Tales From The Four Corners

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 27 January 2013.

If a week is a long time in politics, then eleven days is surely an eternity in football. Since the disappointment of those frustrating dropped points against Southampton in the league, Chelsea have played against Arsenal and Swansea City. I had tickets for both of those encounters, but due to a mixture of circumstances, I was unable to attend either. The Sunday jaunt to Griffin Park offered me salvation and the chance to get back in the groove. After the snowstorms of the previous week, I was very relieved to see clear roads and sunny skies as Sunday morning greeted me.

I set off at 8am, allowing me plenty of time to reach Griffin Park. I was certainly looking forward to visiting Brentford’s tight little ground, tucked away under the M4 a few miles to the west of Stamford Bridge. Although I visited it once before in 1992 – a game against Newcastle United with my Geordie mate Pete – this would be my first visit with Chelsea. We have played Brentford in a few friendlies over the years, but our two clubs have not met in a first team game for ages, decades even. Well, certainly not in my living memory anyway.

With me unable to attend the Arsenal match, my unbroken stretch of consecutive home games eventually came to an end.

The first game – Saturday 6 November 2004.

A fine 1-0 win against Everton, with a Robben goal at The Shed End after a rapid break down the right wing. Who can remember it? I know I can. We went top after the game.

The last game – Wednesday 16 January 2013.

The 2-2 draw against Southampton. Some people have forgotten that one already.

A total of 240 games without a break.

A total of 169 victories, 51 draws and 20 defeats.

What a fantastic record – it really was Fortress Stamford Bridge during this period.

And a total of 52,800 miles from Somerset to Stamford Bridge – and back.

It’s unlikely that I’ll ever get close to anything like that run again.

I watched both of the Arsenal and Swansea games at home on my laptop – and what a surreal experience it was for me to be watching Chelsea from Stamford Bridge in my own home. The last time I did that? Maybe as long ago as an Everton FA Cup tie in 1992.

I stopped off at Fleet services for a coffee and was surprised how cold it was outside. The bright sun and clear skies fooled me into thinking that the weather was warmer. I wasn’t worried. I was just happy to be back on the road in support of the team.

I drove in past Twickenham, the home of English rugby, and then took a left turn through Isleworth, with Syon Park to my right. I soon found a place to park a mere ten minute walk from Griffin Park. The surroundings were decent; I certainly felt that this was a nicer immediate vicinity than, for example, the surrounding environs of Tottenham Hotspur and West Ham United’s grounds.

Of London’s twelve professional football teams, no more are clustered together in a tighter area than in the six miles between Griffin Park and Stamford Bridge; Brentford, Queens Park Rangers, Fulham and Chelsea all reside within a 30 minute bus ride of each other. Further south, there is Wimbledon, now playing in Kingston-on-Thames. Also south of the river, Crystal Palace just to the north of suburban Croydon, but also Millwall and Charlton Athletic closer to the Thames. To the east – and now back to the north of the river, there is West Ham United and lowly, almost forgotten, Leyton Orient. To the north, there is Arsenal. Then – lastly – Tottenham.

London football is often maligned as not having the unbridled partisanship and venomous passion of cities to the north or in Scotland, but within the M25 there is a magnificent tapestry of clubs, support bases and histories. What do I know of Brentford Football Club’s history? Sadly, I know very little. I know that Ray Wilkins’ father George played for Brentford and I know that former Chelsea icons Ron Harris and Micky Droy played for Brentford after leaving Chelsea. Brentford have flitted around the lower reaches of the Football League my entire life. With Orient, they are the two smallest clubs in the capital. In fact, every single one of the other ten clubs has enjoyed top flight football since 1988, but Brentford and Orient (the B’s and the O’s) have stunk. To their credit, Orient managed to ascend to the giddy heights of the second division in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties – and an F.A. Cup semi-final in 1978 – but Brentford have been the ultimate underachievers.

Which is why, I guess, they are never much of a threat and – dare I say it, without being too patronising – quite well-liked in Chelsea quarters. The fact that our reserves used to play at Griffin Park has helped in that respect too. One word of warning though; ex-Crystal Palace owner Ron Noades took over the helms at Griffin Park in 1998. However, in addition to being club chairman, he also managed the team for a few years. He even won the third division manager of the year award on one occasion.

I hope that Roman isn’t reading this.

On the short walk to Griffin Park, its four old school floodlit pylons signalling the way, the Brentford fans were bustling at a fair pace. I could tell from afar that they were invigorated by the appearance of their lofty neighbours from SW6. I’d imagine that Brentford was originally a small village, centred on a bridge across a small tributary of the River Thames, but has since been swallowed up by urban sprawl in the late nineteenth century. I was parked in a street called “The Butts” and this would have been, I’m guessing, where archers practiced their art. There is a similar street in my home town. Archery butts were a common feature of towns in past centuries. I noticed that the old red-brick Brentford library was a gift to the town of the great Scottish-American philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. These small details of urban history fascinate me.

