Tales From The U.S. Capital

Posted on July 30, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Barcelona : 28 July 2015.

As I have mentioned previously, ten years ago I was in the US to see Chelsea play two of our three tour games that summer. This summer’s trip has a lot in common with that trip a decade ago. In 2005, I flew in and out of Charlotte and saw us play in Washington DC and New Jersey. This year, I flew in and out of Washington and see games in New Jersey, Charlotte and Washington DC.

Three locations are forever tied together in my personal history of following the boys over land and sea.

With two down and one to go on this tour, I left the clean, crisp and charming city of Charlotte at around 11am on the Sunday. I had breakfasted at a busy local restaurant with my good friend JR from Detroit and his family. I am still having gastronomic flashbacks and sugar rushes at the memory of the apple pancakes which I waded through. Another wonderful Chelsea road trip was ahead of me.

Charlotte to DC and another four hundred miles on the American road.

It was a perfect Sunday as we headed north-east. I ate up the miles in my…cough, cough…red Chevy. Oh the irony of driving around the US in the vehicular equivalent of a Manchester United shirt. JR and I chatted incessantly about all sorts on the long drive through North Carolina and Virginia. The time soon flew past. The first three hours seemed like thirty minutes. Others were travelling to DC by plane. Others by train. We were not the only ones travelling by automobile.

Around thirty minutes behind us, JR heard via our friend Janset that she was travelling up in a van with Paul Canoville, Mario Melchiot and a few more of Chelsea In America’s finest. JR also heard that the three from Iowa – Phil, Chris and Sam – were on the road too.

It seemed like a Chelsea edition of “Wacky Races”, but instead of Penelope Pitstop, the Anthill Mob and the Slag Brothers, this edition consisted of The Schmuckle Bus, The Cannersmobile 5000 and The Iowa Hot Rod – complete with blue smoke bombs. We later heard that Jeremy from Kansas was on the road too, but maybe he was taken out early in his Beardwagon by Dick Dastardly.

It is not known if Sergei and Dmitry from Badgercrack, Nebraska ever left the start line in their Facepaint Coupe.

The traffic began to slow, however. A trip that ought to have taken six hours eventually took eight. It was especially brutal north of Richmond on I-95. Thankfully a bottleneck cleared and the end was in sight. As we headed up over a gradual incline on I-395, a magnificent view greated me. Around three miles away stood the thin needle of the Washington Monument, the sun lighting up its west face, and with the white marble of the Lincoln Memorial to the west and the half-dome of the Capitol to the east. Down below us to the right was the monumental bulk of The Pentagon.

I was awestruck. It seemed that I had done all of my sightseeing in DC in a few seconds.

Within ten minutes we had arrived safely at our Hyatt Hotel just over the Potomac River from DC in Arlington, Virginia.

On the Sunday evening, Erin, JR and myself zipped in to DC for a bite to eat – my first burger of the trip – and then walked around the centrally located monuments of The Mall. Each one was floodlit and very photogenic. I took a few snaps, though only with my camera phone. I had neglected to pack my normal camera battery charger and was having a little OCD – obsessive Chelsea disorder – of my own. My number one task on the Monday would be to buy a new one. We had a lovely time, though. It brought back memories of my first time in DC, 1989, when I enjoyed a similar evening walking tour, which was provided free of charge by the youth hostel. There were also memories of that 2005 tour, with Roma, her two daughters and myself running through the sprinklers on those wide grass lawns to keep cool.

In 2015, the torrid summer heat of DC was fading quickly and it was a very enjoyable start to our time in DC. For the first time ever, I took an “Uber” to get back to our hotel.

Monday was another perfect day on this trip. I spent some time writing up “Charlotte” and then met up with Erin and JR again to visit the historic Ford’s Theatre, where President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in 1865. This was the number one sight on my list for DC. I have luckily visited most of the other main sites on my other two trips. I have been a keen Civil War enthusiast for over twenty years, and one of my most memorable days in the United States was spent at the stunning Gettysburg Battlefield in 2010. Obviously, Lincoln was the most famous protagonist of all in the seismic war which battled states against states, even families against families, and which almost ripped America apart. To witness the exact place where his life was sadly ended was another interesting and yet emotionally raw experience. The tour guide set up the scene amazingly well – with sensitive comments about the atmosphere and sensory feel of that evening – and explained with fine detail how events unfolded during the hours leading up to the fatal shot.

At the end, we walked over the road outside the theatre, whose large size surprised me, to the house which contained the parlour where Lincoln eventually died from his gunshot wound some seven hours later.

I had to double-take at the sign outside the house which forbade visitors to take in firearms.

Or maybe it was America being ironic.

I certainly didn’t appreciate a sizeable shop adjoined to the house, selling a vast array of Lincoln souvenirs, a mere five yards away from where he exhaled his last mortal breath.

I hot-tailed to Dupont Circle to buy my battery charger; I could relax.

On the Monday evening, I walked the mile or so up to the “Four Courts” pub which is where the local Chelsea supporters group in the DC area – “The Beltway Blues” – meet for matches. This was another long night. Just after I arrived at 7.30pm, Neil Barnet hosted another “Q & A” session with Bobby, Canners and Mario. I had heard most of the stories before, so sat in a quieter part of the large bar with JR and chatted with many other fans. It was another lovely evening, although not as manic as Charlotte. The usual suspects were present.

Andy kindly presented two “OC Hooligans” tour shirts for Parky and myself.

There was a photograph with Cath, Sambuca in hand.

Tim from Philly kindly gave me a few Yankee trading cards.

Photos with many good friends; some old, some very old, but some new.

I met up with Kathryn and Tim, good friends and two of the Beltway Blues, who I met on the bus taking us from Philly to Chester for the 2012 MLS All-Star Game.

I was impressed that Janset was wearing an original 1981-1982 shiny Le Coq Sportif shirt – one of my favourites – and I then gave her a crash course in the casual sub culture 1977 to date, which she really seemed to appreciate.

Many laughs, many smiles, many photographs.

But one thing was missing.

Talk about the game against Barcelona.

I definitely approved of this.

This simply mirrored what happens in my local, “The Goose” on the North End Road, on virtually all match days. As I have said before, Chelsea is what brings us together but the actual football takes up a surprisingly small amount of “talk time” on match days.

On my long and arduous drive down from West Virginia to Charlotte on the Friday, one town haunted me. As I set off early in the morning, a sign on I-81 said “Roanoke 202 miles.” For the next two hours I appeared to be driving in quicksand since the distances took forever to decrease.

“Roanoke 197 miles.”

“Roanoke 189 miles.”

“Roanoke 183 miles.”

“Roanoke 179 miles.”

“Roanoke 174 miles.”

Fackinell.

Well, late in the evening at “Four Courts” I met the chairman of the Roanoke Chelsea Supporters Club. Not only did this give me a wry smile, but it made me gasp. Roanoke is not a huge town – 97,000 according to my own personal information resource Akipedia – and yet it had its very own supporters group.

As the kids say these days –

“Mind. Blown.”

Two lads from London arrived late on the scene, just as the bar was calling last orders, and as I was thinking of heading back to the hotel. They had just come over for the one game on a quick “in and out mission.” We shared a couple of final beers. Then, Danny from Massachusetts and myself headed a few doors down for a gobsmackingly tasty Indian.

It was around 2.30am.

I needed to get back to the hotel.

In a slightly – only slightly of course – inebriated state I shuffled down Wilson Boulevard. I spotted a “7/11” and fancied a nightcap.

A beer?

A short?

Nope.

A “Reece’s Peanut Butter Ice Cream Cup.”

At 3am in Arlington, Virginia I was living the American dream.

I drifted off to sleep, dreaming of peanut butter, curried turnips, naan bread, Benetton rugby shirts and Torres’ goal against Barcelona in 2012.

On Game Day Number Three, I awoke with no hangover. This was a huge surprise. I am surprised that it didn’t make the papers. Rather than head back to “Four Courts”, a few of us were headed in to the city centre to meet my good friend Steve, who was travelling down to the evening’s game from his home in Philadelphia, but also Team Roma, which was already in DC, and taking a time out to show Super Shawn a few of the main tourist sites.

At around 12.45pm, I walked the short distance from Union Station to the Phoenix Park Hotel, where I met up with The Bobster and Steve. It was a pleasure to see Steve again, who I last met on a Friday afternoon in Manhattan last month as part of my baseball trip. In June we met at “McSorley’s” in the East Village, this time it was “The Dubliner” in DC.

Bizarrely, within minutes, three lads from home – two from Dorset, one from Scunthorpe – burst in to the bar and there were smiles all round. Even more strangely, I first met these chaps, and their oft-spotted “South Dorset Chelsea” Union Jack – out in Kuala Lumpur in 2011.

Now, it seems, we can’t stop bumping in to each other.

Even more incredibly, JR – who was visiting the American History Museum with Erin – had just bumped into Roma, Vanessa and Shawn a mile or so away.

Chelsea world – I have said it before – is such a small world.

Before the others arrived, we enjoyed each other’s’ company. It was the first time all three of us had been together since Philly in 2012. Food was ordered, the beers flowed and we spoke about a wide range of topics, including the plans for the new stadium. Steve is yet to visit Stamford Bridge and we spoke, seriously, about concocting a robust yet devious plan to appease Steve’s wife Terry into allowing him a visit.

“Steve. You are an architect. That is reason alone.”

Roma, Vanessa and Shawn arrived at 4pm, clearly exhausted after walking around the city for a few hours. They sat and cooled off. It was lovely to see them again.

Outside, we had spotted many more Barcelona shirts than those of Chelsea. This was no surprise, since Barcelona can genuinely lay claim to be one of the big three global names alongside Real Madrid and Manchester United. Steve wondered if we are far away from their level. This was a question which I didn’t really answer, though I suppose we are undeniably one of the fastest rising stars of the modern football scene. I still, honestly, struggle to come to terms with our surge in popularity over the past ten years.

Others joined us. Rick and Beckie from Iowa. JR and Erin. Dennis and Dre from Seattle. The clans were gathering. Again, the game was hardly mentioned.

Roma met up with a family from her home town in Tennessee, who were in town for the game, but who were – gasp – Barcelona fans. Roma had coached the two young lads, resplendent in Barca shirts, in the local AYSO league. I explained that I was a Chelsea season ticket holder and, without thinking, soon said that I was “at Camp Nou in 2012.”

I then sheepishly admitted to Roma that this was not the most tactful of things to say. We all laughed though. And I think I laughed the longest.

They left to spend time together, and made their way independently to the stadium by car.

Despite warnings of lengthy travel times by car to Fed-Ex Field, which sits on the very edge of the DC conurbation in Maryland, the three of us booked an Uber car to take us to the game. We left at around 6.15pm. The game was to begin at 8pm. We envisaged reaching the stadium at 7pm.

For an hour and thirty minutes we sat with increasing tension as the driver – a cricket enthusiast from India – edged east. While we moaned about the traffic, the minutes ticked by. On the very last section – a mile or so out – we noticed many passengers leaving their drivers to battle on and walk the final distance. We counted the number of replica shirts. It was split something along the lines of 90% Barcelona / 10% Chelsea. Now, I know that the afore-mentioned casual subculture hasn’t really permeated into the US sporting psyche just yet, but even if some Chelsea fans were eschewing club colours, as is the tendency in SW6, this still represented an overwhelming bias in favour of Barcelona.

We wondered if the game would sell out the huge home of the Washington Redskins, which was once the largest in the National Football League. Ever since we heard that the magical skills of Lionel Messi would not be present, I personally thought that the attendance would suffer. As we edged ever closer, touts lined the approach roads offering tickets.

At 7.45pm, we arrived. There was still a ten minute walk – uphill, damn it – to the large and aesthetically messy stadium. On the final few hundred yards, we heard the national anthem from inside. The briefest of bag checks, and we were in. With ridiculous good fortune, we were inside in time for the kick-off. The stadium was not full, but I knew only too well how many were still outside in cars.

Due to my rushed arrival, I took a while to settle.

Again, the usual scan of the team, a scan to see if there were many friends close by, a scan of the setting and a scan of the replica shirts. It was easy to see that Barcelona greatly outnumbered us in the stadium, unless the Chelsea fans had followed the lead of Rick (Lacoste), Steve (Ralph Lauren), JR (Lacoste) and myself (Monclair).

The stadium was more or less as I remembered it from 2005 when we watched Chelsea beat DC United 2-1 with goals from Duff and Crespo in front of 25,000. It wasn’t a bad match to be fair, and we watched from the same eastern end behind the goal as in 2015. Ten years ago, I had driven to the game – no traffic – and had given a brief interview with a local TV station before the game, when the main question seemed to be about the perceived inadequacies of the local MLS team compared to the all-conquering visitors. When we went 1-0 down, I wondered if the interviewer was re-writing his script for his postgame analysis. I remember being scalded by a “soccer Mom” for knocking in to her when Duffer equalised. It emphasised to me how important it is to have segregation at football games. Sharing the same space with fans supporting opposing teams is always a problem, due mainly to the passions involved in our sport.

Chelsea in all white. I like that strip.

Barcelona in Catalan yellow and red stripes, with blue shorts and yellow socks.

The pitch seemed small and very close to the stands. Of course an NFL pitch is relatively narrow. It was not a stadium that I could easily like. It just appeared to be rather ugly, with executive boxes in the middle tiers, upper tiers sectioned off, brutal concrete everywhere. I bet that the Redskins will be building a new one before we know it. The new generation of NFL stadia seem a lot sleeker than this one.

So. Our team.

In goal was Thibaut, the hero of Charlotte.

In defence, Dave at left back, Kurt Zouma and Gary Cahill in the middle, Ivanovic on the right.

In the midfield two, Matic and Magic Hat.

In the three, Oscar, Hazard and…who? I didn’t recognise the chap. Ah, Kenedy.

Washington is as good a place as any for a chap called Kenedy to debut.

Up front, looking mean and menacing, Diego Costa.

Sadly, Roma, Vanessa and Shawn did not make the kick-off. I hoped they would soon be in. Again, as in Charlotte, and as in most US games, “our end” was full of supporters of the other team. I know that segregation is a prickly issue in America, but it can’t be hard to designate – say – one thousand Chelsea tickets to the Iowa Blues, the New York Blues, the North Texas Blues, the Beltway Blues, the Boston Blues, the Motor City Blues, the Roanoke Blues, the Badgercrack Blues et al, and then two thousand to other Chelsea fans fans to bolster that key segment of support. It was clear early on that the two main singing sections were too spread out, and with a horrible mix of Barcelona fans and “quieter” Chelsea fans too.

We began well I thought. An early Zouma header tested Ter Stegen. Matic seemed to impress straight away, winning tackles and prodding the ball intelligently. Although Messi and Neymar were missing, one familiar face and major irritant was playing.

Luis Suarez. I disliked you then and I dislike you now.

I wonder if the Suarez and Ivanovic subplot might continue.

A header from goal machine Mikel, a shot from Oscar. Barcelona were second best in the opening minutes. A magnificent run and dribble, leaving the entire Catalan nation in his wake, enabled Eden Hazard to dance in to the Barcelona box and calmly prod the ball low and into the goal.

Fantastic.

Barcelona countered, but our defence and Courtois especially were able to withstand any attempts on goal. Suarez was always a looming presence, though, and I like the look of Rakitic.A Chelsea free-kick taken by the involved Oscar rattled the bar. We were definitely on top.

Thankfully, Roma, Vanessa, and Shawn appeared alongside Bob and myself. The traffic had been awful. In addition to an ugly stadium, the Redskins also chose an ugly location for their new home.

Despite taking the lead, the Chelsea support in the area where we were based was at best piecemeal. We tried, but to be honest I soon gave up. My throat was still smarting from Charlotte. Every time a Chelsea song – and there was a nice variety – got going, it was drowned out by the annoying single grunt of “Barca!”

