it’s super Chelsea – Super Chelsea FC.”

Soon after Cech’s fantastic save, a free-kick was awarded and we waited for Drogba.

How he loves Wembley.

I steadied my aim and held the camera, zoom lens to the max.

As he shot, I snapped. We all saw the ball drift in to the goal off the far post and we erupted in a wild roar. Alan and myself grabbed each other and bounced.

“They’ll have to come at us now – Come on my little diamonds.”

For a moment, I felt dizzy, with blood rushing through my body – what a buzz.

Our end was did a bouncy and reminded everyone who was champions.

Soon after, Kalou shot wide and it hadn’t been his best of days. He was substituted by Joe Cole. Didier was put through, one on one, but James made another great save. The ball rebounded back to Joe Cole but his shot was subsequently blocked. We peppered the Pompey goal, but we had a scare of our own when a rare Portsmouth attack ended up with the ball being struck low across the six yard box. Thankfully no attackers were near.

A new Chelsea song –

“We’re Making History.”

Late on, we moved forward again and Joe Cole took the left back wide with a great run off the ball. Frank Lampard was able to exploit the space left and he drove into the box. Frank was fouled and we held our breath again. This time I was a little more willing to capture everything on film.

I snapped just before Frank scuffed the penalty wide. It was typical of Frank’s game as he had not enjoyed the best of performances really.

I thought Alex had been magnificent, covering space so well. Big Pete with two fantastic saves. John Terry solid at the back. The inevitable Drogba Wembley goal.

Towards the end, a few hundred fans in the top tier began clapping and urged everyone not to worry.

At the final whistle, I was quite dazed.

We then stood back and tried to take it all in. It was the same feeling as 2009. Just lovely to see everyone so happy.

The Portsmouth fans – and Uncle Avram – were warmly applauded. They received their medals.

We then waited for our heroes in blue. John Terry seemed to want to share centre-stage with the rest of the team and there was quite a wait until everyone was in position. For the sixth time in our ever-growing history, the Football Association Challenge Cup was tied with blue and white ribbons and for the sixth time, a Chelsea captain raised it high.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The air was filled with silver and blue streamers and – almost immediately, perfectly – “Blue Is The Colour” filled the North London air. This lovely song immediately transports me back to my youth – maybe to around 1972, when houghts of The Double would have been just silly. We all joined in, singing every word, loving the shared experience.

“Cus Chelsea – Chelsea Is Our Name.”

Then, the Black Eyed Peas –

“I’ve Got A Feeling – Tonight’s Gonna Be A Good Night.”

You bet.

Next up – “One Step Beyond” and the stands were vibrating as 25,000 Chelsea fans bounced.

We made our way back to the Duke Of York and had a lovely relaxing time, drinking, chatting. I had a few more beers and Parky bought me a gin and tonic.

A double – of course.

We caught a cab back to Earl’s Court and ended-up at Salvo’s. After a little deliberation, we decided not to head back to The Bridge, but instead stay for a few hours at this homely Italian restaurant, much beloved by us all. Bob, Parky, Steve and Mike were then joined by Rob, Andy, Sophie and Woody – then Danny. We drank some Peronis and watched the Cup Final replayed on about three different channels – in English, in Italian, in Spanish. We chatted about the season, but also about the future and we raised our glasses to our great club.

We each had some food and it was a lovely, relaxed time. I had visions during the week of throwing beer down my neck in celebration of our historic win, but it in all honesty it was all rather sedate and civilised.

As we said our goodbyes at about midnight, Salvo appeared with a bottle of champagne and sprayed us all with it. It was a crazy gesture – I was stunned – but we were all cowering as the champagne ended up all over our designer clothes. It was a funny and spontaneous end to quite an amazing season.

In a scene reminiscent of Baltimore in the summer, Bob, Parky, Rob and myself settled down to a night in a crowded hotel room. We slept fitfully through the night and by 8am, we were all awake.

On the Sunday, I was still in a Blue Daze.

We had breakfast – The Breakfast Of Champions – and made our way to The Bridge. Inevitably, we found ourselves with the New York Blues, then Pete from San Francisco – and then even more inevitably we ended up in The Imperial – Matthew Harding’s preferred pub – on the Kings Road. We had some more drinks and watched the Chelsea coaches leave the West Stand entrance. At about 1.20pm, we popped outside and waited on the pavement for our heroes to appear.

The first bus appeared over the bridge and I began snapping.

There it was, emblazoned on the bus.

“The Double 09-10.”

At last, it had all sunk in.

Oh boy.

The busses slowly approached us and my camera clicked away. Rob was upstairs getting great video film of the players’ wild celebrations. JT and Frank were at the front and it was magical to see the looks of excitement and joy on their faces.

The front of the bus passed me and I just looked up at the rest of the players, Chelsea scarves knotted around their necks.

“Come On My Boys – Come On My Boys – Come On My Boys.”

Back in the pub, there was Cathy and Mo, who were there right from the very start.

What a blast.

What a weekend. What a week. What a month. What a season.

The best pre-match ever in Baltimore, the last minute winners at Stoke and Burnley, the trip to Madrid, men against boys at The Emirates, the Watford game on my Mum’s birthday, the disappointment of Inter, the car drive home from Ewood Park, the Wednesday night in Portsmouth, the phenomenal trips to Old Trafford and Anfield, the 8-0 against Wigan, the Cup Final, the goals, the goals, the goals.

Our most successful season ever.

Chelsea Football Club – I salute you.

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Tales From Anfield Road

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Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 2 May 2010.

I awoke – ahead of the alarm, never a good sign – at 5.30am and after pouring myself a coffee for the journey, I set off for Liverpool bang on 7am. This had the historic feel of the momentous trip up to Bolton in April 2005.

A day of destiny.

On that never-to-be-forgotten day, I drove up with Glenn and Frank, but this was going to be a solo trip north. Unfortunately, the first signs were not good. The weather which accompanied me for the first hour or so was sombre and grey with rain showers. I had an Elvis Costello CD on the go – a mixture of old classics, plus a few new songs which my mate Pete ( a United fan, no less ) had compiled especially for me. I had never realised how far Costello looked towards America in his musical leanings. As I headed past Bristol on the M5, my car was reverberating to the sounds of blues and country. The trees lining the motorway were now full of leaves and for a few moments, with Costello’s guitar providing twangs usually associated with America, I could easily have been headed north of Atlanta, heading up through Georgia towards The Smokies. These trees – in Gloucestershire – though, were not suffocated by kudzu, that bizarre plant of the south-eastern states which envelops and masks anything that gets in its way.

My mind was being easily distracted from thoughts of the game and I was very happy about this. On the rare occasions it entered my mind, I quickly moved onto something else…I didn’t need the worry, the anxiety, the possibility of failure. I thought about allsorts as I raced north. It was a shame that Parky would not be accompanying me on this one, but I knew that a few other mates were heading north too. Alan and Gary on the coaches, Daryl and Rob in a car, Beth with Gill and Graeme.

The last of the Costello songs ended as Tewkesbury Abbey came in to view. I then kept the American vibe going by putting on some John Lee Hooker.

“Boom Boom Boom Boom.”

Better some blues, I thought, rather than the red of Costello, a Liverpudlian in terms of place of birth and football team alike.

Thankfully, the rain stopped at Worcester and, soon after, a streak of blue was spotted in the sky. Although the sun soon broke through, this was a false dawn as it stayed pretty cloudy for the rest of the day. I spotted the first “Liverpool car” at Droitwich, then my first “Chelsea car” on the M6 around Wolverhampton. I stopped at Keele services for a coffee refill and noted the place was filling up with Adidas shirts of both the red of Liverpool and the royal blue of Chelsea.

My mind was still doing a grand job in blotting out any thoughts of the game. I thought back to a funny tale from my early childhood. My grandfather once went on a coach trip for a week – to North Wales I believe – in around 1971 and was told by my father to “bring Chris back something to do with football.” I would have only been six, but it was obvious that my love of the game was clear for all to see. To my horror ( and to my parents too, no doubt ), my grandfather brought me back a red Liverpool duffle bag, with white liver bird crest. I am sure I rolled my eyes heavenwards and my parents gave my poor grandfather ( who wasn’t a football fan at all, unlike his late wife ) the third degree on why ( oh why! ) didn’t he bring back a Chelsea bag. I think his response was along the lines of –

“Oh, I’m sorry – I just thought it was OK to bring back anything to do with football.”