There were four FCB fans in front of me. There were two quiet Chelsea fans behind me. It was going to be an uphill struggle off the pitch.

The football was still of a good quality. Diego Costa should have scored after being set up by the neat Fabregas, but his shot was drilled wide. It seemed that Suarez was our main irritant, but Courtois did well to smother his few strikes on goal.

At half-time, we were happy.

Jose made two changes at the break with a Brazilian themed double substitution.

Wilian and Ramires for Oscar and Kenedy.

Soon into the second period, there was a repeat of my 2005 altercation, when a Barcelona fan and I had a few choice words. It was so pithy as to be unworthy of repeating.

I noted that I could see hardly any empty seats. Even the skyboxes appeared packed.

On the pitch, Diego came close, but then Suarez – why did it have to be him? – managed to lift the ball over the advancing Courtois. In a scene reminiscent of Anfield in 2005, the ball was hacked away by Zouma, but after the referee had already signalled a goal. Of course, all of the Chelsea had varying views of the incident. My view – over one hundred yards away – was perfect.

No goal.

1-1.

So…we then watched as Barcelona took over. And I got more and more irritated by the Barcelona fans around me. Having the enemy so close…breathing on me…might be OK in American sports, but it makes me feel uneasy. I’m no hooligan, but my tempers rose with each of their mocking chants.

We had to endure “BARCA / CHELSEA / BARCA / CHELSEA / BARCA / CHELSEA.”

I even found myself joining in, waving the white flag of surrender.

Ugh.

From behind me –

“Mourinho never beats Barca.”

A worry as Diego Costa appeared to be hurt. Please not his hamstring. He was substituted, and replaced by Falcao. On sixty-five minutes, Sandro – linked with us recently – stepped past Moses, who had been one of a flurry of substitutes from both teams on the hour – and curled a sublime shot past Courtois’ outstretched dive.

The stadium erupted, and the four Barcelona fans in front screamed.

“Count to ten Chris, count to ten.”

We somehow worked some chances. An acrobatic volley from Falcao is still in the air as I write, maybe over Florida by now. Ramires, taking a touch too many perhaps, shot well wide. The minutes ticked by. Moses did ever so well down in front of us, but his drilled centre evaded everyone. Our support rallied and we hoped for an equaliser.

The gate was announced as 79,000.

Bloody fantastic.

It could turn out to be our biggest attendance all season long.

Roma, bless her, was shrieking wildly throughout the second half.

“Let’s Go Chelsea” followed by that crazy smile.

With just five minutes remaining, Willian sent over a teasing centre, but the ball was knocked vertically. It seemed to take forever to come down, but a magnificently-timed leap by Gary Cahill met the ball before others could pounce. The ball looped – a la Ivanovic in Amsterdam – up and down before nestling inside the goal.

“YESYOUFUCKINGBEAUTY.”

The joy was palpable. It was a friendly, but this meant so much.

Willian and Moses had a very late chance to win it, but inexcusably managed to jump for the same ball on the far post. A late Barcelona chance flew past the post.

2-2.

More penalties.

With perfect timing, Brian from Charlotte spotted me on his way out for a comfort break, and smiled as he said :

“Screw the penalties, let’s go to the pub.”

It was the line of the night.

So, the penalties at our end this time. Everyone stood. I varied my approach as I photographed each one.

Iniesta – Barcelona, goal – a photo of the TV screen behind me : 0-1.

Falcao – Chelsea, goal – a photo of the TV screen at the other end : 1-1.

Halilovic – Barcelona, miss – a photo of the TV screen at the other end : 1-1.

Moses – Chelsea, goal – a photo of him through the crowd : 2-1.

Pique – Barcelona, miss – a photo of the TV screen behind me : 2-1.

Ramires – Chelsea, goal – a photo of the TV screen at the other end : 3-1.

Sandro – Barcelona, goal – a photo of him through the crowd : 3-2.

Remy – Chelsea, goal – a photo of him through the crowd : 4-2.

We roared. Winning a friendly had never been this important.

Fantastic.

As Gill and Graeme, a few rows in front, almost exploded with joy, I too was pumped. My pleasure almost surprised me.

Only a friendly, right?

The post-match celebrations and presentations were over remarkably quickly. Thibaut was handed the man of the match trophy – a pint of Guinness and a packet of pork scratchings – and gave a rather embarrassed “thumbs up” to the camera.

The FCB fans had sloped off. I looked around to see if I could see some friends. Everyone was disappearing into the night, keen to leave by train and car.

Outside, I said my fond farewells to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn.

I slowly walked past the slowly-exiting cars, teetering down the shallow slope of the exit road. There seemed to be more Chelsea fans on the walk back to a local train station than I had expected. Maybe the Barcelona fans really had left quickly. At the station, a wait for a ticket, then a wait to board the train. The crowds reminded me of Munich. At least these ones were air-conditioned. I found myself talking to a Chelsea fan on the train, thus missing my stop. I alighted at the next one, which was conveniently located opposite “Four Courts” and unwittingly extended the night.

Here were all the usual suspects again, plus a couple of Chelsea fans from Toronto – Leigh-Anne and John – who had been hoping to see me all day. That I should bump into them in the last few seconds of the day – after extra-time and penalties if you like – was just perfect.

More beers, more photos, more laughs.

And then sadly, a few goodbyes.

A few of us popped next door for a kebab and one last beer.

Andy, Brad, Shaun, The Bobster, Leigh-Ann, John, little old me.

It was around 2am.

The last and final scene of this magnificent and memorable US Tour was being played out.

On Sunday, it’s back to England and back to London and back to Wembley.

And bloody Arsenal.

How boring.

Tales From Title Number Five

Posted on May 4, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 3 May 2015.

There was a moment a few months ago when I was observing a conversation develop on “”Facebook” – it was one of the oddest things, I felt, about “Facebook” when I first joined, that online chats were now visible to everyone, should you so wish, rather than being kept to selected friends on a private email – between one of my oldest and dearest Chelsea mates and some of his non-believing friends. They were attempting to goad him into admitting that the race for the 2014-2015 title was not as cut-and-dried as was once thought.

My mate was having none of it, but then killed the conversation stone dead by saying :

“After Munich, nothing matters.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

After that most phantasmagorical – seems that this is a real word, my spell checker liked it – night in Germany, when even the most ridiculous dreams of a Chelsea supporter growing up and supporting the team in the grim years were met and surpassed, I have constantly wondered if anything would come close.

It is very unlikely.

Although the other two games which vie for affection in my long history of attending games – Wembley 1997 and Bolton 2005 – were magical moments, Munich blew them out of the water.

And so, there is – in some ways – a gnawing realisation that regardless of how many more pieces of silverware Chelsea Football Club might accumulate over the next decade or more, my enjoyment will sadly pale when compared to the scintillating climax to the 2012 Champions League Final. I remember that I felt the same way in Moscow, just before that miserable game seven years ago.

“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.”

So, as I attempt to unravel the events of Sunday 3 May 2015, I am well aware that things might not turn out as might be expected.

Munich you see. It’s a bugger.

Football is all about journeys and the journey for the championship – er, Premiership – decider began with an alarm call as early as 6.30am. With the early-afternoon kick-off, I wanted to make time to be able to relax and soak the entire pre-match atmosphere up. I collected P-Diddy at just after 7.30am and Lord Parky at bang on 8am. All three of us were in good spirits but we were a little concerned that the weather outside was rainy and miserable. I drove through some depressing and dispiriting weather; it was pretty nasty and tiring driving conditions to be honest. I tried to remember back to 2010.

“Wasn’t it a bit rainy against Wigan five years ago?”

I was grasping for lucky omens. I am sure I was not alone.

As I drove towards London, Parky and I spoke about the game at Leicester. It had been a fine evening and one of the highlights of the season. The three of us then looked ahead to the match against Crystal Palace. Although Alan Pardew, fresh from his unloved tenure at Newcastle United, has managed to get his new team playing some excellent football, with Bolasie and Zaha an identifiable threat, I assured the others that Jose Mourinho would not let the day pass without the team attaining the desired three points.

“He won’t let this day slide by. He won’t let this slip.”

Without even realising it, I was referencing a game from last season.

I slid into my usual parking place on Bramber Road at 10am exactly. The inclement weather had gradually diminished and the roads had been clear of any substantial traffic. Jackets were selected. We walked to The Goose, though were not too sure if it would be open.

Thankfully, it was. The place quickly filled, and I was able to relax in a corner booth as others joined us. During the next two-and-a-half hours, I was able to chat to a few close mates, including Daryl who was sporting a magnificent T-shirt which paraded our Le Coq Sportif kits from the early-‘eighties with a nod to the much-loved Benetton rugby top of that era.

“United Colors Of Chelsea.”

I remember I once owned a “United Colours Of Chelsea” shirt many years ago – featuring English and British flags – but Daryl’s was much better. I’ll have to bag one over the summer.

Friends from the US floated in to the pub, too and they were, of course, filled with joy that their individual trips to London – most planned months previously – had aligned themselves with such a crucial date in our history.

“Lucky bastards.”

Again, a lot of our foreign fans – without boring everyone – come in for much derision, but please believe me when I say that folks such as Curtis and Karen from Pittsburgh, Brian from Chicago, and Mike, Matt, Brad and Frank from New York do not fit the hackneyed-stereotype of gormless friendship-scarf wearing dolts which some section of our support take great pleasure in deriding.

They know our history. They know our songs. They have heard of Micky Nutton.

It was lovely to see them all again.

The mood in the pub was upbeat and I was able to sink a few pints, knowing that I would not be driving home for hours upon hours.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, I was vaguely aware of grafters selling poorly-designed and poorly-printed “Chelsea Champions” T-shirts. There was an innate inevitability about all of this that I found slightly odd. This was not the Chelsea way of old, of lore, of ancient history, and it didn’t rest easy with me.

However, paradoxically, this was something that we have experienced before under Mourinho. The 2004-2005 title was won at Bolton glorious Bolton with three games left. Our win at the Reebok – magnificent and much-loved as it was – was on the back of a run where there seemed like a definite inevitability of triumph. The following season, the clincher against Manchester United, was won with two games spare. Again, it seemed sure that we would win the title from a long way out. The last remaining league win that I had witnessed in person, the Carlo Ancelotti double of 2009-2010, was more like a typical Chelsea triumph; behind for most of the season, a few patchy performances, but a magnificent canter past Manchester United in the final furlong with goals being scored with reckless abandon.

The current campaign has seemed a stereotypically Mourinho-type affair.

Calm, calculated, efficient.

To be honest, compared to our previous one hundred years – before Jose – it has been most un-Chelsea like.

From 1905 to 2005, there has been calamity, disaster, underachievement but also swashbuckling style, entertainment and intermittent glory. It has been anything but calm and calculated efficiency to be honest.

Since 2005, our history, our character, has been updated.

As I made my way to my usual seat, with maybe ten minutes to spare before the kick-off, there was a nice buzz in the air. With just five minutes to go, the sun suddenly burst through the clouds and began to bathe Stamford Bridge in warming sun. On the page devoted to the manager’s pre-match thoughts, there were just ten words.

“THREE MORE POINTS TO BE CHAMPIONS. LET’S DO IT TOGETHER.”

There were rumours that Remy might be available, but Jose named Didier upfront. Courtois replaced Cech as expected. There was a late change however; Ramires was taken ill, to be replaced by Juan Cuadrado. I wondered if he would fill the role of Jiri Jarosik – a bit player and a surprise selection – who played at Bolton when we won the title in 2005.

[cue new fans typing in Jiri Jarosik in “Google.”]

[cue old fans saying “I’d forgotten him.”]

Three thousand away fans, Crystal Palace in yellow and pale blue, the sun overhead, the crowd nervous with anticipation, the wait for the referee’s whistle.

Didier knocked it to Willian and the game began, with Chelsea – unusually – kicking towards me in the first-half.

We began well, but the visitors also enjoyed a spell of dominance with a flurry of corners. We came back again and attempted to carve open the Palace defence. A raking shot from Cuadrado whizzed over. To my dismay, despite some degree of noise at the start, the Stamford Bridge crowd was outsung by the away fans, who took great pleasure in singing –

“Mourinho’s right. Your fans are shite.”

We responded with the dull and predictable :

“Oo the fackinel are yoo?”

Speroni was twice tested in quick succession. The second of two Didier Drogba free-kicks dipped maliciously at the last moment but Speroni was able to hack the ball away after momentarily dropping the ball at his feet. A fine block by John Terry kept Palace at bay on the half-hour . We weren’t playing particularly well to be honest and we waited for things to improve. I commented to Alan –

“We weren’t that special in the first-half at Bolton were we?”

A few half-chances came and went. Palace had certainly matched us. A draw would be a huge anti-climax, for all of us, but especially for Matt, Mike and Frank who were not staying around for any more games. Alan went off for a hot-dog just before the break. I spoke to PD about Eden Hazard, so often the main man, having a relatively quiet game. Within seconds, a lovely back heel from Willian was played in to the path of an advancing Hazard, just inside the box. A challenge, from possibly two defenders, it happened so quick; Hazard falling to the floor.

All eyes were on the referee Kevin Friend.

Penalty.

I was worried that Alan was not back at his seat. Thankfully, I spotted him a few yards away, entranced by the scene below. I waited and waited, camera poised of course, for Eden to shoot.

It was a weak shot. I clicked.

Speroni easily saved, but thankfully the ball flew up to a reasonable height and Eden nodded the rising ball past the hapless ‘keeper into the far corner.

BOOM.

The crowd roared and I was just so relieved. With my camera in hand, I calmly photographed the run of Eden down to the corner flag below me; how lucky I am to have such fantastic seats, perfectly placed for numerous goal celebrations. It often seems that I am eavesdropping on their private parties. I captured the ensuing huddle and the players’ screams and shrieks of joy. And I screamed too.

“COME ON.”

Altogether now…

“Phew.”

A little time to relax at the break. Michael Duberry on the pitch. Forty-five minutes to go. Forty-five minutes to our fifth league title.

A typical Mourinho move at the break; Mikel, the closer, replaced Cuadrado.

A rasping drive from Branislav Ivanovic flew wide, and then – that rare event – a Mikel shot was grasped by the ‘keeper down low. This seemed to inspire the Chelsea crowd, who for ten minutes serenaded some key personnel in our recent history.

“Roman Abramovich, Roman Abramovich, Roman Abramovich, Roman Abramovich.”

“Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho.”

“Oh Dennis Wise.”

“Born Is The King.”

“Super, Super Frank.”

“Gianfranco Zola, La La La La La La.”

“One Di Matteo.”

“Oh Jimmy Jimmy, Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink.”

“Vialli! Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”

“He’s Here, He’s There, He’s Every Fuckin’where, Frank Leboeuf, Frank Leboeuf.”

“Eidur Gudjohnsen, Eidur Gudjohnsen.”

Fantastic stuff. The place was alive, thank heavens.

No songs for Mineiro, though.

Then one more –

“WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED.”

After a docile period of play, chances came again, with Palace starting to threaten, but with our defensive five in imperious form. Didier and Willian spurned chances to make the game safe. This was getting to be a predictably nervy end to the game. I dreaded a Palace equaliser. It seemed that the away team had decided to pack all of their attacking punch in to the last five minutes of the game. They had crosses, they had corners, but our defenders stood tall. A block by Courtois near the end was the only real time that he had been caused to make a save of note.

Two minutes of added time.

Phew.

“Blow up ref.”

More Palace pressure. More Chelsea clearances.

The whistle.

Number five was ours.

We were 2014-2015 English champions.

I stood, quite numb, and if I am honest, a little flat. I think that the toll of the last two or three months, losing my mother and coping with the grief, had left me a little distant. On previous games, some quite recent, I had loved the cut and thrust of the title run-in. However, at that exact moment in time, I was just relieved and quietly contented. It was a similar feeling to that which I experienced at Wembley against Tottenham.