Even at the age of six, football equalled Chelsea in my eyes.

So – for the next few years, whenever we went swimming at the old baths in Frome, my swimming trunks and towel were taken in using this red Liverpool bag and I was forever having to defend the actions of my poor grandfather. The friends, who obviously recognised my status as a keen Chelsea fan, couldn’t understand it either. I seem to remember that I stuck a couple of Yogi Bear badges on the bag and unconvincingly claimed that it was Yogi’s team, not mine.

So – Liverpool and Chelsea…it goes back a long way!

This was my fifteenth trip to Anfield and I had only seen us win a league game on one occasion before, that momentous game in 1992 which resulted in Chelsea’s first victory at Liverpool’s stadium since 1937. Since 1992, there had been a further three victories, but I had not been present.

Of course, the build up to the game in the media was dominated by Liverpool’s relationship with Manchester United…and their pivotal role in the destination of this year’s title. It could be a case of most Liverpool fans wanting Liverpool to lose and all United fans wanting Liverpool to win.

A funny game, football.

I reverted to type and whacked the old stalwarts New Order on the CD as I drove the last hour into Merseyside. I know I have mentioned it before, but that view as I headed over the Manchester Ship Canal is the classic North-West away game moment for me…let me recreate it again. Manchester, full of worried and paranoid United fans, just 15 miles to my east and Liverpool, full of depressed and confused Liverpool fans, just 15 miles to my west. And ahead – Winter Hill and The Reebok, scene of that game at Bolton in 2005.

I headed west on the M62, the road linking the old adversaries of Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds ( whatever happened to them? Ho ho ho ) and was soon hurtling along Queens Drive, the road which provides the final few miles of my trips to Anfield and Goodison. I’m always superstitious and, in lieu of last season’s CL triumph at Anfield, I parked in the same road as on that momentous night when Ivanovic became an instant Chelsea legend.

I was parked up at 10.45am. Job done. But now, with the stands of Anfield clearly visible at the top of Utting Avenue, the nerves began again. There was a chill in the air.

After popping into The Arkles, already full of Chelsea, I then headed down to meet Chopper from New York in The Flat Iron. It gave me a moment to mull over the immediate environment around Liverpool’s home ground. The area to the north is dominated by Stanley Park – the intended site of their new stadium ( start date 2075 ), but on all other sides there are stereotypical terraced streets, with houses of various colours, some red brick, some painted, some clad in various materials. It’s a solid working class area. The area around Goodison is the same. Maybe I imagined it, but the streets looked bleaker than normal. I found Chopper at the bar in The Flat Iron, nursing a pint of Strongbow. He was glad to see me. He was wearing a variety of neutral colours ( purple sweatshirt, green baseball cap ) and was just a bit paranoid about being “outed” as an away fan. The pub was OK, though, half and half home and away fans. Only the Liverpool fans were wearing club colours. We spoke about Liverpool – its role as one of the World’s great ports, but now a UK Detroit, on the decline forever.

We then moved further away from Anfield, down to The Cabbage Hall, where an entertaining time – as always – was spent with Cath and Dog. At 12.45pm, we wanted to move on. I fancied stopping just outside The Kop, just to gauge the mood of the restless natives, but everyone was so quiet. We moved all of the way around the stadium – what a lot of gloomy faces. As we moved past the south-west corner, I mentioned to Chopper that at the 1992 game, I remembered seeing a “half-time” turnstile ( for people locked out at the start of any games, this would open up if anyone were taken ill during the first-half, or if the stadium authorities believed The Kop to be safe to squeeze any more into its packed interior ). In all my travels, I had never seen such a feature at any other ground.

At the Hillsborough Memorial, we took our caps off and stood silent for a few seconds.

A chat with a few faces outside the away turnstiles and then inside. The place was buzzing.

Alan, Gal and myself had prime seats, row 8, just to the left of the goal. After all these trips to Anfield since 2005, what a familiar place it is. That scoreboard – and clock – in the corner of The Kop seemed to hover menacingly. How often have I begged for that clock to stand still at so many games. Beth was in, but way over by the Scousers in the main stand. Graeme and Gill were spotted a few rows below. Cathy and Dog a couple of rows behind. I took some snaps of the boys “kicking in” out on the green carpet of the pitch.

Before the game, our Chelsea away flag was held overhead as a reaction to the home fan’s ritual singing of “that song.” I’ve never heard it sang so quietly.

The teams re-entered the pitch and I took many shots of the Chelsea players hugging, high-fiveing each other, shaking each others hands and offering encouragement against the backdrop of those brightly coloured Liverpool flags and banners at the base of The Kop.

Just a great scene-setter.

The game began and I quickly glanced over our formation.

We began poorly and gifted too much early possession to Liverpool. However, the Chelsea choir were in great voice. The home fans were eerily silent. The pace of the game was slow and – bit by bit – the significance of the game became oh-so apparent.

Lose – and we’d be out of it.

A couple of early Liverpool corners and two identical Drogba headed clearances. That’s the spirit. On 13 minutes, Aquilani hit a rasping drive right towards me which just clipped the bar. Liverpool continued to pass the ball around at will and our midfield were second-best. The defensive line – JT and Alex especially – were being tested again and again, but were repelling every attack.

Cathy did a Zigger Zagger and we all joined in.

“Oi oi oi.”

We urged Malouda to get involved but he seemed to be playing a deeper role. He needed to find his form of late. We had a few sporadic attacks, but nothing to give us much cause for comfort. Half an hour had passed and we were anxious. Our singing continued and we called on The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” to inspire the team. Our end was rocking. Elsewhere, it remained deathly still. What was going through the minds of the Scousers? We tried to rattle Gerrard with a song about his recent alleged misdemeanors.

“She’s only sixteen, she’s only sixteen – Steven Gerrard, she’s only sixteen.”

I can’t claim he even heard this, but soon after, he had more worrying things on his mind. A bizarre back-pass ( we knew not from whom until half-time ) and Drogba pounced. He went wide of Reyna and stroked the ball into the empty net with The Kop looking on, aghast.

I lost it. I probably celebrated like at no other time since Frank’s goal in Moscow. I’m sure it looked great on the TV. Loads of screaming faces, loads of arms pumping.

Who needs drugs when football can do this to the brain?

Chelsea came on a bit stronger after the goal and peppered The Kop goal. Of course, we couldn’t see the fine detail involved in the tangle of legs which resulted in Kalou ending up on the floor inside the box, but texts from TV Land suggested he fell over his feet.

Typical Kalou.

At half-time, I couldn’t stand still and so went on a bit of a wander down to the front. A chat with Lovejoy, a few words with a couple of others. Then a tap on the shoulder and Kent Blues Graeme appeared alongside me. We shared a few words and returned to our seats.

Soon into the second-half, Kalou went on a beautiful run deep into the Liverpool box, right in front of me, but his ball across the goalmouth travelled the length of the six yard box without a touch. Oh boy.

Quite a few rows behind me, a gaggle of Chelsea fans sang “Three Little Birds” but it wasn’t a very loud or sustained effort. I was just about to comment to Gary that Frank was having a quiet game, when the ball was played out to Nico and we realised that the angle was perfect for the ball to be played into the “corridor of uncertainty” in front of the ‘keeper. In it came and we all held our breath. Frank arrived, stuck out a leg and in the ball went.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS.”

We lost it again. I immediately knew that it was so similar to the “cross – anticipation – shot” goal from Drogba in the CL game last season. My adrenal glands went into overdrive and we again cheered manically. I managed to scramble onto my seat, above the flailing arms, to take a few snaps of an exultant Lampard. I had to fight to keep my hand steady…snap, snap, snap. Frank’s face was a picture. Shades of Bolton 2005.

OK – Party Time, Liverpool 2010. Let’s this baby started.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”

We were on fire – the players, the fans, the entire away end bouncing as one. I lost count of the number of timers that we raided down the left wing. Kalou was on fire and Malouda’s second-half performance was much better. Down below me, I chuckled at a young boy wearing a 1981 original home shirt. It seemed a long way away, but 1981, eh? Clive Walker, Ian Britton, Micky Fillery and Colin Pates.

“Come along, come along, come along and sing this song – we’re the boys in blue from Division Two, but we won’t be there for long.”

Then – a new song for the Liverpool fans, so obsessed with their past.

“We saved your history.”

We had a few chances, Liverpool wilted. Never have 40,000 fans made less noise.