Streamers filled the sky, “We Are The Champions” boomed out on the PA. There were whoops of joy all around me, and I gave Alan a warm hug. I knew what he was thinking. The players soon ran down towards The Shed and dived headlong in to history.

There was another loud cheer.

Happy days.

The Chelsea trio of club songs…

“One Step Beyond.”

“Blue Is The Colour.”

“The Liquidator.”

The Stamford Bridge crowd slowly drifted off and out in to the afternoon sun. I knew that I had to have a little quiet time with my thoughts. I thought about my dear mother, who had watched alongside me from my seat on two separate occasions during the 2004-2005 and 2009-2010 seasons, but would not be there to greet me with her usual smile at the end of this victorious campaign.

The Chelsea PA played another song, but this just tipped me over the edge.

“Cos the blue tomorrow gets closer each day.
We will follow the Chelsea.
Til our dying day.”

Alan appeared from nowhere and we hugged again.

I decided to stay on my own for a further few minutes. Alan walked off to join the rest of my mates at the “Lillee Langtree”. The stadium looked a picture. I am often one of the very last to leave at the end of the final home league game each season. This was no different. I was one of the last still there. I sat alone with my thoughts. After another five minutes, I decided to move. I had a quick chat with Darren about my mother as we descended the stairs.

Mum was hardly an avid Chelsea fan, but she loved to see me happy when we had won. Even in the last period of her life, suffering from dementia, Mum was able to reel off the names of a few Chelsea legends.

“Ron Harris”, “Peter Osgood”, “Kerry Dixon”, “Pat Nevin”, “Gianfranco Zolo.”

Bless her.

Outside the West Stand, I pictured the – much-changed – scene that would have greeted me after my first-ever game, in the West Stand, in 1974. It all came back to me in an instant.

I loved this club then and I love it now.

Back at the pub, drinks were overflowing, and there was some singing and chanting going back and forth between those outside the “Lillee Langtry” and those drinking outside the “Prince Of Wales.” There was joy, but it was all very controlled and understated. It was not like the euphoria of 2005, nor certainly 1997 nor – of course – 2012. I was sober, but happy to stay for an hour as the lads continued to drink. I bumped in to a few good friends. It was lovely

Daryl, Simon and I spoke about the season. We spoke about us being off the pace in Europe and wondered if we could have a stab at the biggest trophy at all over the next few seasons. We then focussed on the league. I am sure I oversimplified things, but my take on it was :

“Diego Costa carried us for the first few months. Then Eden Hazard. Then Jose Mourinho.”

It has certainly felt as though this season would be ours from a few months ago, as Mourinho turned the screw and pragmatically reverted to a more conservative style of play. The difference in style in our play before and after the turn of the year has been very noticeable and – sigh – the media has surely salivated on reminding everyone of it. Our last real swashbuckling performance was at Swansea in January. Since then, our formidable defensive qualities have shone, though in some quarters it seems that the football world would wish us to lose the occasion game 5-4 rather than grinding out narrow wins.

I’ll be honest, the entertaining football of the autumn was a joy and it would have been nice to maintain this style throughout the season, but with Mourinho’s safety-first approach, it is no surprise that style gave way to substance as the season reached a climax.

I can almost imagine a brief conversation which might have taken place in Roman Abramovich’s office high in the Stamford Bridge stadium in January.

Roman : “Good morning Jose. Are you well?”

Jose : “Sure, but…”

Roman : “What is the problem?”

Jose : “Well. We spoke after Tottenham. It felt like it was not Chelsea playing that night. Five goals, you know? And we spoke, I am sure you remember, about the need to tighten defensively.”

Roman : “Of course. Of course.”

Jose : “I told you, no I asked you, if you would be happy for me to tighten. I need that reassurance.”

Roman : “It is no problem. This is your team. You win the league your way.”

Jose : “And then we score five at Swansea!”

Roman : “Ha. Yes. That mustn’t happen again.”

Jose : “Ha. No. “No, it won’t.”

Roman : “You see this shirt of John Terry from ten years ago?”

Jose : “I see it.”

Roman : “The team scored 72.”

Jose : “Yes.”

Roman : “But conceded just 15.”

Jose : “You remembered.”

Roman : “Do the same this season. Tighten. No problem.”

Jose : “Understood. Thank you.”

Outside the pub, with the sun now heating us all up, the drinks were being quaffed by others. The songs continued.

In a quiet moment, I whispered to Daryl –

“Of course you realise that our global fan base has just increased by a million the past two hours.”

He looked at me; no words were spoken but a lot was said.

At just before 6pm, I drove out of Bramber Road, and headed west with another league championship title to my name. The traffic was thin, the driving relatively easy. In the last few miles, with a drowsy Parky having been poured out of my car and no doubt asleep on his couch, PD and I reviewed the incredible path that our club has taken since 1997. We both remembered how delighted we were to reach the, ultimately disastrous, FA Cup Final of 1994. So much has happened to us all since then.

It has been a magnificent journey.

By 9pm I was at home and devouring all things Chelsea-related on the internet. At the end of a tough time for me, I could relax and watch “MOTD2” and enjoy a few peaceful moments of pride and joy.

We were champions.

No, it wasn’t as good as Munich, but – for the time being – it will do very nicely thank you.

We now stand seventh in the list of champions of England.

Manchester United – 20

Liverpool – 18

Arsenal – 13

Everton – 9

Aston Villa – 7

Sunderland – 6

Chelsea – 5

We are climbing nicely.

Who knows where this magnificent journey will end?

Tales From My Football Timeline

Posted on April 19, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 18 April 2015.

For the first time in ages, I spent a Saturday morning at work in Chippenham. However, with the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game not kicking off until 5.30pm, I was still able to finish at midday and reach London in good time. Glenn had collected PD and Parky en route. I then took over and headed in to London.

If I am honest, I was slightly nervous about the early-evening game. Without Diego Costa to cause panic and concern in the United ranks, and with a few key players hitting a dry spell, I was very wary that we just might be catching an in-form United at the wrong time. I soon commented to my three companions that a draw would suffice. A win would be lovely, of course, but I was aware that we were not, collectively, setting the bar too high. We were becoming as pragmatic as our manager.

“A draw against United this weekend and a draw at Arsenal next weekend and we can start thinking that the league really is ours.”

The game at Stamford Bridge, however, was not the only football match troubling me. My local team Frome Town had lost on the previous Wednesday to a gut-wrenching last minute goal at local rivals Paulton Rovers and with two games left of the season, were only three points clear of relegation from the Southern League. A little part of me toyed with the notion of watching the first-half of the Slough Town vs. Frome Town game before heading in to London.

I decided against it. Who the hell watches halves of football games? Not me.

Heading east along the M4, the weather was magnificent. It was a lovely day for football. I spotted a few Reading scarves and immediately dismissed the afternoon’s FA Cup Final as unimportant, and not worthy of further thought. This, in a nutshell, shows how the importance of that once revered competition has decreased.

The game at 5.30pm would be my thirty-third Chelsea vs. Manchester United match at Stamford Bridge, dating back to a Saturday just after Christmas in 1984 – Glenn was with me on the benches, and I am sure many readers were there too – when I set eyes on those famous red shirts for the very first time.

Thirty-three games. It’s quite a number. I have only seen the reds of Liverpool more often than the reds of Manchester at The Bridge. Interestingly – or not, as the case may be – a split of the first sixteen games and the second sixteen games against United reveals a seismic shift in results.

1984 to 2002.

Chelsea wins : 3

Draws : 5

Manchester United wins : 8

2002 to 2014.

Chelsea wins : 9

Draws : 5

Manchester United wins : 2

The two losses against United in that second period are quite recent too; a Champions League defeat in 2011 and a League defeat in 2012. For quite a while at Stamford Bridge, we have held the upper hand.

Among the wins, two stand out.

The 5-0 annihilation in 1999.

The 3-1 title-clincher in 2006.

Two of the happiest of days in almost forty-five years of supporting Chelsea.

Where does the time go?

Where did the time start?

I am sure that I am not the only Chelsea supporter who often thinks back upon the first few moments of our support and attempts to discover the defining moment when Chelsea became our team and our club. I’ve personally tied this down to a moment in my primary schoolyard in the first few weeks of spring term 1970 and those events have been detailed here before. As I have been coming to terms with the events of the past two months, there have been many hours spent thinking back on my childhood years.

Another trip down memory lane coming up everyone.

I am sure that I am not alone in my quest to attempt to assemble some sort of time-line of devotion, possibly involving memories of certain early games, conversations with friends, TV clips, pictures, favourite players and the like, which aid us to remember those critical moments when Chelsea became our team.

After my first game in 1974, it’s easy, remarkably easy. Before that, things get a little blurred.

Of course, some of my earliest memories involve Chelsea’s appearances on TV and of other games too. Knowing my parents, it is very likely that I was not allowed to stay up to watch “Match of the Day” on Saturday nights on BBC1 in the first few years of my growing love of football – let’s say 1970 to 1972 – because of the 10pm start. My TV-watching in these years was, I think, limited to watching ITV’s “The Big Match” on Sunday afternoons. Yes, the memories of this are clearer. I even have feint recollections of a sun-drenched Stamford Bridge in the days of the old East Stand, prior to its destruction in the summer of 1972. The earliest football game per se that I can ever remember seeing is the 1972 FA Cup Final, when an Alan Clarke header gave Leeds United a 1-0 win over Arsenal. Which is the first Chelsea game that I can remember watching? I’m pretty sure that it is the Chelsea vs. Leeds United home opener in August 1972 – with me, just over the age of seven – when 51,000 crammed in to a three-sided Stamford Bridge to see a 4-0 win, no doubt abetted by the fact that Leeds’ goalkeeper was injured and was replaced by Peter Lorimer. Typically, Peter Osgood scored. In that season, I can also remember the Chelsea vs. Arsenal FA Cup game in March 1973, when there was an incredible buzz in the village school leading up to the match. Peter Osgood’s screamer in that game won the goal of the season that year. I also remember seeing the highlights of the replay on the nine o’clock news the following midweek, after pleading with my parents to allow me to stay up later than normal to watch. I can remember the sadness of defeat from that evening forty-two years ago.

I also recollect the very last game of that season, which involved the visit of Manchester United to Stamford Bridge. After the scenes of chaos at the Leeds game – which must have involved trying to force 41,000 into two end terraces – it was decided to limit the attendance at Stamford Bridge to a more reasonable figure. From memory, 44,000 still assembled for the United game. I am sure that it was not the first time that I had seen United on TV, but it is the first United match that I can remember – which is the point here – seeing. Both teams were struggling that season, but the large attendance was mainly due to the fact that it would be Bobby Charlton’s last ever game for Manchester United. Although Chelsea won that afternoon – Peter Osgood again, scored – my abiding memory is of the hullabaloo surrounding Charlton. I can distinctly remember the Stamford Bridge crowd – no doubt bolstered by thousands of visiting United fans, maybe not all wearing red favours – singing “We all love you Bobby Charlton.”

I am sure that this song was sung at the village school on the Monday, possibly by the younger children watching us older boys playing football on the school yard. I am also positive that a few of us re-enacted Peter Osgood’s goal in that game too, when he almost stumbled as he forced the ball over the line. His “to camera” shrug of the shoulders, as he was kneeling in The Shed End goal, was impersonated by me for sure.

I was lucky enough to meet Peter Osgood on several occasions and I was very honoured to be able to shake Sir Bobby Charlton’s hand as he brushed past me at Old Trafford last season.

Two iconic players from my early football world remembered.

Bless them both.

A Chelsea vs. Manchester United match first appeared on my football timeline, then, in April 1973.

Incidentally, while at the Frome Town match on Wednesday, I was rather taken aback when my friend Steve announced that the very first Frome Town game that I had seen – with my mother – was neither in 1971 nor 1972 as I had first thought but, in all probability, as early as 1970, when I was just five. Let me explain. During a summer holiday at a Dorset caravan site, I often played football with a former Bristol Rovers player called Mike Brimble, who was now playing for Frome. My father didn’t tend to like kicking a ball around with me – I remember he often used to “toe poke” the ball, which I didn’t approve of – ha – but I spent many hours kicking the ball to-and-forth with this chap from the adjacent caravan. There is no doubt that, during the kick-abouts with Mike, on hearing that I was a Chelsea supporter, that he would have mentioned our cup win against Leeds United that spring. And there is no doubt that this would have left a lasting impression on me.

After a week or so, my mother took me to see Frome Town play…we lost heavily…and I can remember to this day the little conversation I had with Mike at the end of the game.

“Nice to see you could make it Chris.”

I was so happy that he remembered my name.

I always thought that it was in 1971 or 1972, but Steve told me on Wednesday that Mike’s last season for Frome was 1970-1971. So, that game – with my mother – was undoubtedly as early as early autumn 1970.

1970 was obviously a defining year in my life.

It was the year that I chose Chelsea Football Club and it was the year that I saw my very first football match.

My football timeline had begun.

While out in the full-to-overflowing beer garden of The Goose, Alan and I spoke about these early moments in our football, er Chelsea, life. The first game that Alan can remember seeing on TV was the 1970 FA Cup Final.

1970.

I’d bet that many Chelsea fans’ timelines began in this year.

1970 and Peter Osgood. One and the same.

I mentioned to Alan about the nervousness that I had with the Frome Town game. His local team, Bromley, were on the brink of promotion from the Conference South to the Conference. We hoped for a triple of wins during the next few hours; Bromley, Frome Town and Chelsea. A text from a Frome Town follower in California – yes, really – informed me that Slough were 1-0 up against Frome. I groaned. He then texted me to say that the team three points below Frome, Arlesey Town, were a goal up at the high-flying Truro Town. I groaned again. If it stayed like this, it would all go to the last game of the season and relegation would be a distinct possibility.

Elsewhere in the beer garden, there were mixed thoughts about the upcoming game. Some were positive, some were cautious. We prayed for a fit Loic Remy leading the line. When we heard that Didier Drogba had been chosen, our spirits sank a little. At 36, he is not the man of 2012. I reconfirmed my view that a draw would be good enough for me.

Then, better news…Frome town had equalised at Slough Town.

“Yes.”

Then, just after 4.30pm, came some wonderful news.

Truro City 2 Arlesey 1 .

I punched the air.

Fantastic. In the end, Frome drew 1-1 and Arlesey lost 3-1.

Safe, barring a deluge of goals next Saturday, for another season. Bromley, meanwhile, had beaten Weston-Super-Mare 3-0. Beautiful.

Outside the West stand, I took a long-overdue photograph of Alan in front of the Peter Osgood statue.

We were inside with fifteen minutes to spare. The United hordes were already in good voice. I noted two flags playing on the point of United fans being “Manchester Born & B(red)” as if they have to constantly state, to the point of tedium, about Manchester being their territory and not City’s. Anyway, the United fans always put on a good show and they didn’t disappoint, singing loudly, in the first-half especially.

There was nothing but pure blue skies overhead. Despite the bright sun, there was a cold wind which blew in and around Stamford Bridge throughout the game. As the sun lowered, changing shadows formed different geometric shapes across the pitch and the towering East Stand.

So, the team.

Courtois – Dave, JT, Cahill, Ivanovic – Zouma, Matic – Hazard, Fabregas, Oscar – Drogba.

The big news was King Kurt alongside Matic, with Fabregas pushed forward. We presumed Jose wanted to toughen up that area, with a nod towards the improving Fellaini.

The first-half was a mainly frustrating affair. We began well, but United soon started pushing the ball around, and I lost count of the number of times that our right flank was exposed. Ivanovic, the former centre-back, tends to drift inside too often for my liking. Ahead of him, Oscar provided little cover. United peppered our goal with a few long range efforts, but thankfully their shooting was amiss. I noted how deep Wayne Rooney was playing. We gave him, and others, too much time and space. I longed for our midfield to get closer. It was Rooney who struck a shot against the back stanchion of the goal, and it looked to me – and the away fans – that it was a goal. I looked at Alan in disbelief.