Before I knew it, the whistle went and the players came over to celebrate with us. A few more snaps – I looked for Frank and JT, our two leaders, as always. I was beaming and really didn’t want to leave. But I had a long drive ahead and I needed to be away. I bounced down Utting Avenue and took a short-cut back to my car. While I answered the first of many incoming texts from friends far and near, I found myself walking down a terraced street, but it was lined with tree after tree full of white blossom. It was a beautiful, idyllic, almost surreal scene.

I thought to myself – “Heaven must be a bit like this.”

Please excuse the sentimentality – I was in Liverpool after all.

Even my getaway was perfect as a lot of the Scousers were still inside Anfield, applauding their team for a magnificent season of mediocrity. I was soon on the M62 at 4pm and headed south. I was so pleased and contented, that I didn’t want Manchester United to spoil it. I avoided their match and listened to more music…Cocteau Twins, Keane…but then gave in to the last five minutes of the United game. Sigh.

I raced home, getting home in just over three hours. I popped into Frome where I knew that a few old school friends ( Leeds United, Manchester United, Liverpool, Bristol City and Portsmouth ) were meeting up after the usual five-a-side at Frome Sport Centre. I made sure I was the first to arrive. I wasn’t finishing second at anything.

We had a great time, talking about football as always – it was the first time all six of us had been together since about twenty years ago, as the one Leeds fan has moved to the Far East.

The laughs and smiles continued for a while, but I then realised – with United winning – “oh hell, we have to go through this all over again next week.”

So – it boils down to this…

One Game – One Win – One Champion.

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Tales From A Nervous One Hundred Minutes

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Chelsea vs. Bolton Wanderers : 13 April 2010.

Since the wonderful events of the weekend, I had been walking tall. Not many people wanted to talk football with me at work though. Strange, eh? However, I awoke nervous and I stayed nervous all day. This was to be a huge day in our season.

Despite the concerns I had about missing a midweek home game with the new people at work, I pulled out of the car-park bang on 4.15pm, my earliest “get away” for ages. It was a stress-free trip up through Wiltshire and Berkshire and into the Thames Valley. I made Steve Azar aware of my progress using the usual shorthand –

Kerry Dixon.

David Brent.

Rifles.

This was to be Steve’s last home game on his two-month sabbatical and we had planned a post-match curry. Throughout the trip up to HQ, my only thoughts about the line-up was the “Drogba or Anelka” conundrum. As I neared London, the weather brightened, with the sun breaking through. The sky was full of vapour trails from the planes flying in and out of Heathrow and, higher, cirrus clouds were everywhere. It was a glorious evening. The traffic was light. I was on target. The Killers gave way to Morrissey and all was good with the world. As I drove past the former Chelsea training ground at Harlington ( the coldest place on Earth, according to Marcel Desailly ), I noted that the trees and hedges were almost starting to turn green with new shoots and buds. The odd cherry blossom was already in bloom. I noted the twin sights of the Wembley Arch to my north and Brentford’s Griffin Park to my south. To be honest, this had the “feel” of a mid-week CL game, such was its importance to us. Past the Fuller’s brewery at Chiswick and the sky was gorgeous blue, devoid of any clouds. Lovely stuff. I had good vibes, despite the odd nervous moments of doubt.

I was parked-up at 6.25pm – that cherry blossom in Normand Park was smelling wonderful – and I soon arrived at The Goose.

With the 8pm kick-off, I had a good hour to relax out in the sunny, but cold, beer garden with the usual suspects. Time for two pints and a chat with the boys – perfect. We were neither confident and cocky nor nervy and pessimistic. We were realistic, to be fair. We knew Bolton would be a tough set of opponents, but the game was certainly “winnable.” Immediate chat focussed on the game against Villa at Wembley. Steve told us of two “big Frank Lampard fans” who left on 80 minutes and all of us were outraged by the hordes who left at 2-0. Daryl said he bumped into more than a few Chelsea fans later in the evening who had left the ground early and had thought we had only won 1-0.

Not my Chelsea.

Our fans dominated a lot of our talk. Whitey spoke about the 2006 league-winning game against United…he couldn’t get a ticket for love nor money and watched the game unfold on the TV in The Slug at FB. He spoke of the shame of seeing hundreds drift past, immediately after the whistle, obviously oblivious – or uninterested – to see the league trophy being presented to the team.

Truly shameful behaviour. Who are these people?

I walked down to the ground just in time to make the kick-off. My first thoughts were about the truly pitiful away support…no more than 120. I then looked to the right and say a lovely new banner on The Shed balcony ( and I knew Beth would be pleased ) –

BENTLEY’S BOYS

Lovely stuff.

The line-up that Carlo chose surprised a few of us…both Drogs and Nico. We were amazed that Malouda was on the bench, along with a surely disappointed Joe Cole. Our midfield seemed solid, but having Mikel and Ballack in there always slows things. The enigma of Kalou upfront. Oh boy.

Within five minutes, our flying Russian was hurtling down the wing as if his life depended on it and set up Didier who shot over. During the first-half, we had the usual majority of possession, with a few Bolton counter-attacks keeping us on our toes. We were worried when JT appeared to twist his ankle, but he’s no Rooney. He soon rejoined the fray. Soon after, Yuri suffered a cut to the head and lay in the six-yard box for some time. He was patched up and resembled Bert from Sesame Street, a tuft of hair peaking over his bandaged forehead.

We were nervous – that word again – and The Bridge was muted for long periods. It should have been jumping.

I thought that Frank – playing deep again – and Ballack were quiet. The Bolton tackles were flying in from all angles. They were upsetting our mood. The fans were growing restless and the clock was ticking. Yuri popped off to get his head wound stitched and Frank filled in at left-back for five minutes. Kalou was miss-firing upfront, but Anelka was roving well.

With me chatting to Alan about a lack of movement, we worked the ball well out to Didier on the left, in front of the taxi-cab load of Bolton fans. He had space and time to curl in a perfect cross, on the money, and Anelka headed down – and in – from close range.

A huge sigh of relief, mixed in with a euphoric yelp. That was massive.

Six minutes of added time…

Wes was sitting next to me and at half-time Alan entertained him. Alan is a master of a thousand voices and Alan chatted to Wes in the style of “Boomhauer,” the fellow Texan from “King Of The Hill.”

“Get-on-that-Chelsea-dang-flying-through-there-the-middle-ball-whoop-goal-whoo-woo-you-hear?”

Health issues from two fellow fans called Frank at half-time…London Frank, recovering from a heart-attack, getting better day by day…Frome Frank, chest pains, but still able to attend games and watching fifteen feet away. We wish them well. Peter Bonetti came out onto the pitch again at the break.

With the Chelsea players awaiting their opponents to rejoin them on the Stamford Bridge pitch, Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” was played on the Chelsea PA.

“Don’t Worry About A Thing, ‘Cus Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright.”

This is yet to really catch on…watch this space.

Yet another Yuri run down the left, yet another fluffed chance. After Drogba shot high and wild from way out, Tom commented “Drogba is either caviar or cabbage” and we knew what he meant. Salomon Kalou broke through but the ‘keeper parried and the same player shot wide barely a minute later. He was annoying large sections of the crowd. This didn’t help the collective nerves of us all. Then, out of the dark London night, a chant which lit up the entire evening. It took until 57 minutes, but at last we got behind the team –

“And It’s Super Chelsea, Suuuuuuper Chelsea Eff Ceeee – We’re By Far The Greatest Team The World Has Ever Seen”

It was the loudest, most coherent chant for ages. Good stuff.

After Drogba skied a clearance, Petr Cech back-pedalled and reached up to stop the ball going out for a corner. It reminded me of a famous catch from my other favourite sport. I spoke to Wes and texted Danny, no doubt watching in deepest Rancho Cucamonga –

“Did you see that Willie Mays at the Polo Grounds catch from Cech?”

Danny soon replied –

“I did. I was expecting him to turn and hit the cut off man. Which would be Mikel.”

I laughed. A bit of baseball humour from 6,000 miles away. I will call Mikel “the cut off man” from now on in. It seems appropriate.

The nerves increased as Bolton improved around the hour mark. However, it was becoming a game of half-chances for both teams.

Another Zhirkov run deep into their box.