As Juan Mata, much loved during his relatively short spell with us, walked over to take a corner down below us, the Matthew Harding stood and clapped generously. It was a fantastic moment. I am trying hard to remember the last time we gave a former great a hard time.

A run by an energised Fabregas deep in to the penalty box at the Shed End raised our spirits. But, our chances were rare. Drogba battled on, but often his touch ran a yard too short or too long for the supporting midfielders. United continued their dominance of the ball, and only rarely did our midfielders bite at their heels. The atmosphere was good, though. The underperforming Chelsea team was thankfully not matched by the support in the stands.

We roared the boys on.

With the half-time interval in sight, John Terry broke up another United move and fed the ball to Fabregas, who in turn passed to Oscar, now central. As soon as Oscar adeptly back-heeled the ball in to the path of a raiding Hazard – a magnificent touch – I sensed a goal. Eden calmly advanced and slotted the ball in to the United goal.

Inside, my body buzzed. There was only one thing for it. There is a walkway right behind where I sit and I leapt up the three steps to my right, took off my sunglasses, and just jumped up in the air continually for a few seconds.

Joy unbounded.

…while thinking “I bet I look like a right twat, I’m almost fifty, not five, but what a bloody goal.”

There were smiles of relief everywhere and The Bridge boomed.

“We’re top of the league.”

At half-time I sent a text to a mate ;

“Bit lucky. Only got closer to them in the last quarter. Cesc looks a bit livelier. Great goal. Utd have too much space down our right. But…halfway to paradise.”

Into the second-half, the first big chance fell to us. Matic won the ball and played the ball on for Drogba. I immediately wished for a time machine that could send Didi back to his powerful and absurdly potent form of five years ago, fearing that Smalling would easily deal with him. To be fair, Didier assembled just enough strength to stab a ball at De Gea, despite Smalling’s attentions. The ball took a bizarre path towards goal, deflecting off both United players, but landing just too far past the far post for the on-rushing Hazard to control. In the end, he did so well to get any attempt in on goal. Bizarrely, his flick touched the ball up on to the bar.

Zouma grew throughout the game. His war of attrition with Fellaini was pure box office. Ramires replaced Oscar. Juan Mata did not create too much for United; good lad.

Falcao, not firing on all cylinders, cut in on goal in a similar to position to Hazard’s goal, but his powerful shot rose and hit the side netting. The atmosphere remained noisy throughout the second half, but there was incredible tension as the game grew older. United still dominated. Chelsea constantly defended well. It was, no doubt, a typical Mourinho performance. I would have liked to have seen more attacking verve, of course, but our time for that had passed. The salad days of autumn are over; it’s now all about putting meat on the plate.

Juan Mata received a fantastic and heartfelt round of sustained applause as he was substituted.

United continued to attack. Shots were dealt with. Nerves were continuing to be frayed.

The last meaningful moment caused immediate concern. Herrera and Cahill met in a corner of our penalty box. From over a hundred yards away, it looked a penalty, to Glenn, to Alan, to me. However, miracles happen and the referee Mike Dean – who had been the target of increasing levels of abuse from the home fans as the game continued – waved it away.

Four minutes of extra time.

We waited, but with fantastic noise continuing to boom around the packed stands.

The final whistle.

Euphoria.

I captured a few shots of players hugging, smiling, and enjoying the moment.

“One Step Beyond” boomed out.

After clapping us, they began to walk away, but John Terry dragged them back and, in a tight line facing the Matthew Harding, they stood.

Their joy was our joy. United in triumph.

One step closer. Ten points clear. Mind the gap.

There was another notch on my football time line.

Tales From A Halfway Point

Posted on December 29, 2014 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 28 December 2014.

It was almost a complete year since our last visit to Southampton. On New Year’s Day 2014, I travelled the relatively short journey to the city on the South coast with Glenn and Parky. It was a day of torrential rain, but of also a fine 3-0 win.

There was no Boxing Day game for me this Christmas – other priorities took precedence – but our play looked sumptuous at times against a surprisingly lack-lustre…or “crap” to be more succinct…West Ham United team.

There was a different type of inclement weather this year; bitter cold. Parky met me at my house for a change and we were soon on the way in to Frome to collect PD. Both were unfortunately suffering with severe head colds. By the end of the day, I wondered if I would be too. Southampton is only ninety minutes away and I was parked-up, on target, bang on 11.30am outside the city’s featureless train station. This was the same scenario as last season; in fact, as I type these words, I am aware that my footsteps in Southampton in December almost exactly mirrored those of January. This is a shame really – it is always nicer to experience new sights on these away days. I’m not particularly taken with Southampton though; it must have some, as yet hidden, charms.

As with 362 days previously, we based ourselves in the heaving “Yates” pub in the centre of the city. Unfortunately, the service was dreadful, but we were eventually served. In a little corner, again eerily similar to last season, there was a small conclave of Chelsea supporters from the Somerset / Wiltshire border.

The dirty dozen.

Mike, from further afield – Brooklyn, New York – arrived via a tortuous train journey from Kent and it was great to see him once again. Not only were we drinking in the same locale as in January, but the same music was playing too. At around 1.15pm, we needed to set off for the ground. Parky and PD were without tickets at this point, and I needed to collect them, on their behalf, at the stadium. Via a brisk walk, we soon reached St. Mary’s.

While I waited for the tickets, I had time to spot a huge sign on the stand wall which typifies how clubs try to engage supporters these days using words to stir the emotions and help create a bond between team, club and supporters.

“We are the Saints. It’s not just a name. It’s who we are. We will be in that number. We march on.”

I spotted something similar at Everton in August.

Signs, posters, hoardings, pennants.

There is none of this hyperbole on show at Stamford Bridge, although there was a short-lived ‘’We Are Chelsea’’ tag line a few seasons ago. Maybe we don’t have to try too hard to engender a sense of belonging – but at least it adds colour to an otherwise dull stadium façade. In the modern era – or post-modern, I’ve lost count – I find it increasingly popular for clubs to use their stadia as a canvas, sometimes on a huge scale, for such shows of belonging. We had the pre-game light show versus Tottenham a while back. It was pretty impressive; although I am not sure it needs to be repeated too often. I have a feeling that it could easily grow tedious. Maybe save it for the big games.

The most ingenious use of stadia that I have seen recently was from the pre-game show at a Montreal Canadiens ice-hockey match, when video images of team players were superimposed on the ice itself. Maybe Chelsea can superimpose iconic images on the hotel wall before night games; Graham Wilkins scoring an own goal, Chris Sutton slicing over from five yards or Darren Wood getting stranded in midfield. Maybe with the God-awful “Proper Chels” tagline.

After a slight delay at the turnstiles, we were in. The concourse under the stands at Southampton always seems to be particularly dark and gloomy. The difference between the inside and outside could not have been more spectacular. As I steadily climbed the small array of steps into the seating area, the brilliant blue sky – no clouds at all – and the low sun meant that the light was searing in its intensity. Even with sunglasses on, the light was blinding.

I soon located Alan and Gary. The game began with me still trying to work out who was playing and where. There were several changes since Boxing Day.

So –

Thibaut – Brana, JT, Gary, Filipe – Mikel and Matic – Cesc, Eden, Schurrle – Diego Costa.

The Chelsea choir were in good voice from the start. The pubs and bars in the city had obviously made a killing from hundreds of away fans. But that damned sun. Myself, and hundreds of others, ended up shielding our eyes from the sun with our hands. I mused that not so many years ago, away terraces at Chelsea games often used to house hundreds of fans raising their right arms, but with far more nefarious a reason.

It was odd for Chelsea to be attacking us in the first-half, but I am sure that the sun was a major factor. JT obviously thought that it was more advantageous for Frazer Forster to be facing it than our Thibaut. We began lively enough, but Southampton more than matched us. They threatened our goal but shots were saved and blocked.

The sun made viewing – and concentration – difficult. I didn’t enjoy it at all. I even missed the Southampton goal on seventeen minutes. I was too busy looking at the two managers, Mourinho and Koeman, observing the play like spectators at a tennis match, their heads moving as if synchronised; left, right, left, right. I looked up just as Mane slipped past JT to plant the ball past Courtois.

This was not expected; despite the home team’s fine form thus far this campaign. The home fans momentarily roared but then returned to a rather docile state. I looked over at a section of home fans adjacent to our segment; they looked neither happy nor even contented. I felt a tinge of pain – for want of a better word. It felt like they were making light of who we were.

“You bastards should be rocking the place. You’re beating the flippin’ league leaders here. We’re bloody Chelsea, not QPR. Make some noise you buggers.”

Their indifference annoyed me.

There was the occasional “Oh When The Saints”, but St. Mary’s was mainly quiet. Over on the far side, there was a “We March On” hoarding at the back of the stand, but St. Mary’s is quite a bland stadium, especially compared to the cramped yet wonderful and idiosyncratic Dell.

I will be honest. I thought we were pretty poor in the first-half. Yes, Southampton pressed us, but our verve and drive was sorely missing. With the sun still annoying the crap out of me, this was a game that I was simply not enjoying. The minutes passed. I was ready for a spirited Jose team talk at the break to inspire us in the second period.

Then, a miracle. A magnificent ball from Fabregas found Hazard. He soon brought the ball under control and quickly advanced. With amazing speed, he ran at two Southampton defenders, glided past both and shot – snap! – into the goal.

1-1.

Phew. Wild euphoria in the away section.

The whistle for half-time quickly blew.

The general agreement was that we had not deserved the equaliser. Saints had been the more impressive team.

Gary commented :

“Just like his goal at Hull last season.”

Down in the toilets at half-time, some Chelsea supporters celebrated Eden’s sublime goal by sparking up. To say that the air was thick with cigarette smoke would be an understatement. One bare-chested supporter began singing –

“Is there a barbecue?”

I think can still taste the bitterness of the smoke now.

As the teams assembled for the second-half, it surprised nobody that Andre Schurrle was the sacrificial lamb to allow Willian to join the action. Schurrle had not impressed in the first period and was the target of a little frustration from the fans around me. I spoke to Alan :

“Always difficult to come in to a starting eleven when you haven’t been playing regularly…”

Willian soon impressed with his – here I go again, I wish I could illustrate his play with words other than these – urgency and energy. Two shots were blocked. Then a Chelsea player fell in the box, but no penalty was given by the referee. Although the sun had now dropped below the level of the stand roof to my right and I could now watch in comfort, the challenge was simply too far away for me to judge. Fabregas – it was him – was booked for diving.

Chelsea had begun the second forty-five with much more aggression and intent. The away fans kept up a constant barrage of noise and we hoped for a goal to raise our spirits further. The home fans relied on an odd, new, chant of –

“Red and white” – clap, clap, “red and white” – clap, clap, “red and white” – clap, clap.

We now dominated the game and the Southampton defence needed to continually readjust as we came at them time after time. Hazard went close, then Diego Costa. At times our ball retention was a joy to watch, but it also became a little frustrating. We were overplaying at times. There was an annoying reluctance to shoot. We lost count of the number of times that intricate passes on the left ended up with a long ball out to Ivanovic on the right.

“Shoot for fuck sake.”

Extra artillery came in the form of Didier Drogba, who replaced Mikel, who had enjoyed a fine game. Our fabled striker soon linked up well with Diego Costa. Chances were rare, though. Neither ‘keeper were too busy. Courtois was more involved at Stoke.

Schneiderlin was booked – his second of the game – for a crude challenge on Hazard, and received his marching orders but there were only a few minutes left. Loic Remy replaced Diego Costa. A few late Chelsea chances peppered the home goal, but I was never convinced that a goal was forthcoming. This was a well-marshalled Southampton team and they had denied us our usual high number of efforts on goal. At the final whistle, it felt like a loss. There were groans on the way out from the assembled Chelsea masses – Manchester City were already two up at home to Burnley – and the game at Tottenham suddenly became even more important than before.

However, it had been a fair result. We had been poor in the first-half and despite our lengthy spells of possession, never looked like winning it.

The three of us met up outside and began the long slog back to the car. The temperature had dropped further and it was a tough walk back. I was in two minds whether or not to turn “Five Live” on, but I am a creature of habit. There was a tirade from Jose about a vendetta against Chelsea and our manager seemed supremely annoyed. Manchester City, possibly our only real threat for the title – though United are getting worryingly close – then imploded. And how.

Two Burnley goals in Manchester caused the three of us to bellow as my car headed towards the waiting M27.

“Yes!”

Football, eh?

On a day which marked the halfway stage in the campaign, it was left for our opponents in our very first game to take two massive points away from Manchester City. What an amazing and unexpected end to the first-half of the season.

We are 14-4-1 and on Thursday we go again.

Tales From The Top Of The Tree

Posted on December 24, 2014 by Chris Axon

Stoke City vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2014.

Thanks to the power brokers at the FA and Sky TV, our game at Stoke City was changed to a Monday 8pm evening kick-off. Not to worry; the city of Stoke-On-Trent is a relatively easy place to get to-and-from, especially since I now finish work at 3.30pm. I set off from Chippenham alone.

I texted Steve, visiting from California and en route to Staffordshire on the official club coach with his wife Sonia, with a message to say that I was “on the road.”

“Duck Kerouac.”

This was a solo-mission for me, for once. Last season, there was a similar Monday night away game tucked in just before the yuletide festivities. However, our dull 0-0 draw at Arsenal is remembered more by me for the atrocious weather conditions which were waiting for me during the last hour of my drive home. This was the occasion when my car became stranded in rising floodwater on a local road, only ten miles from home, and when I had to cadge a lift with a policeman and then walk home for the last three miles, sodden to the skin. Happy days.

In 2014, I hoped for no repeat.

I also hoped that there would be no repeat of our fixture at Stoke City’s Britannia Stadium last season, when they inflicted a painful 3-2 defeat. That away game in The Potteries represented a low-water mark for this particular website since the match report drew a season-long low number of views, by quite a large margin.

What’s the old saying?

“If you only support Chelsea when we win, don’t support us when we lose.”

At the time, I wondered if I ought to change my website tag line.

“Read when we’re winning. You only read when we’re winning.”

I ate up the miles on the familiar road north, stopping at the new Gloucester services where I was financially abused in order to eat a pasty and a sandwich.

“£7 please.”

“Merry Christmas.”

With a backdrop of music from The Buzzcocks, I thought a little about the game. With Manchester City now level with us at the very top of the table, the pressure was now on us to perform. This would be a tough physical, battle, no doubt. It had the potential to be a season-defining moment. Would we buckle under pressure or would we reconfirm our championship potential?

The time soon passed.

I turned off the A500 and was soon parked at my usual place, on the grass verge on the exit road. Around twenty cars were similarly parked.

It was 6.30pm.

Although I love revisiting my old college town, there would be no time, alas, to visit old haunts before the game kicked-off. My college years began in the autumn of 1984 and I found it hard to reconcile the fact that it all seemed relatively recent; for several moments during the evening my mind wandered back to fleeting thoughts of my student digs during that first year, my college mates – some of which I still see – and, of course, memories of Chelsea, and also Stoke City, games.

In that first term, from September to December, I travelled down to Stamford Bridge on four Saturdays, plus an away game at Sheffield Wednesday, but I also saw Stoke City play Watford at their old Victoria Ground. As students, we had a reduction in admission – maybe £2.50 and not £3 – and I remember standing in the side paddock below the main stand seats as Watford won 3-1. The gate was around 10,000. Stoke were truly awful in that season and finished rock bottom of Division One. It is a mystery to everyone that their three victories were against Manchester United, Arsenal and Sheffield Wednesday. The Victoria Ground featured three stands with seats and standing terraces in front, but with the standing-only Boothen End to the south. At the time, it was a neat stadium, but nothing special in my mind. Of course, with the advantage of hindsight – and maybe rose coloured spectacles – the old stadium’s charms seem more appealing. Each stand different, each with its own individual charms, and – of course – what I would pay to be able to lean on a crush barrier on a vast terrace such as The Boothen once again. It is pertinent to note that the noisy atmosphere associated with The Britannia these days is a very recent phenomenon. Stoke were never too noisy in my time.