We moaned when the industrious Anelka gave way for Malouda…it ought to have been Kalou in our minds. More Bolton possession. Soon after, Joe took Kalou’s place. At last, a flurry of Bolton yellow cards and these were long overdue. Joe Cole danced into the box on a few occasions…the chances were starting to come again. Frank flashed a shot against the left post. Joe set up Ballack with a super cross, but he headed weakly at the goal. From a Florent Malouda corner, JT shaped beautifully and struck a low daisy-cutter which narrowly missed that left post.

Oh boy.

Bolton had chances too and every time the balls came across our box, my heart was in my
mouth…too many late goals at that end ( the one we usually defend in the second-half ) were heavy in my mind.

The clock was ticking.

80 minutes.

Oh those nerves.

85 minutes.

Zirkov again raced forward and set up Joe, who was clean through, but with the whole crowd about to explode, Joe contrived to tread on the ball and the chance was lost.

Four minutes of added time.

Tick – tick – tick.

At last, the referee ( much berated by all ) blew up and we roared. It had been a middling performance, but the result was all-important. We headed out just as that old warhorse of a song by Journey was played on the PA. It seemed appropriate –

“Just a small town boy, born and raised in South Detroit…”

Wes, Steve and myself spent from 10pm to almost midnight in The Lily Tandoori, chatting away about all things Chelsea ( 1983, 1988, 1994, 1997, 1999, 2002, 2005, 2006…) and I could honestly have stayed all night. We visited this same curry house – the same table – after the Inter game and the mood was way different. Steve and myself chatted away like fools – all those games, all those Chelsea days out, all those laughs – and Wes watched, open-mouthed at our memory. The curries were fantastic too. Dutch Mick, also present after Inter, was across the room.

Good times. No – great times.

I was exhausted driving home and even the combined forces of Johnny Rotten and Elizabeth Fraser’s disparate voices couldn’t help. I had to stop between 1am and 2am to get some sleep.

I eventually reached home at 2.40am and watched the highlights before crashing out soon after.

And here we are – five games from Heaven.

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Tales From Sir Matt Busby Way

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Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 3 April 2010.

For some reason, I awoke at about 3.45am and, for about two hours, I couldn’t get back to sleep…the game at Old Trafford was on my mind, along with memories of other past trips to that particular part of Lancashire. I was buzzing as England slept. At 6.15am, the alarm sounded. At last I was ready. This had the feel of a massive day. I was both nervous and superbly excited.

At 7.15am, I opened my car door, clutching a coffee, just as my neighbour Liz appeared, just about to take her two dogs out for their morning walk. She gave me an old-fashioned look as if to say –

“There’s that idiot off following Chelsea again.”

My village is festooned with daffodils at this time of the year and the hedgerows were full of yellow and green. I would be seeing a lot of those two colours during the day. I texted Alan the first of many…

7.20am – “Jack Kerouac.”

This was swifly followed by

7.22am – “Jenson Button.”

The F1 World Champion grew up a mere mile from my house in Upper Vobster. I was on my way north and I exchanged texts with Alan over the next few hours –

Chris – 7.46am – “Acker Bilk.”

Alan – 7.48am – “Cobblers.”

Chris – 7.59am – “Fred Wedlock.”

Alan – 8.12am – “Webb Ellis.”

Chris – 8.44am – “The Gold Cup.”

As I passed Worcester, I sent a text to my oldest friend ( 1977 and counting ) Pete, a United fan…

“Good luck today. The best team will win.”

At 9.45am, with the sun attempting to break through the grey clouds, I spotted the first United cars, with yellow and gold bar scarves draped by the rear windows. I had been listening to New Order, but soon changed to Everything But The Girl. It felt wrong for the sons of Manchester to be in my car on such a pivotal day. I had been thinking about Manchester – the city – in the build up to the game. I wondered about the demographics of that city’s two clubs. The city is ringed by several league clubs from outlying towns, and I guess their support is locally-based. The cliched-view is that no United fan comes from Manchester and of course this is ridiculous. I remember talking to a City fan – from south Manchester – and he commented that it was 50/50 where he grew up. I think that the historic United heartland of Salford, Urmston, Kersal and Stretford still holds true, whereas the City support is rooted in that south-central area of Hulme and Moss Side. However, due to the working class fan being priced out of the game these days, football has become a suburbanites plaything. How many hardcore Chelsea fans still live in Balham, Battersea, Wandsworth and Lambeth? Not many. In days of yore, the grimy street urchins of working-class Manchester would support their very local clubs, but these days United’s support now comes from every town in the British Isles. Still, I did wonder about that “map” of red and blue support within the Manchester conurbation and how it would look in 2010. Who “owns” Crumpsall and Harpurhey in the north, who “owns” Gorton and Hyde in the east? For me, these excursions into other cities on away days are like urban history trips…my mind races with past stories of club histories, past players, past battles, local personalities, local flavour. I love these trips with all my heart and always try to get under the skin of each host city. As I have mentioned before, my ancestors come from SW Manchester – an Axon stronghold – and this has played on my mind for some time. It’s just a good job Ossie and Webbie scored in that 1970 game at Old Trafford – yes, I realise the irony – or who knows who I would be supporting today.

Back in my youth, United were always seen as a bit of a sad old club, followed by neanderthal glory-hunters…the fact that they had not won the league for ages was richly celebrated. Their one season in the old second division was seen as perfect poetry for their legions of fans. Their lone star, George Best, was a laughing stock, missing matches, getting suspended. He was lampooned by us at school in those years from 1972-1974.

“Georgie Best, Superstar – He Wears Frilly Knickers And He Wears A Bra.”

And here’s the thing…back in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, I always got the impression that kids who weren’t really into football, but went along with it to fit in, always supported Manchester United and Liverpool. More irony – that those two bitter rivals should have such a shared gene pool among their support.

In fact, I remember finding my class photo from 1978 a while back and it acted as a fine snapshot in time for me. My class contained maybe 15 boys and 15 girls. We would have been 13. I clearly remembered who supported who…no clubs were supported by any of the girls ( how times change! ) but the list of boys’ support was as follows –

Liverpool – Peter, Richard.
Tottenham Hotspur – Andy, David.
Manchester United – Jerry.
Chelsea – yours truly.
Leeds United – Tim.
Bristol Rovers – Dave.

The fanatics were Rover’s Dave and myself. But only a quarter of that class were footy fans…I bet the figure is higher these days.

Anyway, I put all of these myriad thoughts to one side as I turned off the M6 and began the oh-so familiar approach into Manchester. I was soon on the orbital and always find it odd that “The World’s Biggest Football Club” is never signposted. Methinks that there are some City fans in high places in the city council offices!

“Let the idiots from Surrey and Devon get lost.”

There were lots of youths in high-visiblity jackets shepherding cars into industrial estate parking lots – £5! £6! £7! – but I parked up on Gorse Avenue outside a house, no charge. Easy. This was at 11am. I walked out onto the Chester Road, the main approach, and the white steel roof supports of Old Trafford were clearly visible. The street vendors – or grafters – were out in force, selling the yellow and gold scarves.

“Get your protest scaaaaarves – only a five’uh” in that Mancunian vernacular.

A £3.50 “cheeseburg’uh” and I was on my way. The cross-roads by Sir Matt Busby Way is always a hive of red and white activity on match days…a massive queue to get into The Bishop’s Blaize pub, full of song, chippy after chippy, souvenir stalls, a riot of colour. I had to get in line to withdraw some cash and as I waited for what seemed like ages, I took it all in. Three young lads from Northern Ireland, their accents even more impenetrable than the locals, were stood behind me in the queue and I could sense they were worried, running through United’s attacking options, minus Rooney. Our team appeared stronger in comparison. Lots of United fans appeared tense. Fans were decked in protest scarves. Some had Megastore bags. An uneasy alliance.

On the final approach, I bought two fanzines…”CFCUK” from Dave Johnstone, but “United We Stand” too…for my mate Pete. But I do occasionally like to read other fans’ perspectives on this great game of ours. To be fair, “UWS” is a great read, albeit red-tinted, and it even allowed a Chelsea fan’s perspective on the current state of play. There were the predictable noises about the Glazer conundrum, the green and gold protest ( now getting passe, according to some ), the return of Beckham, but also some views from the hardcore about “Day Trippers”, corporate hospitality goons, the over-pricing of tickets and the loathing of Liverpool. Sound familiar?