Maybe the three seasons that I attended games there – a relegation season, plus two grey seasons in the Second Division – are not a suitable sample size.

On the walk from my car to the stadium, which is located in a part of the city called Sideway – pronounced “Siddaway, duck” – I walked past the Trent And Mersey Canal. An entrepreneuring fellow was selling oatcakes – the local delicacy, but I never was a fan – from his canal boat. The smoke rising from inside reminded me of the smoke associated with the selling of hot chestnuts and hot dogs on the Fulham Road in previous years. Does anyone else remember those little tin hot dog stands at Chelsea on match days, and the grubby hands of the chaps who sold them?

Shudder.

The main stand at The Brittania is surprisingly high. From the outside, it looks impressive. Unlike the single-tiered bowl at Southampton, Stoke City decided to go for a different approach in the design of their new stadium. The main stand is double-decked, but stands alone, not linked to the other structures. The away end, at the south end, stands alone too. The home end is linked to the other side stand. Maybe the intricacies and architectural anomalies of the old Victoria were purposefully repeated here.

The home end, also called The Boothen End, allows a little continuity for the residents. For those paying attention, the Boothen End was at the southern end of the old stadium, but is at the northern end of the new one. Is this a mistake? Not really, since the area of Boothen, roughly speaking, sits between the sites of the two stadia.

I made another pilgrimage to the grassed area behind the Boothen End to admire the magnificent series of statues which celebrate the city’s most famous son, Sir Stanley Matthews. Against the backdrop of the night sky, I managed to take a few dramatic photographs.

On my approach to the away turnstiles, I chatted briefly to a steward and I spoke about that awful 1984-1985 season.

“Keith Bertschin, George Berry, Steve Bould…”

Inside the away end – it is actually split 60/40 with home fans – I soon spotted Steve and Sonia. While the goalkeepers went through their pre-game routines, which involved fans taking a few selfies with Petr Cech, we chatted about our journeys to Stoke and our plans for the rest of the Christmas matches. A friend outside the away end had mentioned that the Stoke defenders would probably be niggling Diego Costa, especially, from the kick-off and he would need to be strong in mind and body not to get embroiled in any silliness.

I was positioned halfway back right behind the goal. Being an away season-ticket holder has its privileges. Alas Alan was unable to get time off work for this one – “thanks Sky” – but Gal was alongside me. A few Christmas songs were played on the PA and I was filled with a modicum of pride to see the sign on the home end :

“The Boothen End – Sponsored By Staffordshire University.”

…of course, back in my day, it was the more down-at-heel “North Staffs Poly.”

Although it had been a blustery walk to the ground, inside it was relatively OK.

I still remember the bitterness of our cup game up there in 2003; the coldest that I have ever been at a Chelsea game. I’m still thawing out from that one.

Jose Mourinho again played Matic alongside Mikel, which pushed Fabregas alongside Hazard and Willian. This would always be a physical battle. We were ready for the Stoke onslaught. Steve had asked me about the Stoke atmosphere, but the noise levels weren’t great before the game. The Chelsea fans, however, were in buoyant form.

In parts of Manchester, others were looking on.

Chelsea – with blue socks, I’m still not a fan – had a perfect start. Hazard seemed to be in acres of space on the left – maybe an optical illusion caused by the fact that the main stand sits way back from the action – advanced and played the ball in to Brana. His shot was deflected for a corner. Cesc sent over a fabulous corner and, through the lens of my camera, I saw at least three Chelsea players converge to meet the ball. After a slight delay, the three thousand away fans soon realised that the net had rippled and we were one up.

Get in.

It took ages for anyone around me to realise that JT had headed home.

Alan, South London : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, South Stoke : “COMLD, duck.”

Steve, South Philly : “I haven’t even sat down.”

Chris, South Stoke : “It’s OK. Neither have I.”

We completely dominated the game for the next ten minutes and the home team hardly touched the ball. We bossed it and our play was crisp and purposeful. However, the rough tackles were starting to mount up. It took a full twenty minutes for Stoke City to muster much in their attacking third; when they did, the home stands finally delivered some formidable noise. Until that point, Chelsea had been in control off the pitch too. This was my first-ever midweek Chelsea game at Stoke – when was the last one? – and I was loving it. A good game, a noisy away section, good times.

An awful challenge on Eden Hazard by Phil Bardsley, down on the left touchline, made the entire away end howl. OK, I was one hundred yards away, but this was an ugly, brutal assault on our supremely gifted magician. I was praying for a red card to be handed out but was dismayed to see a yellow. Mark Hughes – I loved him as a Chelsea player, but those days are long gone – was full of rage, throwing his arms around in a theatrical display of histrionics. It was akin to the movements shown by matadors or variety performers cracking whips. Maybe Hughes thought he would be getting points for it.

What a fool.

Hughes and Mourinho came together momentarily, and Hughes’ tantrums continued. For the rest of the game, Jose silently stalked his technical area, his presence probably annoying Hughes further. I lost count of the times that Hughes threw his arms down amid a verbal onslaught to the poor fourth official.

Courtois reacted brilliantly to push Nzonzi’s deflected low drive away for a corner. The corner, like others, was superbly claimed by our young goalkeeper. Although Petr Cech is a superb goalkeeper, his control of his six yard box – for a tall man – hasn’t always been great. A goal which was scored last season on the same ground is a case in point. In contrast, Courtois seems peerless. With the ball lofted high in to our box, I am always confident that Thibaut will claim it.

This was a fine game, but there were niggles.

The referee needed to talk to several players at a Stoke corner as players scrambled for an advantage. After a few half-hearted Stoke threats were repelled – a Cahill block comes to mind – we regained the advantage.

After good work from Matic, an oblique pass into space from Fabregas was gorgeous, but Diego Costa shot wide. Our lone striker enjoyed a fine half, running well with the ball, keeping the ball tight, but also his movement off the ball was also exemplary. There were fine performances all over, though Willian, despite his energy, was delaying his final pass which caused the away fans to grow restless. He seemed to spend his time scuttling sideways – in Sideway – rather than penetrating the defence with a pass. However, it was a minor complaint.

At the other end, more comfortable leaps from Thibaut kept Stoke at bay.

Ex Chelsea season-ticket holder Peter Crouch was having a tough ride from our supporters –

“Does the circus know you’re here?”

At the break, the mood was optimistic.

“We need a second, though, Gal. One goal isn’t enough. We need those three points. Massive game tonight.”

We again dominated as the second period began. Willian shot at goal, then continued to do so at regular intervals throughout the half. Eden Hazard was quite magical all night long and it is an absolute pleasure to be able to watch him perform week in, week out. His art is his own, and Sir Stanley Matthews would have enjoyed our Belgian’s performance in his home town.

The pitch was Eden’s.

One dribble down the left went on for an age. It was just beautiful. With his rather chunky thighs, and his low centre of gravity, he is such an obdurate individual once he has the ball at his mercy. I am reminded of Bryon Butler’s description of Diego Maradona in the 1986 game against England.

“Turns like a little eel…and comes away from trouble…little squat man.”

That second goal was elusive, though. For all our possession, there was nothing. Substitute Charlie Adam shot narrowly wide, though I was convinced that it would be the equaliser.

Nerves.

Plenty of them.

“We’re starting to tire, Gal.”

On seventy-eight minutes, the ball was played by a raiding Eden Hazard towards Cesc Fabregas. His first touch wasn’t perfect and the ball was flicked up, but he was able to stretch for a second one, which resulted in the ball almost apologetically trickling over the line, with Begovic flat-footed.

60% of the south stand erupted.

GET IN.

Inside I was boiling, but I remained cool.

I snapped Fabregas’ joyous slide towards the baying away support on film.

Cesctasy.

We could, finally, relax.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away.”

Andre Schurrle, a late substitute for Willian, shot low but Begovic saved. Diego Drogba replaced the excellent Diego Costa. Sadly, Eden Hazard was injured after another errant Stoke tackle. The substitute Kurt Zouma was momentarily deployed within our midfield ranks as the five minutes of extra-time ran out.

“Kurt Zouma – he plays where he wants.”

On the walk down the hill to my car, I was interested to hear the comments of the home supporters.

Asmir Begovic was mentioned scathingly, though the most interesting point of view was about one of our players.

“Matic is an absolutely brelliant play’yeh.”

“He es, ent he? He wens the ball, then pushes on.”

Ah that Stoke accent.

I reached my car and threw my pullover and jacket in the back seat. I flicked the CD on and – no word of a lie – the Buzzcocks sang :

“Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.”

Perfect.

I had my usual “see if I can get back on to the M6 in two minutes” race along the A500.

I did.

With our position at the top of the tree secured for Christmas, I could relax and quickly review my albeit brief time spent in The Potteries. It had reminded me so much of an infamous away win at Ewood Park against a thuggish Blackburn Rovers team during our 2004-2005 championship-winning campaign. We rose against the physicality of another Mark Hughes team that evening and many said that it was a watershed moment in our season. Ten years on, I had similar thoughts.

It had ben a brelliant naght, duck.

Tales From The Garden Of Eden

Posted on February 11, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 8 February 2014.

After our monumental and, possibly, season-defining triumph at Manchester City on Monday, I was chomping at the bit to see us play Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. However, for the first part of this particular Football Saturday, my focus was again elsewhere. I shot in to Bath in order to pay a visit to my rapidly-improving mother at the hospital. At 11.30am, I collected His Lordship from Parky Towers. However, our short trip over to Trowbridge to collect Young Jake was beset with flood-induced traffic congestion at Bradford-on-Avon; I have never seen the river so high. We were held up for quite some time. This was not good. Eventually, Jake was collected and we were on our way. However, more slow-moving traffic in Westbury caused me to momentarily wonder if we’d be able to make the kick-off.

It was 12.20pm and I still had a hundred mile drive ahead of me.

Thankfully, once I veered around Warminster on the A36, and then shot past Stonehenge, I was eating up the miles. London was reached in good time; at 2.20pm I was parked-up and we were on our walk to The Bridge.

A Chelsea vs. Newcastle United fixture is a common one for me. Allowing for Newcastle’s one recent relegation season, I have seen every single one of their games at Stamford Bridge since they re-joined the top-flight, under Kevin Keegan, in 1993.

This game, therefore, would be the twentieth consecutive league fixture between the two teams at Stamford Bridge that I would have seen. I always enjoy the visit of the black and whites from Tyneside. It’s always a special fixture for me. I am rapidly approaching the fortieth anniversary of my very first Chelsea game. That too, was against Newcastle United.

…let’s go back.

…way back.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. From that moment on, what are my memories? They are, not surprisingly, vague. I began looking out for Chelsea’s results, but my recollections are not particularly great about individual games, on TV or otherwise. I certainly can’t remember the 1971 Final in Athens for example. To be honest, my parents were not particularly big sport fans…I think that my football genes came from my maternal grandfather who had played football and cricket for the village in his youth (and incidentally, visited Stamford Bridge when he was a young man, the only ground he ever visited). Additionally, I am sure that he said on a few occasions that he favoured Newcastle and Aston Villa for some reason.

In those first few years of the ‘seventies, in my small Somerset school classroom, the alliances were starting to emerge. Leeds United led the way with three supporters in David, Tony and Wayne, while Andy was Arsenal and Paul was Liverpool. However, as far as I can recall, I alone was Chelsea, out on my own, on a limb. I wonder if there was any peer pressure to choose one of the other teams. Looking back – and I haven’t thought long and hard about this ever before – I’m rather proud of myself to pick a team which had garnered no other support at school. There was, however, a vague memory of some neighbours who lived opposite – a family, who soon disappeared to live in Gloucestershire. There was a son, also called Christopher, quite a few years older than me – maybe a teenager – who I think favoured Chelsea too. Maybe it’s in the name.

An important event happened around 1971 or 1972. A friend of ours in Windsor worked with Peter Osgood’s sister Mandy at a factory making Caterpillar vehicles and he said that he could obtain Ossie’s autograph for me. Once my father had explained what an “autograph” was, I was so excited and couldn’t wait for it to arrive. The only two names that I knew at Chelsea at the time were the two Peters, Osgood and Bonetti. I still have that signed photograph and it really cemented my affection for Peter Osgood and Chelsea Football Club.

I have no recollection of the 1972 League Cup Final loss to Stoke, but I do remember hearing “Blue Is The Colour” on the radio at around that time and that really affected me too. Just to hear the name “Chelsea” sent me dizzy. I obviously saw Chelsea on TV on Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoon highlight programmes but I only have vague recollections of the old East stand which came down in the summer of 1972. Incidentally, the first F.A. Cup Final that I can remember was the 1972 one; Leeds United beating Arsenal in the Centenary Final.

The first Chelsea game that I can honestly remember seeing on TV was the 1972 opener against mighty Leeds. Their goalie was injured and Peter Lorimer replaced him; Chelsea won 4-0. Peter Osgood, my hero, scored.

What other memories do I have in those nascent years? I remember – specifically – the build-up to the March 1973 F.A. Cup game with Arsenal. I remember Ossie’s goal in the first game and then watching the action on the 9.30pm news of the replay at Highbury. The sadness from that night still lives with me. I remember Bobby Charlton’s last ever game – at Chelsea – being shown on TV highlights in May 1973.

Anyway – you get the picture…I loved playing football at school break times, on Saturdays at the village recreation ground (“the rec”) and in the street. I was a football fan and Chelsea was my team. My first Chelsea kit was purchased – with a number nine sewn on shirt and shorts – and then football boots and a leather football. Football was taking over. Every Saturday morning, I would walk down to the village shop to collect a loaf of bread and then spend a few pennies on packets of football cards. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling almost forty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on March 16^th against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother wrote to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived…priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

Looking back, I don’t think that any of my school pals could actually believe I was going to see Chelsea play. This was unheard of amongst the village kids. I was only eight remember. At last the great day arrived and it is amazing that I remember so much. My father was a local shopkeeper and so he pulled a few strings with his co-owner to get the Saturday off. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in great health at the time. He had been diagnosed with throat cancer and was due radiation treatment in the May. Thankfully, this was eventually successful, but he was feeling a bit under-the-weather throughout the journey to and from London.

One small memory; on trips to London, my father always drove north and joined the M4 at Bath. After consultation with others, it was decided that an alternative would be used on that particular day. Instead, Dad would drive east on the A4 and picked the M4 at Hungerford. There was a little part of me – the worrier – that hoped that this new itinerary wouldn’t backfire and we’d end up getting lost.

“Not on my first trip to Chelsea, surely Dad!”

Leading up to the game, there had been a pitch invasion at Newcastle United’s F.A. Cup game at home to Nottingham Forest on the previous Saturday and, during the week at school the hooliganism – or at least, over-exuberance and a little vandalism – had been the talk of the classroom.

This heightened the frisson for my first-ever Chelsea game.

We had arranged to park our car at a nursing home at Park Royal, where an uncle had recently been staying. I suppose we reached there at around 12.30pm. We then walked the short distance to Park Royal tube station and caught the train to Fulham Broadway. I visited Park Royal station recently and it did bring back some memories…I recalled walking over the footbridge over the tracks and the art deco façade of the station. In March 1974, my heart must have been beating fast as we boarded the eastbound train. I had been on a tube train before, but this felt so exciting – doing what thousands of Chelsea fans do each week…this is what stuck with me the most I think; a small boy from Somerset being a Londoner for the day.

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood. We bought a match programme, which I still have. I remember that the smudge from my mother’s wet leather glove is still visible…strange, though, I remember the day as being sunny.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still mid-construction on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team included such players as Ron Harris, John Phillips, John Hollins, Steve Kember, Dave Webb, Ian Hutchinson and Charlie Cooke. Newcastle United fielded Malcolm Macdonald, Stewart Barrowclough, Terry McDermott and Terry Hibbitt amongst others.

The gate was 24,207 on that day in March 1974.

What do I remember of the actual game? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minutes…a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember actually thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there was to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. Of course, a second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed.

I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final and then in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Fulham Broadway Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) – the site of a café to this day. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

Back to 2014…

Despite fine weather on the approach to London, there was a sudden shower as we started our walk towards The Bridge. Up above the Empress State Building, a striking rainbow lit up the grey sky. I wondered if a pot of goals would be at the end of it. Very often the visit of the Geordies has resulted in a heavy loss for them in SW6. Their team would be depleted. They have had a tough time of it recently. I was supremely confident that a Chelsea win would be forthcoming. We bypassed The Goose and reached the turnstiles for the MHU in good time. This was a strange pre-match for sure, though. When was the last time I had attended a home game on a Saturday and had not set foot in a pub? Maybe 1984.

The half-and-half scarves on sale next to the CFCUK stall were matched overhead by a half-and-half sky. One part was brilliant blue, one part was grey cloud. The rainbow had disappeared. I quickly bought a programme and flicked through it as I waited in line at the turnstiles. Club historian Rick Glanvill had written a piece on the Newcastle game in 1980 which I had attended with a couple of school friends and, ironically, my father and his then retired co-owner at the shop. A 6-0 win that day is fondly remembered.

Over in the corner, Newcastle had brought 2,000 away fans; the same as West Ham United. It seems there is a change in Chelsea’s policy on away tickets. It used to be solidly set at either 3,000 or 1,500. The away fans began singing about a fat cockney bastard leaving their club alone, but other, more rousing, songs were not forthcoming. Back in 1974, I thought it implausible that Newcastle fans could travel such a distance to see their team play; I remember being suitably impressed. These days, the friction of distance seems to be of little importance.

John Terry wasn’t in the line-up. Mourinho still fancied Dave ahead of Ashley, so the defence was rejigged with David Luiz alongside Gary Cahill and Branislav Ivanovic at right-back. Frank Lampard returned alongside the impressive Nemanja Matic. The midfield “attacking three” were Oscar, Willian and the new all-conquering idol Eden Hazard. Samuel Eto’o led the line. As expected, the visitors’ line-up was depleted and contained a couple of players of whom I knew nothing.

Chelsea began on the front foot and dominated the first part of the game. However, Ben Arfa found space but fired at Petr Cech to sound out a warning to a perhaps complacent home crowd. The atmosphere seemed to be one of expectation, with the home support unwilling to provide a noisy backdrop, despite our early dominance. The half-chances continued for Chelsea.

Eden Hazard advanced with the ball and played it out wide to Ivanovic. The Belgian dynamo continued his run and when Brana returned the ball, he whipped it low past Krul into the far corner. It was as simple as that.

Eden ran away to the far corner to celebrate and The Bridge rejoiced. I hoped for a little pay-back for our defeat up at St. James’ Park in November; our second-half performance that day was quite shocking in its lack of desire.

A lone Newcastle effort at the Matthew Harding was abated by Cech, but we were soon on the attack again. Eden Hazard, the crowd buzzing whenever he touched the ball, ran deep into the Geordie penalty box. He played the ball in to a heavily marked Eto’o, who charmed us with an exquisite back heel into Eden’s path. A simple stroke of the ball into the goal gave us a 2-0 lead. A slide on his knees, right in front of Parky, then another gathering of players down in the corner. We love our corners at Chelsea. Does any other team always celebrate with a run to the corners after almost every goal? I can’t think of any.

In the after-goal glow, the spectators in the Matthew Harding took a moment to honour our manager, under a little criticism before Christmas, but now lauded by the loyalists –

“Stand Up For The Special One.”

At the break, Tommy Baldwin appeared on the pitch alongside Neil Barnett. I only ever saw The Sponge play once for Chelsea; not in game number one in 1974, but against Tottenham in game two in 1974. He was the leader of the team…

While Alan and I joked about 20,000 spectators not knowing who he was, sadly it seems Chelsea Football Club didn’t either. Alongside Tommy’s career stats on the TV screen was a picture of Charlie Cooke.

Oh boy.

Soon into the second-half, the Newcastle ‘keeper rushed out to meet a Luiz high ball, slipped, but was relieved to watch the ball speed away past the post before Oscar could reach it. Then a whipped Frank Lampard free-kick from an acute angle brought a fine save from Krul. A corner was swung in by Willian and the ball was knocked away. Although I didn’t spot the offence, the wonderfully-named Mapou Yanga-Mbiwa was adjudged to have pulled down Eto’o inside the box. The much-maligned Howard Webb pointed to the spot. It didn’t even occur to me that Frank Lampard would normally take it; all thoughts were on Eden Hazard and his opportunity to score his first-ever Chelsea hat-trick. While I remonstrated with an over-zealous steward about using my camera, the penalty was easily dispatched.

Chelsea 3 Newcastle United 0.

After a relatively quiet start to this season under Mourinho, despite a steady supply of goals, Eden Hazard is now the darling of the Chelsea support. I am mesmerized every time Eden has the ball at his mercy. I get a lovely rush of adrenalin as I watch him run at defenders, scuttling back to try to annul his threat. I love his sudden acceleration. I admire his tenacity. Above all, I love his confidence with the ball at his feet. When he is at the top of his game, Eden has the ability to turn any moment into a great moment.

Let all of us stand up and enjoy it.

Back in 1980, Colin Lee had scored a hat-trick in the 6-0 rout. With almost half-an-hour remaining, I hoped for a similar score line. In reality, we eased off a little. Newcastle instead managed to carve out a couple of half-chances but their finishing was poor. Mourinho rang the changes; Ba for Eto’o, then new buy Mohamed Salah for Willian and then Andre Schurrle for the magical Hazard. Within a few minutes of his Chelsea debut, Salah had one half-chance and one fine chance in which to score, but failed to hit the target. He impressed me in the games against Basel in 2013; I’m sure he will prove to be a fine addition to our squad.

As the game wore on, all eyes and ears were focussed on score updates from Carrow Road where, amazingly, Norwich City were managing to hold Manchester City to a 0-0 score-line. Howard Webb signalled the end of our match and the crowd applauded the players off. It immediately felt like an easy win. In fact, it felt like a typical Chelsea versus Newcastle United result; a few Chelsea goals and a clean sheet. As I packed away my camera, it was announced on the PA that Manchester City had indeed dropped two points at Norwich.

It meant that Chelsea were top.

Get in.

We’ve all seen a list of our remaining league games. We will have a tough one at a resurgent Liverpool, plus a couple of home derbies against the North London teams might stretch us, but all of the others seem…whisper it…”winnable.”

Maybe, just maybe…

…with Eden Hazard in our team, we have a chance.

Tales From A Road Less Travelled

Posted on January 14, 2014 by Chris Axon

Hull City vs. Chelsea : 11 January 2014.

My seemingly never-ending trail around the highways and byways of England and Wales, after consecutive away days in Hampshire and Derbyshire, now had me heading up to Yorkshire for Chelsea’s lunchtime encounter with Hull City. I once described Hull as England’s forgotten city, but following Hull City’s promotion to the top flight in 2008, at least football fanciers are now aware of the city on the banks of the River Humber. This would be a long day, but one that I was relishing.

At 5am the alarm sounded and I was soon cobbling together my match day essentials. I noted that a few fans were already referencing an “Only Fools And Horses” episode on “Facebook.”

“To Hull and back.”

I soon collected Parky at 6.30am and we soon dipped in to McChippenham for our standard football breakfast.

Within minutes, we had crossed the M4 and were heading north on the straight-as-a-dye Fosse Way once again. This ancient Roman road, which stretches from Exeter to Lincoln, is especially picturesque in The Cotswolds, linking small knots of hamlets with larger market towns, each with dwellings built from the local golden stone. At around 7.30am, we saw the sun rise to the east. The road was quiet. The Cotswolds were as photogenic as ever, even in the height of winter. By 8.30am, there was nothing but a clear blue sky overhead.

“I love this time of the day, Parky. Dawn breaking, with a long trip ahead. Perfect.”

Our route eventually took us right through the heart of much-maligned Coventry. The inner-city ring road hurtled us past the two recent former homes of the city’s football team. I would imagine that most Coventry City fans are rueing the club’s decision to move out of Highfield Road, a perfectly fine stadium in the heart of the city, and then decamp to the now abandoned Ricoh Arena. Coventry’s football club now play at Northampton Town’s stadium and this is just a miserable state of affairs.

“This town is coming like a ghost town.”

Our F.A. Cup visit to the Ricoh in 2009 may turn out to be our solitary one.

Just after 9am, we collected Andy from his house in Nuneaton. I’ve been good mates with Andy for almost twenty years (Prague 1994). However, for almost ten years before that, his was a face that I often used to spot at various stadia. I recognised him at first from our travels back to the midlands from Euston station after Chelsea home games. For a spell, it seemed that I couldn’t help noticing him at home games – he used to stand in front of the Bovril Gate in The Shed – and most away games too. I even remember spotting him in Glasgow for a Rangers game in 1986 on a day when there was no Chelsea match.

“Bloody hell, I can’t get away from him.”

Twenty-eight years later, we were headed off to Hull City in the same car. It’s weird how these things work themselves out.

We then stopped at a nearby village to collect Alan (aka “The Youth”) and his twelve year old son Seb (collectively known as “The Two Ronnies”). In the same way that my home town of Frome used to supply around six to eight fans for many Chelsea games, Andy’s home of Nuneaton used to supply even greater numbers. Whereas, Frome’s presence has dwindled to just a couple, many of the Nuneaton boys still go. On one memorable occasion in 1997, we arranged to play a Chelsea South (essentially Frome and London) versus a Chelsea Nuneaton six-a-side game at a sport centre off the King’s Road on the morning of a Chelsea vs. Manchester United match. The Nuneaton chaps were clear winners, winning 6-1 if memory serves. Good times. We’re long overdue a re-match.

For the second time in under a week, I was headed up the M42. Rather than turn off for Derby, I joined the M1. After all of my journeys up the west side of the midlands for games in Lancashire and Merseyside, this made a refreshing change. Due to the reluctance of both Sheffield teams and Leeds United to join Chelsea in top-flight football, this was certainly a road less travelled. A solitary game at Bramall Lane in the autumn of 2006 has been our only league match at these two cities for ages. It is likely that some new Chelsea fans are completely unaware of the existence of Sheffield Wednesday – unwilling to look beyond the Premier League – such has their status plummeted over the past fifteen years. Maybe some fans believe Sheffield Wednesday to be a type of cake, or a breed of cattle, or a type of rifle.

As I drove north, we spoke of previous visits to see Chelsea play at Hull City.

“Didn’t we play them twice in the F.A. Cup years and years ago?”

“Yeah, 1982…and then again, when the third round was played before Christmas, in 1999.”

“There was that 4-0 League Cup win.”

“Two midweek league games.”

This would only be my second visit to the K.C. stadium to see us play.

“That Frank Lampard chip.”

Surprisingly, I spotted no other Chelsea cars headed north. In addition to the smoke billowing out from the cooling towers of several power stations, there were many wind turbines on the hills to the distance. Here was evidence of the changing face of England in 2014. We swung around, passing Sheffield and then Doncaster, before heading due east on the M62. The sky was still a brilliant blue. Eventually, the Humber Bridge – once the World’s longest single span suspension bridge – came in to view. It’s quite striking, to be honest.

Then, the city of Hull.

A while ago, this grey city ranked “numero uno” in a list of “Crap Towns of Britain” but I can’t honestly comment, since my visits have been such short-lived affairs. If the football club remain in the top flight for more than one season, and if the kick-off slot is more conducive, I promise to take a walk around the recently rejuvenated dock area and try to eke out some worthwhile sights. In 1973, on a family visit to nearby Grimsby, we spent a day in Hull and I remember a visit to the William Wilberforce Museum, devoted to the man who is most credited for abolishing slavery within the British Empire.

Back in the early ‘eighties, one of my favourite bands were formed at Hull University, taking their name from a slogan used by a furniture shop.

“For all your bedroom needs, we sell everything but the girl.”

Hull, like Wigan, is a rugby league town. I’d imagine that Hull would be quite content to emulate Wigan Athletic; in the top flight for eight years with an F.A. Cup and European football thrown in for good measure. Our approach into the city was along Clive Sullivan way, named after one of Hull’s favourite rugby league players. Very soon, we spotted the white floodlight pylons of the K.C. Stadium and we were soon parked-up.

It was 11.45am.

The cold wind was a shock to the system, but we were soon inside, amongst familiar Chelsea faces within the concourse behind the northern goal. There was just time for a pint and a pie. A proud banner reminded us that the city had been awarded the title of the U.K. City of Culture for 2017.

I reached my seat a few moments before the teams walked out. I’d imagine we had around 2,500 tickets for this game, together in one tier behind the goal. It was clear that the “gobby” element of the home support were adjacent, to our left, just like at Wigan in fact.

Still clear blue skies.

As the game commenced, I quickly scanned the team and approved.

Luiz in midfield alongside Ramires? No complaints.

However, despite my liking of the Cole/Terry/Cahill/Azpilicueta defensive line, Ashley Cole was continually tested in the first period of the game by several Hull City bursts. We seemed to take a while to get out of the traps and the home team managed a few efforts on Petr Cech’s goal.

The banter on the terraces had started early. The home fans in the corner were firing some bullets our way.

“Here for the culture. You’re only here for the culture.”

“You’re soft. You’re southerners.”

“We support our local team.”

…bollocks, you were all Leeds fans ten years ago.

John Terry gave the ball away right in front of me, but thankfully Sagbo snatched at his shot and the ball flashed wide of the far post. Soon after, our first real chance was provided by an excellent piece of attacking play by Cole and Hazard. Our Belgian maestro crossed the ball to the waiting Oscar and the entire Chelsea end expected a goal. The Brazilian’s shot, though powerful, was right at Alan McGregor, who ably deflected the ball over. I turned away, mouthing “great save” and noticed a few others saying the same.

The home fans were again singing.

“Silverware, we don’t care. Hull City everywhere.”

In truth, there was little noise emanating from the Chelsea faithful as the first-half wore on. Maybe it was the early kick-off which affected our quietness. A late free-kick from David Luiz forced another fine save from the Hull ‘keeper, but there seemed to be a general malaise from team and supporters alike in the lunchtime sun. Both Alan and Gary, who had travelled up from London by train, were of the same opinion as me; we needed to up the tempo, create space, move for each other. Very often, Hull were able to smother our play.

“Bloody hell, we can go top today. That should be all the motivation the players need.”

“I’m sure Jose will sort it at the break.”

Soon after the restart, a ridiculously high and wide effort from Luiz almost reached the corner flag.

“Bloody hell.”

Thankfully, our pressure steadily increased. We were awarded another free-kick and again David Luiz took control. With Gary Cahill standing in the wall, he turned and broke away, allowing Luiz to aim for the space he had vacated. In truth, the dipping ball was easy for the ‘keeper to shield.

A gorgeous dribble from Hazard right into the Hull penalty area, but his shot was smacked wide. Just after, a fine interchange between Luiz and Cole set up Eden Hazard. What happened next was pure joy.

Hazard advanced at speed, sold the defender the most delightful dummy by feinting to shoot, then slammed the ball in at the base of the left post.

Get in!

The Chelsea end roared and Hazard ran to milk the applause, with a knowing smirk which shouted “yeah, I know, that was the bollocks, wasn’t it?”He was soon mobbed by his team mates. We were on our way.

At the birthplace of Everything But The Girl, Eden had registered a hit.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

The Chelsea choir soon greeted our goal with the most obvious chant of the season –

“We are top’o’the league. Say, we are top’o’the league.”

Is it me, or does anyone else think that this chant always seems to be carried out in a Geordie accent?