I took a few shots of the stadium – the United Trinity, the statue of Sir Matt, the understated Munich memorial. I chatted briefly with a few mates on the forecourt, then lined-up to get in. However, an over eager steward stopped me from taking my camera in…he was just being vindictive I am sure…but thankfully, I sweet-talked my way into leaving the whole bag behind the desk at the main reception. The gentleman was very kind and I thanked him ( it meant I didn’t have to traipse back to the car and miss the kick-off ), but I daren’t tell him I was Chelsea! I would go for Plan B and would take a few photos with my phone. Sorted.

I was in the side stand again, but unlike the pre-match vibes at our game at OT last season, the mood was up-beat. It made a refreshing change I must say. In that crowded bar, so many familiar faces. I had a bottle of Bud – United most love America.

Alan, Gary and myself had great seats, four rows from the rear, level with the six yard box. The sun was shining, the nerves were tingling. I spotted Steve Azar, face aglow, in the corner section, right in the middle. There were 2,500 Chelsea in the corner, 500 along the side. We stood the entire game.

We had agreed that a strong, determined start was paramount and the boys didn’t let us down. From the kick-off, we worked the ball into Deco who shot from distance. And it didn’t stop there. We dominated that gorgeous first-half in a way that few of us could imagine. United couldn’t get near us. We were moving the ball so well, keeping United at bay. The defense was hardly troubled, but we kept asking questions of United. Mikel was at his best ; a defensive rock in front of Alex and JT. Frank and Deco moved the ball intelligently, Malouda was always happy to drive into the heart of the red back line. Anelka held up the ball well. We were loving it. The United support was reeling.

After a quarter of the game gone, Malouda, our French prince, skipped deep into the heart of the United defence…he whipped in a cross and we saw a blur of players at the near post. The ball ended-up in the goal, we knew not how, we did not care.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSS.”

The Chelsea support roared like never before this season. Up and down we bounced. We could not believe our eyes. A text from a mate…Joe’s goal…must’ve been the deftest of touches. For the next five minutes, our support roared and roared and I noted many sticks of celery being tossed into the air.

Our very own take on the yellow and green on show at Old Trafford.

For the rest of the half, we probed away, but with only a few shots from distance. However, United were as poor as I have seen in thirteen visits to their stadium. Neville, that loathed, ridiculously-mustachioed individual, was having a howler and Scholes’ cross-field passes often went out of play. Ji-Sung Park was coming in for some stick from Alan, Gary and myself.

“I hear that Park has bought a new labrador.”

“Oh yeah – what flavour?”

“He’s kicking chunks out of us.”

“Not a pal of mine.”

“They’ll never winalot with him in the team.”

Such lovely moments of humour really make watching football with Al and Gal so wonderful. We were hooting.

Of course, at half-time, we fully expected Ferguson to be giving his under performing players the famous “Hair Dryer Treatment” and we knew that United couldn’t possibly perform as poorly in the second.

And so it proved. United had a lot more of the ball and I became trapped in a world of nervous doubt, hating every United attack, begging for us to close them down, but screaming support nonetheless. Paolo broke through soon into the second period, but was stage-struck and tamely shot wide. Damn. The time appeared to stand still. I looked at my watch constantly. Scholes, deployed so deep, was having so much of the ball and was having better joy with his “quarterback-style” long balls to the wings. United were getting back into it and eventually the home support was rocking. We stood firm – encouraging the boys, urging them on. Two stalwarts next to me, old school veterans, were annoying the hell out of me. They were so negative.

“Of course, United are stronger you fools, we couldn’t keep that dominance going forever, stop moaning!” – I thought. One of the “moaning two” couldn’t watch. He stood next to me, head bowed, muttering about wanting to be “in a darkened room.”

Drogba came on for Anelka and we approved. Nico had led the line superbly, but was tiring. Drogba had a couple of breaks, a couple of duels with Vidic. Dean was annoying us with his decisions. Send Scholes off, you muppet!

And then it happened.

A through ball from Kalou, the other sub, and Drogba was offside…but no flag…”go on my son.”

Drogba slammed the ball towards Van der Sar and the net rippled. Is there a more beautiful sight in football?

That was it. We exploded. I screamed, then jumped up onto my seat and ended up in the row infront. Gary ended up two rows infront. I screamed and shouted “it was offside, it was offside – you beauty!” The consensus was that, yes, Didi was offside, but we couldn’t care. A text confirmed it…it came from Del, a Liverpool fan, eager to see us halt United’s progress to Number 19 and four in a row.

Then, almost immediately, a United break and a close-range goal from Macheda.

And so it started all over again…the clock-watching, the nerves…a few sporadic United attacks. Thankfully, they were misfiring. But – oh – what a tense time. I was hating it, but loving it too.

“Back to the darkened room” I whispered to the fan next to me.

Everyone was talking about “Fergie time” and some expected five minutes or more – even seven – to be played. Thankfully, my call of “four” turned out to be right. With the Chelsea support roaring, we repelled every ball into the box…a Cech grasp, a JT head, a block, a penalty claim – EFF OFF! – but we stayed the distance.

At around 2.38pm, the final whistle.

I momentarily slumped – YES! – payback for Moscow.

I then clambered high on my seat, hugged a few strangers, kissed a few strangers, then joined in –

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

Right in line was our mate Simon, 1984 vintage, and he spotted the three of us.

His smile said it all.

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

Down below, the players celebrated and we continued singing. It had been a momentous match in deepest Manchester. I felt shattered. I bounced down the stairs, to be met with ashen-faced United fans staring at us…I gathered my wits, then gathered my bag from the reception.

Out on Sir Matt Busby Way, the natives were silent, save for a couple of United lads gobbing off, then squaring up to a couple of Chelsea “scarfers.” I didn’t want to be the one Chelsea fan looking on if it kicked-off, so I quickly side-stepped a few United lads and walked amidst the Chelsea. I kept looking around to make sure the trouble had subsided, keeping my wits about me. I doubt if I would ever get involved – more of a peacemaker, me – but we had to stick together. Anyway, a lesson there. I never wear colours and that is why.

I hot-footed it back to the car with texts flying in from Glenn, Parky, a euphoric Del and then from further afield…Bob in ST, Andy in LA, Beth in TX. The locals were moaning about the referee too. Love it!

I was hot and flustered. I wanted to get away. I threw my Lacoste rain jacket into the back seat, gulped down a Red Bull and set off. On the CD player, Tracey Thorn –

“Wherever you go I will follow you.”

At just before 3pm, I entered the Chester Road and Old Trafford was – like Manchester United – in my rear view mirror. It was a beautiful drive home…blissed out…music on the CD…who cares about the rest of the football results…

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

Nearing the M6, I was overtaken by a fat replica-kit wearing United fan, in a Mercedes, guzzling a Coke…he was a big old target…a United stereotype, no doubt loathed by the United hardcore…I put on “Blue Is The Colour” and wound down the windows, as I sidled up alongside.

The texts continued, the Chelsea CD continued.

“Son Of My Father.”

“Alouette.”

“Blue Is The Colour.”

…as if to top a wonderful day out, I then learnt that both Spurs and Leeds had lost. The rain couldn’t dampen my spirits. I was loving every damn minute of it.

Nearing home, passing through Midsomer Norton, a text from Pete –

“Fair play mate. Sounded like you deserved to win. Hope you enjoyed it.”

Did I ever!

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Tales From The Last Game Of 2009

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Chelsea vs. Fulham : 28 December 2009.

Another beautiful suuny drive amidst the Winter landscapes of Southern England and the three of us ( Glenn, Parky and myself ) were jammed in The Yadana Cafe on Lillie Road by 11.15am. Despite the cold temperatures, which maybe helped keep the roads relatively clear of traffic, we were buzzing as we chatted about the season so far and the game ahead.

Rob was already in The Goose as we strode in at 11.45am. I sat next to the radiator in the far corner, attempted to thaw out and waited for the troops to arrive. I chatted to Daryl about the “state of the nation” and spoke about the mumbles and grumbles from the away support up in Birmingham a couple of days previous. It was reassuring to hear that he shared my view that now is the time for the Chelsea support to get together and rally behind the boys. OK, the team aren’t playing well, but now is the time to dig deep, stick together, get back to our basics of supporting Chelsea…it certainly isn’t the first time the team is going through a comparatively rough spell – and it certainly won’t be the last.

If anyone wants to get off the ride now – please go ahead.

And here’s the thing. Going into the game against in-form Fulham, we were top.

Top of the pile.