The noise from the Chelsea fans clearly upset the home fans, who responded with the dreary “City Till I Die” dirge.

Chelsea then responded –

“Hull City Tigers – You Know What You Are.”

Ouch. That must’ve hurt. However, I have a feeling that this particular ditty must have been sung at Hull on many other occasions this season because their response was quick, loud and most definitely to the point.

“I’d rather be a tiger than a cnut.”

A few Chelsea smiles greeted that one.

Chelsea again tested Hull with a few more efforts and Hull were fading fast. However, Mourinho replaced Oscar with Mikel and we expected a tightening of our play.

A 1-0 victory would do for me.

With the game heading towards its conclusion, Willian – who had enjoyed another all-action display – played the ball through to Fernando Torres. Torres had toiled hard all game, but had been fed just scraps. Here was a chance for him to excel, enjoying the exact type of ball with which he so often thrived at Anfield. He pushed the ball forward, drifted past his marker and once inside the box quickly dispatched the ball low with his left foot. McGregor was beaten and the net rippled.

No smirking from Nando. Just relief that his weaker left peg had not let him down.

2-0, game over.

I pulled out of Hull bang on 3pm and I then battled the falling sun as I headed due west. There was a small amount of reflection on the game. In truth, we were hardly troubled. The concern at half-time soon disappeared as the second-half developed and Chelsea’s superiority told. Another three points, top of the league, having a laugh.

It was a tiring drive home. I fought the yawns with copious supplies of caffeine. There were plenty of laughs as we headed south.

We bade our farewells to Alan and Seb :

“It’s goodnight from me.”

“And it’s goodnight from him.”

And then Andy :

“See you next Sunday, God bless.”

As so often happens, I inevitably contrived to get lost in the Bermuda Triangle just south of Coventry. Every damn time, this happens. If ever I go missing over the next few years, I suggest they send a search party out to search the roads around bloody Warwick, bloody Kenilworth and bloody Leamington bloody Spa.

As we headed south on the Fosse, Parky played a couple of CDs from the ‘eighties. We passed Moreton-in-Marsh to the sound of ABC, Stow on the Wold to the sound of The Beat and Cirencester to the sound of Bauhaus.

I eventually reached home at 9pm, fell asleep on the sofa, missed “Match of the Day” and awoke at 4am. I turned over and fell back to sleep.

Top of the league, I’m having a kip.

Tales From A Lucky Escape

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 9 November 2013.

One of my earliest footballing memories as a small child was being informed by my father that my chosen football team’s nickname was “The Pensioners.” The year was 1970, or maybe 1971, and the club’s link to those famous scarlet-clad residents of the Royal Hospital in Chelsea was explained to me. Of course, in reality, this nickname – our original nickname – was dropped in the ‘fifties by the then manager Ted Drake in favour of the more generic “The Blues.” My father, not really a football fan, was probably unaware of this change. As my support for Chelsea grew with each passing season in the early ‘seventies, I seem to remember that I soon adopted the newer nickname despite “The Pensioners” being mentioned in various schoolboy football magazines and on bubble gum cards. With each year, though, the usage declined.

There had clearly been, if you will excuse the pun, a changing of the guard since the ‘fifties.

“The Pensioners” were out and “The Blues” were in.

I’ll be honest; in all of my time of going to football at Chelsea, I cannot recall a single instance of a supporter yelling “Come on you Pensioners.”

It’s a shame really. One of football’s more charismatic and romantic nicknames is no more. I can remember writing a letter to Ken Bates c. 1982 asking if “The Pensioners” could be reinstated in place of the bland and ubiquitous “Blues.” It was met with a swift rebuff from the chairman. He cited Ted Drake’s reasoning that “The Pensioners” made the club sound like a music hall joke.

And yet, the link between Chelsea Football Club and the Royal Hospital still exists. At every home game, free tickets are given by the club so that up to eight former soldiers can attend. I always remember – back in the late ‘eighties – a Chelsea Pensioner, “Geordie”, dropping in to our favoured hostelry of the time, The Black Bull, and enjoying a pre-match tipple. I loved seeing him in there. He was a Newcastle fan through birth, but a Chelsea fan through fate. Although our colour is blue, there is something quite beautiful about that rich red tunic. Maybe this is because red is such a rare colour at Stamford Bridge. The contrast always strikes me as quite endearing.

One of my favourite memories of recent years at Stamford Bridge was the perfectly choreographed Championship celebrations after the match against Charlton Athletic, following on from the win at Bolton. The Chelsea Pensioners played an integral role that day. It was magnificent, stirring stuff.

So, although the nickname is consigned to history, the vivid scarlet uniforms and the neat black caps of the Chelsea Pensioners still play a role in the public face of Chelsea Football Club. And long may it continue.

It had been a rather long-winded journey up to Stamford Bridge from Somerset. I had collected Parky and then Bournemouth Steve en route to the capital. An England vs. Argentina rugby game at Twickenham had forced me up on to the M4, where I managed to get embroiled in heavy traffic. Eventually, I was parked-up at 12.30pm.

Parky and I fancied a change and so dipped into “The Rylston” – formerly the Normand Arms – on Lillee Road for an hour. Previously, the pub had looked rather rough and ready in its former guise, but has recently experienced a makeover so typical of many pubs in and around the Fulham area. There was new décor with a classic retro feel, black and white tiles, black and white photos, a food menu and some great brews on tap. Although it was only four hundred yards on from the football-mad “Goose”, there was little evidence of any Chelsea fans inside.

At 1.30pm, we had moved on and the difference in “The Goose” was all too evident.

A packed pub, a boisterous crowd, familiar faces – and cheaper prices.

Outside in the beer garden, it was a pleasure to see Mike from NYC once again, alongside Dave the Hat, both full of beer and bollocks.

The laughter rang out.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, it was a typical scene on a Saturday match day. Although Londoners were going about their usual routines – queuing up at the busy market stalls along the North End Road, dipping in and out of betting shops, catching the tube into central London at Fulham Broadway, dining out along Vanston Place – the area was dominated by the football match soon to commence a few hundred yards away. The hundreds marched towards Stamford Bridge as three o’clock neared. And so shall it always be.

An image from Chelsea’s history once again; a black and white photograph of Stamford Bridge just after World War One, many former soldiers, in wheelchairs, in front of the old East Stand on the old dog track, blinking in the afternoon light, their bodies weakened by the ravages of conflict, but now smiling at the camera, contented to be watching their footballing heroes once more. One wonders what stories those fellows could tell; of brothers no longer able to embrace the gentle caress of the autumn sun, of glorious battles won and the searing pain of loss.

I’m sure I am not the only Chelsea supporter who can’t escape linking the early years of our club, formed just nine years before the outbreak of what was called “The Great War”, with our country’s military history in those tumultuous years. We were, after all, participants in the “Khaki Cup Final” of 1915. I wonder how many Chelsea followers from our first few years only enjoyed the briefest of lives.

Let’s remember them.

The roar of the crowd ushered the end of the perfectly-observed minute’s silence and the four Chelsea Pensioners slowly walked from the Stamford Bridge pitch to take their seats in the East Stand, just like their predecessors throughout the years.

Time to check the team – Frank Lampard and Eden Hazard returning. Time to check the crowd – another full house, and 1,500 away fans. The return of Steve Clarke but no Nicolas Anelka.

The first-half was a hum-drum affair. West Brom were well drilled and made life difficult for us. A few chances were exchanged at either end. The Shed End could be heard singing at various times, but generally the atmosphere was quiet. The away fans were not in the same caliber as the visiting Schalke contingent on Wednesday.

With Mourinho yet again favouring Ramires and Lampard at the base of the midfield, we looked towards the three of Hazard, Oscar and Willian to unravel the Baggies’ well-marshalled defence. Chelsea again relied on the advanced runs of Ivanovic, who was often a full fifteen yards further upfield than Oscar; it didn’t always pay off. There was yet more over-elaboration and a reluctance to hit Eto’o early with intelligent through balls. It was turgid stuff. Willian, though new to the club, looks willing yet at this stage is only a link player – moving the ball on – rather than an impact player. We’ll give him time.

I missed Shane Long’s follow through on John Terry, though the crowd wailed in displeasure.

On the half-hour, Oscar lined up a free-kick from a central location. His wildly dipping shot was easily tipped over by Myhill.

Just before the break, Hazard at last decided to run at pace at the West Brom defence. He cut inside and watched as his low shot was clawed away by the Albion ‘keeper. The ball was not cleared and Samuel Eto’o slammed the ball in from behind the hesitant Ridgewell.

1-0.

This sort of predatory goal from Eto’o seems to be his trademark in his early Chelsea career. More of the same each week please. The goal brought the home support to life, but it didn’t fool anyone; it had been a poor half.

During the break, former midfield stalwart, captain and manager John Hollins was on the pitch with Neil Barnett. It was time for me to quickly scan the match programme. There were lovely words for Steve Clarke from Jose Mourinho –

“I have to publicly say thanks to a great man who gave me all of his support in my first period at Chelsea, a man of values, a family guy, a hard worker and a loyal man.”

A few friends and I were discussing Steve Clarke only recently. I had posed the question as to “who was the last Scot to play for Chelsea?” and, although I initially thought it was Craig Burley, of course the answer – unless I am mistaken – was Steve Clarke, whose last match in royal blue was in Stockholm in 1998. Our history has been littered with Scottish players throughout the years, yet it is over fifteen years since a Scot appeared in a Chelsea shirt.

No pressure, Islam Feruz…

The Scottish players reel off the tongue…Jimmy Croal, Hughie Gallacher, Tommy Walker, Eddie MacCreadie, Charlie Cooke and Ian Britton . Ironically, elsewhere in the programme, Rick Glanvill chose to pick a game from the 1984-1985 season, against West Brom, which highlighted the presence of several Scottish players of that era; the three internationals Pat Nevin, David Speedie and Doug Rougvie, plus the steady Joe McLaughlin.

Elsewhere, a whole article was devoted to one of my favourite Chelsea matches of all; Chelsea vs. Newcastle United, November 1983. Thankfully, the programme mentioned in great detail the one absolute highlight.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle United attack in The Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Ticher, in a great article about the run a few years later, claimed that Pat had nut-megged Kevin Keegan at the start of the move, but I can’t confirm this. However, Pat then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must have left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around thirty seconds…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted a ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, Kerry may have headed it over. Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – he still is my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.

Alongside Bournemouth Steve, Alan and I was Gary’s father Ron, who has been going to Chelsea for decades. He had no recollection of Pat Nevin’s master class against Newcastle in 1983, though he was surely there, but mentioned an equally impressive run by Horatio “Raich” Carter, who played for Derby County against Chelsea in the ‘forties.

So many games, so many memories.

The second-half began. Oscar found Eden Hazard with an absolutely sublime through ball which arched over the West Brom defence and ended up on Hazard’s toes. Sadly, the reinstated Belgian struggled to control the exquisite ball – the best pass of the season thus far – and the ball squirmed away.

West Brom began to exert some pressure on our defence and a fine, firm cross from Amalfitano found the leaping Shane Long, whose header had Cech beaten, but bounced up and away off the post.

Our play was faltering, and I shouted out in frustration –

“Someone take some responsibility.”

Soon after, the visitors – perhaps deservedly – equalised when a header from McAuley was parried high by Cech from close range, only for Shane Long to do “an Eto’o” and squeeze home from a leap between our dithering defenders.

1-1.

The away fans sang “The Lord Is My Shephard.”

Mourinho replaced the poor Lampard with Demba Ba, while Oscar moved back alongside fellow Brazilian Ramires. Sadly, a second away goal soon followed. Ivanovic, forever pressing up field, was caught in possession (illegally to my, no doubt, biased eyes) and West Brom broke. Our defence was now back-peddling and we struggled to pick up the rampaging attackers. It was one of those moments when I sensed fear; I was sadly correct. The ball was worked quickly to the impressive Sessegnon, whose weak shot managed to evade Cech’s rather pathetic attempt to block.

1-2.

Mourinho rolled his dice once more; on came Mikel and the much loved Mata. A shot from Ivanovic was saved by Myhill, a header from Willian flew over, a cross from Cahill was aimed at Ba and he couldn’t connect. The frustration amongst the home fans was now apparent as we struggled to fight our way back. Yet, the noise levels slowly grew, as we pounded the West Brom rear guard. Corner after corner were met with resounding headers from Olsson and the rest of the visiting defenders who seemed able and willing to rebuff all of our attacking notions with vigour.

Then – heart in mouth. A West Brom break and we were staring a third goal in the face. We were outnumbered, but thankfully Brunt chose to shoot himself rather than play others in.

Four extra minutes were signalled and we willed the team on. Big John banged the balcony wall once more.

Thud, thud – thud, thud, thud – thud, thud, thud, thud – “CHELSEA!”

A ball was pushed into the path of Ramires, running alongside Reid. The Brazilian fell and I looked at the referee Andre Marriner. In truth, there wasn’t a great shout for a penalty and I fully expected the referee to book Rami for diving. After a momentary stall, the referee unbelievably pointed to the spot. Everyone around me – we had a perfect view – shook our heads and mouthed “never a penalty.” One chap in front of me clearly couldn’t take the tension and hurriedly clambered over the seats to leave before the penalty was taken.

After what seemed like ages, we watched as Eden Hazard calmly waited and slotted the ball in. There was a guttural roar from the Stamford Bridge crowd and I caught Hazard’s ecstatic leap and spin on camera as he raced away.

2-2.

Phew.

This was clearly a ropey performance from Chelsea, albeit against a pretty reasonable team. One can only hope that the manager, players and supporters react well and move on. This is clearly a season of transition and evolution, rather than whole spread change; a season where Mourinho is trying to identify strengths and weaknesses in his squad, in order to provide a stable future. There will be periods of growth and periods of fallow. So be it.

I’m not going anywhere.

Tales From The District Line Derby

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 17 March 2013.

I was decidedly under the weather on Friday and Saturday. The drive up to London for the West Ham United game did not overly excite me, despite the prolonged after-glow of the second-half comeback at Old Trafford and our progression into the last eight of the Europa League. With Parky unable to attend again, I set off for London at 10.30am. By the time I had reached Warminster, I was shocked to see the higher ground dusted with snow. We are rarely troubled by snowfall in mid-March. By the time I had headed up and over Salisbury Plain, I was surrounded by the white stuff. I needed to put my sunglasses on; the glare was intense.

The recent story concerning Chelsea’s trip to the United States being tagged on the end of the current season – still nothing more than a tabloid rumour at this stage of course – had left me rather confused and underwhelmed. If true, it just about summed the season up, one which is already on its way to being the longest and messiest in our history.

To recap once more; eight different competitions, two managers, Civil War amongst the supporters, games from Seattle in the west to Yokohama in the east, games in Kiev and Kazan, five games against Manchester United, possibly four games against Manchester City, possibly three Cup Finals, the games go on and on, mile after mile, time zone after time zone.

And at the end of it, when the players are almost down and out, a return trip to New York?

To me, that makes no sense.

In fact, personally speaking, I was totally disinterested by the prospect of a US tour. I’ve been lucky enough to attend games at each and every one of our 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009 and 2012 US tours and yet this one, to be possibly added at the end of this hangover of a season, left me cold. My ambivalence truly shocked me.

“You know what, Chelsea – I’m boycotting it.”

In truth, with a potential Europa League Cup Final taking place on Wednesday 15 May, it will surprise nobody to know that I’d be unlikely to be able to do both. Contrary to popular opinion, I do show up for work occasionally.

I tried re-focusing on the game against West Ham United. I wondered if Joe Cole might play a part. Should he do so, I was convinced that we would shower him with thanks and applause in lieu of his seven years with us, rather than mirror the venomous scorn which greets Frank Lampard every time he plays West Ham. They are truly obsessed by him, aren’t they? How very unhealthy for them. All that negativity. I guess they will never change.