Back in the dark days of my youth, I would have given my right arm, my right leg and my right side of my brain to be “in the mix” for the league title at Christmas.

The beers went down well, the banter was great ( “Gromit” / Kev was the brunt of some friendly-Mickey taking ), and it was wonderful to be amongst like-minded souls. It’s nice to know that wherever we go with Chelsea, there are always a few Goose regulars not too far away. After a while, the Three Texans joined us and I enjoyed chatting…it would be Jed’s first-ever game at HQ.

We got into our seats in good time and we had already heard that Jose would be back at The Bridge for the first time since September 2007. He was shown on the Shed TV screen and I soon located him via my camera and snapped a few for old times sake. He was watching from the West Middle – one of the many unused Millenium Suites – with Rui Farria. He had a grey overcoat on.

Memories.

I was surprised that only one “Jose Mourinho” chant sounded throughout the day…but pleased too. We needed to get behind the current incumbent.

I spotted two new supporters club banners…”Chelsea Swindon” and “New York Blues.” again, Kev, Jed, Wes and Jeff had tickets together…in the Shed Lower this time and my telephoto lens soon spotted them.

The Fulham 3,000 were making a fair din in the SE corner and they were soon jumping around like maniacs when Zoltan Gera put them 1-0 up. What terrible defending…first Paolo on walkabout leaving the entire right flank exposed and then the oh-so common foul up in the middle.

She-iiiiiiiiite.

We didn’t play well in the first period. Our approach was so laboured…touch, touch, touch, pass, pass, pass…it anoyed me we didn’t change our attacking policy. Why not hit Drogba early once in a while? Why not test their defence, without Hangeland, and put them under pressure? Our corners were woeful…do we bother taking any during the week at Cobham? I hear myself say the same thing ever week…It was so annoying to see Drogba writhing around in apparent agony three times in the first-half. Every time he does it, I like him less. Which is not the way it should be. The lack of confidence which Carlo has spoken was evident with players reticent to move for each other. I noted that the Shed Lower were standing throughout the first-half and this was good to see. The support tried it’s best, but there were the inevitable boos at the break.

Top of the league and Chelsea fans booing.

I mentioned my sadness about this to a few folk at the break, including SF Pete and Becky who I met in the MHU concourses. We had a right old moan, but hoped for a change in our fortunes in the second period.

We played better of course in the second 45. But it still took an age to get on the scoresheet. Our crossing had been particularly poor and so it was with a great deal of frustration that I pleaded with sub Ivanovic to “loft the effing thing.” Thankfully, the resultant deep cross was headed home with aplomb by an perfectly placed Drogba. The place erupted. I punched the air and bellowed. The boys around me were bouncing with relief.

Within two minutes, the two wide players Kalou and Sturridge were involved as – guess what? – we scored a second. I was impressed that Schwartzer palmed away Sturridge’s angled shot, then found it hard to believe that the Fulham lad had put the ball in.

From the Matthew Harding, it was difficult to see what had happened.

I am confident that from the Shed Lower, Kev and The Texans had no such problem.

Get in!

At long long last, the crowd upped the volume and the place was echoing to the sound of our support. I had to think to myself “about time.”

This was a hot-and-cold performance, no more so than from Didier Drogba. Again it was sad to see Petr Cech getting a few decisions wrong…as Alan observed, “Cech doesn’t know whether to stick or twist.”

In the last few minutes, Salomon Kalou rattled the bar with a thunderous shot. Fulham had chased and harried us all day, but we had so much of the ball…I’m just glad that we eked out a win in a game that we all said we just had to win.

Back in the car in Chesson Road, we were cold but happy. A coffee soon warmed me up, as did the memories of those two goals which had given us those all-important three points…

Let’s keep it going.

TEW05785739_00177

Tales From My Childhood And Beyond

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 20 September 2009.

When I was about six, I wrote all sorts of “football facts and figures” in an exercise book ( which I still have, somewhere ). I stuck a few stickers on the cover including a Chelsea rosette. There was a roughly drawn picture of Leeds’ Mick Jones on the cover too ( don’t ask – I don’t know why I chose him! ) Every week, I watched “Match Of The Day” and “The Big Match” and tried my hardest to write down all of the various team line-ups. I put a few items in it about Chelsea. Over a period of about two months, I noted the number of goals that Chelsea and Tottenham scored in their various league games…I guess that, even then, in around 1971, I recognised the “special rivalry” between the two clubs.

To be fair, we had London’s “The Big Match” on ITV every Sunday after lunch and the two teams always seemed to be on. Whisper it, but I greatly admired Spurs’ Alan Gilzean…I think it was because he had the same bald pate as my father. But nobody could compare to Peter Osgood, just in case anybody is worried.

My uncle Geoff, who we started to take to games in around 1975, was a Spurs fan…Spurs always seemed to be in my consciousness…more so than Arsenal, as an example. At school, there were Spurs fans, but not many Arsenal ones. I have said before that I class Spurs and Chelsea’s identity and support as a bit similar ( certainly in the ‘seventies ). West Ham were working class but entertaining, Arsenal middle class but ( pre-Wenger ) oh-so boring…Spurs’ and Chelsea’s support was mixed…lots of working class fans, lots of hoolies, lots of glamour and good footballing sides to boot.

However, my general ambivalence to Tottenham as a young lad changed after they virtually relegated us in 1975, romped to a hideous 3-1 win at The Bridge in 1978 ( yes – I was present…I can still feel the pain…Hoddle, Ardiles and Villa causing havoc after our man Tommy Langley scored with a bicycle kick ) and then knocked us out of the FA Cup in 1982.

Scars which go deep.

Of course, we have had the upper hand over them for two decades now. The 32 league game unbeaten run from February 1990 to November 2006 was epic and so enjoyable. The last time I was physically present at a Spurs defeat of Chelsea at the Bridge was way back in 1986!

Karen, Dave, Lord Parky, Glenn’s mate Steve and myself set off from Somerset at 10.15am. Parky was in constant chatter mode as a ska compilation CD was played on the drive up. We then had a dance compilation. I think Parky is going to do his version of Lady Ga Ga’s “Poker Face”…Lord Ga Ga’s “Parky Face.”

Straight into the pub for a nice pre-match…the service was rubbish, though. It took ages to get served. There was a proper gathering of the clans, with clusters of my mates from Nuneaton, Trowbridge and London talking in the beer garden and inside the pub too. Mo was nearby, chatting to Stan. After a while, Mike ( NY ) and Kevin ( MI ) showed-up just as the Manchester derby was got into full swing. What a game, by the way – there were massive shouts of approval each time City equalised, then a horrendous groan once we heard Owen had tipped it 4-3 in United’s favour. A draw would have been lovely. Still, City’s defeat meant we were the only unbeaten team left.

The big talking point of the day was my good friend Alan’s admission that he had starred as an extra in the new Nick Love film “The Firm.” His scene was filmed almost a year ago and he told us that he is in it for about ten seconds, if you know where to look. We were all surprised to hear this – he hadn’t said anything in case his scene never made it past the editing. I remember the original, starring Gary Oldman, which came out in 1989…I can’t wait to see this now, especially on DVD – with that pause button ready! Alan had to wear a truly chronic Gabicci pullover. All the clothes are meant to be spot on apparently. Which brings us nicely to –

Lacoste Watch

Alan – dark blue
Lord Parky – royal blue
Chris – pink
Jokka – sky blue

Onwards to the game! More trouble at the turnstiles with the scanners, but I reached my seat just as the kick-off took place…perfect timing.

It was a perfect day for football. Dry and not too hot. I noticed yet another new banner, draped to my left over the balcony. It quoted the Suggs’ song from 1997.

“The only place to be every other Saturday.”

We are to be commended for our “Chelsea Style” banners which brighten up the balconies and walls of The Bridge. I love the simple and evocative “Born Is the King.”

There was a nice piece about Vic Flaherty in the programme.

Programme Quick Quiz

1. How many goals did Spurs legend Clive Allen score in 24 appearances for Chelsea?

2. Who was Chelsea’s manager when we last lost against Spurs at home?

3. Gus Poyet made 149 appearances for us. Did he play more or less during his three years spell at Spurs?

4. Which Blues defender scored a loast-gasp winner at Spurs in 2001/2002?

We began brightly and I captured the Bosingwa shot which rocked the bar on film. However, Spurs came back into it and had a fair amount of the ball, despite only a Defoe shot really bothering us. Cech saved that one well. The noise was good at the start – all of that pre-match beer had the desired effect…but then it quietened a bit. The Spurs’ slow dirge “Oh when the spurs…blah, blah, blah” was not really met with a response from The Shed. Disappointing. Then – how soon that changed…a fantastic cross and Ashley stooped to conquer. This was the perfect response a Spurs’ song about Cole and Sol Campbell. Oh – how we laughed.

Alan – “They’ll have to come at us know.”
Chris – “Come on my little diamonds.”

Buzzing at half-time…I went off for a £3 steak and ale pie. Paul Elliott was on the pitch at the break and I wondered how many Chelsea “fans” knew who he was. I was a bit late back to my seat, but Alan told me that Carlo got a great reception from the Matthew Harding at the start of the second half. This was nice to hear – I have a lot of respect for Carlo…one of the good guys. However, his Spurs kit looked baggy and didn’t fit him that well…he really should have gone to a club with more style!

I was sat next to Steve ( a neutral fan – a rare breed ) and he asked me –

“What is it about Ballack? He doesn’t seem to fit in” Indeed, he hadn’t had a great game. Alan was on his case, too. No more than a minute later, Frank set up Ballack to make it 2-0.

What do we know, eh? More celebrations and more laughter. The game now appeared safe and we were looking at six wins out of six. The day was rounded off with an exceptional goal from the rejuvenated Drogba…this was the definitive Drogba goal infact.

The anticipation, the sprint, the strength, the touch, the guile, the power.

He rounded the hapless Carlo…the anticipation reached epic proportions and he slammed the ball in.

Quite spectacular…a fantastic goal.

With the crowd rejuvenated too, the MHL serenaded Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, who was in full view in the TV studio, overlooking the north-east corner. He was loving it.

It was good to see the Chelsea support clap off the injured Bassong…nice to see we can be well-mannered when required.

After a while, the Spurs fans decided that they would start getting behind their team and they did make a fair racket…but no more so than when we went to The Lane in March. This seems to be the norm now…often the 3,000 away fans out-sing the home fans. A Spurs fan was led out of the Upper East and – rather comically – the away fans were full of it. Never mind you are losing 3-0, never mind you haven’t beaten us at The Bridge since 1990 – one fan has been led out of the home area.

Big deal!

Outside, the crowds were slowly moving past The So Bar and I realised that the police had let out the Spurs fans at the same time as us. It got a bit tetchy – lots of gesturing, but I didn’t see anything. I am sure that Spurs made a big deal about “out-singing” the Chelsea support ( which they did for only some of the time ) but – to be honest – despite the rivalry, Chelsea Football Club has moved on and have much bigger fish to fry than Tottenham.

TEW05342473_00105

Tales From Moscow

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Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 21 May 2008.

I got back from work on Tuesday at about 5.30pm…a bite to eat, watched “Sky Sports News” – I noted mainly United fans being interviewed in Red Square. Got to bed at 7.30pm…oh dear, too excited…I dozed off after a while, but the alarm woke me at 9.15pm. I packed some “lucky European game” Maynards Wine Gums ( the reason we beat Liverpool in the semis ) plus the scarf my mother bought me after my first ever game in 1974…its last outing was at Stockholm in 1998…I needed all the good luck charms I could muster. I set the VCR to record the game.

Left home at 10pm…past Stonehenge…M3, M25…Gatwick at 12.15am.

My mate Neil had flown in from Guernsey at 7pm and had tried to get some kip at the airport to no avail. My other mates Daryl, Alan and Gary arrived by train from London at 12.30am. We all arrived just at the right time, just ahead of the rush. Our flight was to leave at 3am…the airport wasn’t busy at all. Time for one pint of San Miguel in the departure lounge – I was told that ex-England cricketer Alex Stewart and big Chelsea fan was in the bar. This would be my 55th game of the season…Gary has only missed two Chelsea games this season, dating from the Charity Shield in August…60 out of 62 I think.

We left Gatwick at 3.15am…a four hour flight was ahead of us. Not a great flight – not much sleep, awful food…the bloke I was sat next to was a Southampton fan…he was here with his girlfriend, who had two corporate clients on tow. I heaved a deep sigh. They didn’t even know where their seats were in the stadium. The whole idea of corporates at games makes me sick, so I did well to ignore them all for the rest of the flight.

With the three hour time difference, we touched down in Moscow around 10am…misty rain, low clouds…it hit home that I was in Russia when I clocked the terminal building, with Russian-style balconies and over-elaborate touches here and there. Then the Russian planes with the Cyrillic text. Dorothy, this ain’t Kansas…it ain’t even Croydon. I was loving it – the thrill of a foreign land.

To be fair, we went straight through passport control and were soon heading into Moscow on the free bus, stickered with CFC badges…a nice touch.

Sheremetyevo Airport must be about thirty miles to the NW of Moscow, but the bus trip took us two hours. I noted that a few of the fans caught up on some sleep, but not me…I peered out of the windows, taking it all in. The traffic was horrendous…the road network just isn’t up to the vast increase in cars now present in Moscow. There were massive apartment blocks everywhere, blocking the horizon…everything was on a vast scale…the towering housing blocks, the shopping malls…it was like America on drugs…a brutal cityscape…not pretty. We drove past two old-style Russian markets / bazaars…shanty-towns of products, rickety-shops and bright signs. We drove on and on, the apartment blocks dominating every view. Noted many massive car dealerships – Ford, Mercedes, Toyota…an Ikea…several McDonalds.

Eventually we spotted the Luzhniki – the former Lenin Stadium – home of the Olympics in 1980…Daley Thompson, Alan Wells, Coe and Ovett. We stumbled out of the bus at 12.30pm, not really knowing which side of the stadium we were on. The idea was to head into the centre. We crossed a road…I tried to phone home…we got our bearings. Then, just behind us, we spotted Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti appear from an underpass…I walked over to say “hi” to Ron as he lives near me and we chatted briefly…it then went surreal…out of the underpass appeared Pat Nevin ( my favourite CFC player of all time! ), then Ray Wilkins, then Colin Pates, John Bumstead, Dave Beasant, Clive Walker, David Lee, Steve Finnieston, Clive Wilson, Keith Dublin, Trevor Aylott, Garry Stanley, Gary Chivers. We were on cloud nine. What glorious good luck, to be at that exact point in a city as huge as Moscow…the players had just arrived themselves and were headed into the centre like us. We chatted to a few of them…photos with a few…had a nice little chat with Pat Nevin and I was beside myself with joy. After five minutes of this, the players drifted away and we stood around rubbing our eyes, not really believing what had just happened. We made our way to the nearest subway stop, only to be reunited with them all again as Alan bought our return tickets. I had the impression that Pat – the most Worldly-wise of them all – was sorting out the players’ tickets!

We descended the elevators into the station and I was loving it all. Onto the famous subway train and there was my most admired footballer ever Pat Nevin just five feet away. Bless him – he was wearing jeans and his ruc-sac contained the new Bill Bryson book (“Shakespeare” )…he looked like a mature student, ever the non-typical footballer.

We got to Red Square and up into the daylight, my heart now pumping with anticipation. Daryl had the “spot” of the day…Bryan “Pop” Robson was nearby. Red Square was magnificent, if not as large as I expected…we tried to hoist my Peter Osgood banner, but the Russian police said ”net”. Cathy was nearby in a bar, but I never bumped into her unfortunately…obviously, loads of photos outside The Kremlin and then by St Basils, the colourful cathedral built in around 1570. We spotted a few of the Chelsea players milling around…Ron Harris and the Kremlin, what an amazing sight.

Down to the river, a walk past the southern wall of The Kremlin…I treated the boys to a hot dog and a drink…the hot dog was awful actually. Mike from New York was in town, but try as we might, we never managed to meet up – a shame. We headed into Arbatskaya, one of the main streets for bars in Moscow…my mate Mark from Westbury, a nearby town to my home in Somerset, shouted out to me and we joined him for a beer…in fact five beers…he was sat with a Chelsea crew from Trowbridge and Salisbury. We were then joined by the Worcester Boys ( Burger will remember these chaps from Villa Park last year…good lads ) I pinned my Ossie banner up…it felt good.

The rain had come by this stage, though, and it was getting a bit cold. I bought a black Russian hat ( with hammer and sickle ) for 300 roubles ( £6 ) and I was told by the lads “that looks good on you, mate.” I still don’t know if they were serious! Opposite us was a Sbarro and sitting in the front was Specials front man Terry Hall ( big United fan )…he was looking pretty miserable actually and Alan and Daryl told him this when they got photographed with him as he left!