I collected Bournemouth Steve at Amesbury at 11.30am and the weather soon deteriorated further. We were hit with a grey melange of rain and road spray. The driving conditions were terrible. Steve’s last game was against QPR – what a shocker that was – and we spent a few minutes reviewing the state of affairs at the club. I answered a few of his questions and – maybe it was the weather which darkened my mood – my responses obviously surprised him.

“You seem disillusioned, Chris.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

This has been, after all, a pretty shambolic follow-up to our coronation as Champions of Europe last May.

I stopped for a coffee at Fleet and then made good speed on the approach into London. I travelled in past Twickenham, then over the Thames. A mile or so to the north, Chelsea were playing Juventus in the Next Gen Cup at Brentford’s Griffin Park. Had I been feeling slightly better, there’s no doubt I would have attempted to catch that game on the way in to London. Instead, I was only “up” for the main event.

I strolled into the busy pub at about 1.45pm. There were St. Patricks Day hats being worn by the bar-staff and clientele alike. I had made a conscious decision of not choosing a green pullover for the day out of protest. The lads were already up to their eyes in lager. Feeling rather groggy, I was giving it all a rather large swerve. Dave, one of the New York Blues who now resides in London, arrived and we had a good old natter while Sunderland and Norwich struggled to attract our attention on the TV screen above. The length of the current season caused us much amazement.

Dave exclaimed “we could still have eighteen games to play yet!”

I was, to be quite plain, stunned.

Eighteen more games? I quickly did some arithmetic.

League – ten.
Europa – five.
F.A. Cup – three.

Yep – eighteen games.

If you add in the potential US tour, twenty games plus.

“Stop the season. I want to get off.”

It was a cold and wet walk down to Stamford Bridge. By the time Dave and I had reached the turnstiles to the MHU – he had tickets a few seats away from me – my jacket was sodden. We decided to head inside to “Jimmy’s” to dry out and for yet more dissection of the current state of affairs at Chelsea Football Club. We spoke – in general terms – about the size of our club and, specifically, of previous US tours and our American fan base, the reluctance of the club to seriously consider plans for stadium enlargement, the thorny subject of ticket prices and the idiosyncratic way in which Roman runs the club. After our chat, there is little wonder that the mood was hardly lifted.

I made my way up the stairs to the upper tier. Once inside, Stamford Bridge looked grey and still. Alan, himself still struggling with a head cold, was able to confirm that Fulham were still beating Tottenham at White Hart Lane. If we could beat West Ham, a little daylight would appear between us and Spurs. With a game in hand on them, we could open up a nice little gap. And here is the strange dichotomy. Despite our warm feelings for last season, we need no reminding that we finished a lowly sixth at the end of the league campaign. This season, despite a tough run-in, I still feel that a third place finish is very achievable.

So – an improvement in the league.

But, my goodness, it doesn’t feel like it does it?

There were plenty of team changes from the win against Steaua on Thursday. In came Gary Cahill, Frank Lampard, Victor Moses and Demba Ba. In the end, Joe Cole was not involved.

What an array of missed chances in the first-half. Demba Ba was presented with the first real chance. He was clean through with only Jaaskelainan to beat. However, against his former team, he had the Fernando Torres jitters and poked the ball well wide. At the other end, Collins crashed a shot over the bar.

John Terry then produced a little piece of pure theatre. He began warming up in front of the family section in the East Lower, but then drifted down to the corner flag adjacent to the baying away support. If the West Ham fans dislike Frank first and foremost, then John is just behind. There were chants about – I am sure – John’s mother. He just stood by the corner flag and took it all. I looked away and then heard a roar. Alan told me that our captain made a point of bending over, with his backside towards the Hammers.

He then walked over to the corner flag once more, turned towards the away fans and began reciting the famous soliloquy from Hamlet –

“To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”

The West Ham supporters, such Philistines, were clearly no fans of William Shakespeare and the booing continued. Not to be outdone, John Terry then set light to five torches which he then began juggling in front of the claret and blue hordes. He showed great manual dexterity as the torches flew up into the air, then returned, the smoke adding to the drama. Still, the booing did not relent.

“Tough crowd” whispered our captain.

He then produced a flipchart in which he detailed a cure for the common cold.

Still more boos.

“Ah, fcuk you, then…”

On the pitch, a few yards away, a shot from Eden Hazard was cleared, but only as far as Juan Mata. With the West Ham defence apparently sleeping, he spotted the unmarked Frank Lampard and hooked a ball back towards the penalty spot. A looping header easily beat the West Ham ‘keeper.

The Stamford Bridge crowd were in rapture. How fantastic that Frank should reach the magnificent milestone of two hundred career Chelsea goals against his former team and in front of their fans. He raced down to the corner, kicked away John Terry’s flipchart and joined his captain in joyous celebration. The rest of his team mates soon joined in.

How perfect.

Well, not quite. How on earth had I not put some money on Frank to be the first goal scorer?

“Twas written in the stars.”

Just after, West Ham had a goal ruled out for a foul, but then the Chelsea attacks began again. We dominated possession. Efforts from Luiz, Moses and Mata went close. Ba had two more efforts which did not trouble the West Ham ‘keeper.

“This scoring lark isn’t easy, is it?”

Although the forward play of Mata and Hazard excited us, I commented to Alan that it was lovely to see Cesar Azpilicueta play so well. His chasing back and general marking was excellent. By this stage, we had heard that Fulham had held on to win at Tottenham. This was indeed excellent news.

It was more of the same during the second-half. With Mata and Hazard at the heart of all of our attacking play, Alan called them “the fireflies” and I appreciated this term of affection. They were certainly flitting around, with the defenders mesmerized by their movement. Eden Hazard spun away from a marker and initiated a mazy run at the heart of the West Ham defence and soon found himself smothered. With no less than four defenders surrounding him, he managed to extricate himself from this tightest of spots with an exquisite rabona – one of Torres’ tricks – across the box. He was buzzing. Not long after, a lovely move involving the two fireflies resulted in Hazard slamming the ball in with his left foot.

2-0.

The crowd roared again.

He slid towards us on his knees, down in the north-west corner. He was soon mobbed by his smiling team mates.

As the second-half played on, Chelsea carved out more and more chances, though our finishing was quite profligate. A high shot from Lampard was particularly wasteful. One suspects that the West Ham fans were soon muttering “Scott Canham would have scored that.” Despite our chances, West Ham themselves occasionally peppered Petr Cech’s goal, though he was only rarely troubled.

Sam Allardyce brought on Carlton Cole as a late substitute. The Chelsea fans showed some class by warmly applauding our former striker. I can remember his debut, way back in the spring of 2002.

“See, West Ham. That’s how to honour former players.”

I guess they just wouldn’t understand.

Tales From The Same Old Scene

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Bromwich Albion : 2 March 2013.

At 10am, I collected Glenn from The Royal Oak in Frome and then Andy from The Black Horse in Trowbridge about twenty minutes later. I pointed my car towards The Goose in Fulham. From pub to pub to pub. A football Saturday. A 3pm kick-off.

Bada bing.

Of course, my friendship with Glenn goes back as far as 1977. At Oakfield Middle School in Frome, Glenn’s Liverpool-supporting brother Paul was in the same class as me. Once Glenn joined us at the same school – he is two years younger – it didn’t take Paul long to introduce him to me. My first game at Stamford Bridge was in March 1974. Glenn’s first game was the home-opener with Everton in 1977. Our Chelsea match-going pedigree goes back almost forty years. A chance meeting in The Shed in August 1983 fired up our friendship to a new level and in that most cherished of seasons – the promotion campaign of Dixon, Speedie and Nevin – we accompanied each other to several games. The first game in which we travelled up together was against Newcastle United and we were rewarded with an immense game, a 4-0 Chelsea win and plenty of memories. With each trip to see our heroes, the bonds were strengthened and the friendship grew.

I have known Andy for almost thirty years. I have told the story of how we met before; a chance meeting in The Crown in Frome’s Market Place in the fantastic sun-kissed summer of 1984. I was with a couple of mates. He was with some chaps from Trowbridge. His little gaggle of friends and me were all wearing football schmutter and we tentatively edged around the prickly subject of starting up a conversation. A few glances were exchanged. I looked for clues. There were no small Chelsea pin badges on show. The four Trowbridge lads were obviously wary; they were the visitors to Frome and, at the time, there was a little unhealthy rivalry between the two towns, separated by only eight miles. Fisticuffs between the hooligan-element from Frome, Westbury and Trowbridge was a common occurrence at weekends. However, once I declared myself a Chelsea fan, the barriers fell.

“Yeah, we’re Chelsea too. Where did you get those Nikes mate?”

Unbeknown to me until recently, these four lads were mates with Parky. One of the lads – Laszlo – and I were wearing the exact same blue and white Pringle pullover.

“Of all the bars, in all the towns…”

Why this fascination with that 1983-1984 era?

It’s easy really. It acts as a benchmark. Despite all of our recent successes, I was probably never happier as a Chelsea fan than during the summer of 1984. I can remember, as though it was yesterday, sitting on a low wall, overlooking the river which circumnavigated the dairy where I worked for four months in that summer.

An early morning tea-break. My overalls undone to the waist. The sun already beating down on my back. Thoughts of away days to Arsenal, Tottenham, Liverpool and United. The resurgence of a sleeping Chelsea. And I’d be part of it.

It was always the cause of much glee that in my over-simplistic way of analysing things in those days that a simple eight hour shift at the dairy in 1984 earned me a take-home wage of £15.

£15 happened to be the exact same price as a trip to Stamford Bridge (£8 train ticket, £4 admission £3 for a programme and a couple of pints).

Perfect.

Back to 2013 and the trip up to Chelsea Land seemed to take no time at all. The three of us chatted virtually non-stop as I drove east. After the Rafa Benitez outburst on Wednesday, we certainly had enough to keep us occupied. Andy, who has only been to a handful of games this season, was lured to the West Brom game by the chance to join in the scorn being heaped on Benitez.

As for me, I was less enthusiastic. The thought of Stamford Bridge being swamped in ‘negative noise” just made me weary. This is not to say that there is not a time for protests, but I just felt depressed at the thought of the media scrutinising everything that would be said and sung, booed and hissed later in the afternoon.

In The Goose – Glenn’s first visit since the refurbishment – there was no general consensus about ‘The Benitez Rant.” There were many different opinions. Some were relishing the opportunity to vent further anger on the manager. Whisper it quietly, but several were of the opinion that Benitez was quite correct to call for a cessation of hostilities and for fans to galvanise behind the team. When talk was broadened to talk about the team and the way forward, opinions were equally diverse. Even on the subject of Frank Lampard, views varied. Some wanted a one year extension as a bare minimum, but others were more forthright; that the summer of 2013 would be the time to dispense with not only Frank Lampard but John Terry, too.

Glenn asked a great question; “If Mourinho returns in the summer…takes a look at things…decides that it is time to dispense with Terry and Lampard…would you be OK with it?”

Clear the old guard and start afresh.

Big questions.

There were also discussions about Thibaut Courtois, excelling in Madrid, and some friends were all for jettisoning Petr Cech in favour of the young Belgian phenomenon. I wasn’t so sure.

What a muddle.

The relative merits of other players were also discussed.

I had to smile at Simon’s comment –

“For all of Luiz’ frailties and defensive blunders, I still love him because he’s typical Chelsea. Crap and brilliant in equal measure.”

We all agreed that if the old guard left, other players would fill the vacuum, and new leaders would emerge. We all thought that Gary Cahill was a captain in the making.

“Our best pound for pound signing for ages.”

Talk veered away from the team and a few of us spoke about the Chelsea match going experience in 2013 and how it has all changed and how we have changed with it. More than one person confessed that they are not enjoying it much at the moment. After the heady days of May and our twin cup triumphs, this is of course not surprising, but a lot of us often comment that the match-day malaise set in years ago. I wondered if this was a simple result of all of the games that we have seen; that by nature, fans in our mid-forties are unlikely to be as mesmerized by the thought of Chelsea as we were in our teens. Rob said that he doesn’t feel a bond with the players these days. I admitted the same; or at least to the bond I had with Joey, Mickey, Eddie and John.

Ah, 1983-1984 again.

We then briefly touched on the view that we have become a spoilt fan base. There is – of course – a huge great big dollop of truth in this statement. I’d like to think that, in the parlance of today, that myself and my closest mates try to ‘keep it real”, but there is no shadow of a doubt that increasingly large factions of our support are a complete embarrassment.

I was reminded of the Manchester United banner which quotes the words from a James song.

“If I hadn’t seen such riches, I could live with being poor.”

I took my seat with only a few minutes to spare, just as the teams were about to enter the pitch. I checked with Alan to see if there had been any anti-Benitez protests.

“Nah, nothing.”

Big John and I shared a few words.

“I’m dreading this.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Especially after last season.”

“Typical Chelsea though. When we won the league in 1955, we finished twelfth the next season.”

“Yeah. It was always going to happen. Written in the stars.”

Despite the sense of dismay with what has happened to Chelsea this season (oh, wait – let me check…sorry, we’re in third place…damn those riches), there was another capacity crowd at Stamford Bridge. I was amazed at the lack of venom which greeted Benitez as he took his place on the bench. The verbal onslaught never really materialised. Steve Clarke received a nice round of applause from the home supporters at the start of the game.

“Welcome back Clarkey.”

If anything, there seemed to be more “pro-Chelsea” noise (what a strange concept…as if there is any other type of support) at the start of the game than in recent home games.

The game was played out in bright winter sunshine and the first-half was virtually all Chelsea. Oscar came close on a number of occasions, but it was Demba Ba who broke the deadlock, slamming the ball home from close range after a well cushioned knock back from the head of David Luiz.

Our football was fine in the first half. We enjoyed tons of possession. Even though West Brom defended like Trojans, they rarely threatened Petr Cech’s goal. It was time for one of Alan’s quips –

“This is as one-sided as Heather Mills’ shoe collection.”

The 1,500 away fans hardly sung a note. Our support, maybe in a state of confusion at the current state of affairs, was quiet too.

My favourite piece of football in the entire game was an exciting run down the left by Eden Hazard. Starting from just over the half-way line, is run was full of power and speed, but included a mesmeric shimmy – feinting to go one way, sending the defender off balance, then gliding by. It reminded me of that beautiful feint by Roberto Baggio during the 1990 World Cup. A slight shift of the weight from one side of the body to the other can wreck the best defender’s chances.

I approved of the two attempts by the Chelsea support to honour the recent anniversary of the sad passing of Peter Osgood.

“The King of Stamford Bridge” was lustily sung by the home fans.

Good work.

Our domination of the game continued but a second goal was not forthcoming. Oscar continued his fine run of form. He looks more and more the complete midfielder. His touch is magnificent.

The funniest moment of the entire game took place when the ball was hit out of play and ended up in the sweaty hands of Benitez. Up until that time, the anti-Rafa songs had virtually died out. Touching the ball was the last thing that Benitez needed. He slammed the ball back towards a Chelsea player. With that, the Matthew Harding Lower sprung to life and the stadium echoed with a few songs aimed at the much-disliked manager.

“Stand up if you hate Rafa.”

“You’re not wanted here.”

There were a few choruses in praise of a much-loved former boss too.

“Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho.”

As the game reached its completion, tension in the stands grew and grew. I was convinced that the visitors would score a late equaliser.

We all were, right?

Thankfully, the danger passed.

This was clearly a game which wouldn’t live long in the memory, but those three points were all that mattered.

No jaunt to Bucharest for me on Thursday, so Old Trafford next.

See you up there.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Eden Hazard

Tales From The U.S. Capital

Tales From Title Number Five

Tales From My Football Timeline

Tales From A Halfway Point

Tales From The Top Of The Tree

Tales From The Garden Of Eden

Tales From A Road Less Travelled

Tales From A Lucky Escape

Tales From The District Line Derby

Tales From The Same Old Scene