We decided to get some food at Sbarro too…and what followed was typical Russia…we waited for about twenty minutes to get served because the cashier had run out of change! I kid you not. By the time Alan and myself had been served, our pizza was getting cold…we sat down in the front by the pavement to be met by Daryl throwing plastic cups at some ravenous crows which had descended to pick up some scraps. It was like a scene from The Birds.

At about 7pm we walked up through Arbatskaya, past a pub full of United fans, and dropped into the John Bull pub…half and half Chelsea and United. The United fans were the more vociferous it has to be said…they were also the most drunk. It helps. To be fair to United, they really do have an amazing array of songs – fair play to them. I feared that this song would be whizzing around my head for the rest of the evening…

“Viva Ronaldo, viva Ronaldo, running down the wing, hear United sing, Viva Ronaldo.”

I hate it when that happens. Bloody hate it.

We caught the subway, outnumbered and out sung by United on our train…I commented to Daryl that as United’s support is so massive, then the 21,000 present are by nature bound to be the most vociferous of its support…our 21,000 would be more mixed, more representative of our ( mainly middle-class ) smaller support as a whole. Something I have realised these past few years. Our support ain’t bad though…when we’re in the mood we can put on a good show.

I noted many Russians wearing Chelsea scarves and shirts. It was noticeable that we spotted a Chelsea / Adidas billboard with the slogan “Impossible Is Nothing” at many locations in Moscow. Maybe we do have ten million fans in Russia! Took a few photos outside, including the iconic statue of Lenin, cape flying in the wind. The stadium was set in its own separate area, surrounded by trees, all very ordered, all very utilitarian…the stadium was functional rather than beautiful…its roof ( an addition since 1980 ) gave it a certain style and an extra visual impact. I bought some match programmes.

Into the stadium at about 9.15pm…unfortunately missed out on a place to pin up my Ossie flag.

We had reasonable seats, lower section, row 15, by the far corner flag. The food outlets were busy, but the food on offer looked ropey. Bizarrely, I opted on a big bucket of popcorn for 200 roubles…should we win, it would be popcorn at every game for the rest of my days!

This was it then – the zenith of my Chelsea-supporting life. I had thought on the importance of this match for days on end. I realised that, to an extent, there was a certain inherent sadness in this momentous trip. Should we be victorious, this would undoubtedly be the high point, the high water mark, of my Chelsea life…anything else which follows would be therefore of lesser importance, of lesser value…quite a chilling prospect and it haunted me throughout the trip.

As the stadium filled up, I needed some time alone. I went out into the area beneath the stands. Up until that point, since being out sung by United on the tube, I had negative vibes about the game… would our support rise to the occasion, would the team? My mind was muddled. I needed some clarity.

I stood by myself, overlooking a lower-level entrance onto the pitch, just as the red and gold clad performers were assembling below. I thought back on all the games I had been to, I thought of my parents taking me to that first game, for igniting my passion for this wonderful club…I was just so grateful to be there, to be in Moscow…my feelings at this moment are difficult to put into words. My vibes were improving. I bumped into Dutch Mick, who was in Chicago in 2006, and took a photo of him and his mate Gary with two Russian soldiers. Just this simple act – meeting a good friend so far from home, amongst 21,000 fellow fans, made me feel great and I bounced back into the stadium.

TV presenter Jonny Gould ( he hosts the live baseball each week on Channel Five ) was spotted five rows behind. I had a quick chat…”was watching the Yankee game on Sunday, heard you say you’d be here, been a Yankee fan for twenty years” – he told me to email the show. Good stuff.

The PA played “Take Me Home Country Road”, the United song, adapted to include the more appropriate “United Road” and the United fans were loud and vociferous.

Then our turn – and “Blue Is The Colour”, sung heartily by the blue hordes in the south terrace. I captured this all on my phone.

The pre-match festivities continued with the on-field antics of the dancers, the release of the red and gold balloons.

The teams entered the arena, the Champions League theme tune sounded.

We were ready.

It seems pointless for me to regurgitate the entire game, since you all saw it and you all shared the highs and lows.

All I can do is mention my perspective from Row 15, Tribune 1 in the South-East section of The Luzhniki. I was sat next to Neil, he was next to his brother Daryl…across the way were Gary and Alan…two seats down was Andy, a good friend from Nuneaton. So good to be so close. Three Russians were stood infront.

I replaced my Russian hat ( it felt massive! ) with my Yankees cap – this was a good luck charm from Anfield and The Bridge semi-finals, so I needed the help of that, too.

Caps, scarves, wine gums – if you must know, blue socks and underpants too. OK – I know…too much information.

It’s worth commenting on that our starting XI was the one which I predicted as did the rest of the lads. We can debate this until the cows come home, but it doesn’t say much for Paolo Ferreira’s confidence, does it?

Since we left the bar on Arbatskaya at 7pm, we were on our feet from then until we eventually sat on the bus which took us to the airport at around 2am…seven hours on our feet. Apart from a few pockets, the Chelsea support stood as one the entire game. The United massed ranks did too.

Of course, just before the game began, we waved our flags furiously…United’s show was quite clever…red mosaics, with the word “Believe” picked out in white…but the “i” was in the shape of the cup…when it first appeared I thought that it said ”Belveve” to my weary eyes.

I think for our Champions League appearance in Rome next May we should do something similar, but the word should be “Celery.” That could confuse the Romans and the rest of Europe come to that. Alternatively “Vinci Per Noi” has a nice ring to it.

Our main chant for the night was “We’re in Moscow, we’re in Moscow, “F” your history, we’re in Moscow.”

The game was magnificent wasn’t it? At last a great CL Final. But we were fearing the worst as half-time approached…Essien wasn’t playing close enough to Ronaldo…their midfield was dominating.

Great goal from Ronaldo, but oh that hurt. Only noted a few United fans in the neutral section to my right. United were then in full voice for twenty minutes…one chant in particular ( relying on United’s antagonism towards England…they surely are the closest of cousins to the Scousers )…

“He goes to the left, he goes to the right – that boy Ronaldo made England look shite.” The whole of the north end was swaying one way and then the next…impressive…sickeningly so.

Then a ball into the box, the ball broke…I said to Neil “we’ll score here” and a nano-second later, Lamps equalised…much against the run of play, but our end erupted…gave Neil a hug and just briefly glanced at Daryl, losing it, as I climbed up onto the seat behind me. We screamed our support.

Our second-half performance ( in which we quietened United’s support to a whisper) was the stuff of legends…on many occasions, with me singing myself hoarse, the whole Chelsea end as one organic unit, at one with the team, I just felt that it was as good as it will ever get.

Mesmerising.

The game continued on…it was an epic…or at least it felt like it. The wine gums were getting eked out – I needed to save some for extra-time, then penalties.

The low point of the whole night for me was Drogba’s typically selfish walk down the tunnel. I was saddened, truly saddened, that he was so self-absorbed that he didn’t even bother to watch with his manager and team mates from the bench. Words fail me.

Let’s cut to the chase. When Ronaldo tried to be clever, when Big Pete saved, the rush we all experienced was amazing. I clambered onto my seat and paraphrased United.

“He goes to the left, he goes to the right – that boy Ronaldo – he is fucking shite.” Oh boy – the antichrist has missed…GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Frank scored – bless him, God Bless Pat – and I think it was at this stage that I began welling up, my hands coming up to my face, trembling, my whole upper torso shaking. I remember thinking “Christ, if I’m like this now, what will I be like when we win” and I was very self aware that I might well soon be collapsing in a heap, tears flowing.

“Get a grip, Chris.”

United and Chelsea traded pens. I captured Anderson’s ( ? ) penalty on my mobile…MISS, MISS! No luck.

Then Penalty Number Five. JT…we stood and we remained still.

Disbelief – utter disbelief. The feeling of euphoria soon evaporated and United sensed our fear. Anelka’s penalty miss was academic I thought – I knew we’d never recover from JT’s miss.

We turned away, silent.

Fifteen minutes later, we were scrambling around outside the back of the stadium, trying to dodge the rain and the massive puddles…I heard “I vow to thee, my country” being played on the stadium PA ( the quintessential English hymn ) and then…with us a good five minutes away…the roar from the United hordes as the cup was lifted.

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