Griffin Park was soon reached. From the west, the first stand that I stumbled across was the Brook Road away stand, a double-tiered structure which replaced a larger terrace in the late ‘eighties. Griffin Park is squeezed in amongst rows of terraced houses and there was a misty-eyed “old school” feel to the place. As I’m sure everyone now knows (it is the one fact about Brentford that everyone seems to be aware of), Griffin Park is the only football stadium with a public house on each corner. It was around 11am and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to dip into all four, but a circumnavigation of the ground was certainly achievable. The Griffin pub’s clientele was bursting out into the road, with a couple of “half-and-half” friendship scarves sellers doing a brisk trade amongst the chirpy Brentford fans. I was to learn later that this pub was used as the boozer in the hoolie-porn film “Green Street.”

I didn’t see any Chelsea faces and so continued along Braemar Road, past the main entrance. It was here, in 1992, when I and two mates arrived ridiculously early at Griffin Park – again on a Sunday – for that Newcastle game and were met by Kevin Keegan and Terry McDermott, who had just arrived by team bus. My mate Pete – the only Geordie amongst us – had not yet arrived and was miffed when we later told him. As I’ve said before, Keegan was a bit of a hero for me as a schoolchild. Seeing him close up was a treat. We muttered something about the game as the two of them disappeared into the stand. Twenty years later, Braemar Road was much the same. To be honest, I was half-expecting to bump into Rick Wakeman, Brentford’s most famous celebrity fan. Oh, that’s the second bit of Brentford trivia that everyone knows.

Walking past The Princess Royal and then The New Inn, I spotted some Chelsea faces. Lastly, The Royal Oak and time for a pint. The boozer was busy but mixed with fans of both clubs. Surely there would be no hint of trouble. On the way out into the crowded beer garden, I overheard a Brentford supporter mention Ashley Cole.

“We’ll have to give him some stick. Even though he’s awesome for England, I hate him.”

Parky was with me but was unable to get hold of a match ticket. His reward would be to attempt a “lap of honour” around the stadium and grab pints in all four pubs, while watching on the TV. At 11.45am, I joined the melee at the turnstiles and was soon inside.

The away stand at Griffin Park is an even smaller, if that is at all possible, version of the School End at Loftus Road. I quickly ascended the stairs and took my seat in the front row, just eight seats from the end. Bizarrely, even though we had booked tickets independently, I was sat next to my usual companions Alan and Gary. The shallow tier of seats was only six rows deep. Down below, around one thousand Chelsea fans were enjoying the bonhomie of a crowded terrace for the first time in years and years. As kick-off time approached, there seemed to be an air of great anticipation in the home camp. Eddie, Daryl and Rob were down below, but out of sight, tucked under the overhang. In the upper tier, there were familiar faces – too many to name. This was the Chelsea hardcore; every one of us befuddled with the current state of affairs at Stamford Bridge

Above, there were blue skies. A few tower blocks blighted the skyline, but this could so easily have been a game from the ‘fifties, ‘sixties or ‘seventies. Griffin Park was bursting to it seams with around 12,000 spectators locked inside. With such a perfect scene in front of me – a classic F.A. Cup setting and a lovely atmosphere – my thoughts now centred on the game and my spirits fell. The looks on my fellow fans suggested that they felt the same.

This had the potential of a classic cup upset and didn’t we all know it.

From my perch just over the goal-line, I felt privileged to have such a splendid view. The teams appeared in the tunnel, just twenty yards away. It seemed like I could almost reach out and pat John Terry on the back as he lead the team out. As with Fulham, the players and management team appear from a corner and then walk across the pitch to their dug-outs on the far side in front of the stand that was terraced back in 1992. Rafa Benitez therefore had to walk right in front of the baying 1,800 away fans. Even I was surprised at the venom. He avoided eye-contact with the Chelsea faithful. On his return trip, facing us, it would not be so easy.

Pre-match formalities took place and the game soon began.

Despite a promising few early attacks, with Torres involved, we didn’t threaten the Brentford goal. A bizarre back-pass from John Terry was picked-up by a clearly confused Ross Turnbull, but the resultant free-kick, inside the box, flew over the bar. Brentford soon realised that we seemed decidedly laid back in our approach. Alan and Gary – akin to the footballing equivalent to Waldorf and Statler, looking down from a lofty vantage point – were soon chastising the Chelsea players. The pitch wasn’t great; it was muddy and quite heavily sanded on our left. The wind blew left to right. It was a messy start, but Chelsea seemed to be struggling. All of the tough tackling seemed to be coming from the home team and they were the ones who started to trouble Ross Turnbull in the far goal. With Marin, Oscar and Bertrand clearly struggling, Brentford came close with a shot which narrowly went wide. Then, calamity. Just before the break, Lampard lost possession and Forrester wasted no time in lashing the ball at Turnbull. The ball was parried but Trotta coolly slotted home. The home fans erupted.

The cup shock was on.

Benitez had to endure the wrath of the away fans as he walked off the pitch. I kept an eye on him with my telephoto lens. He looked straight ahead. The players, too, looked solemnly ahead. Their body language was shocking. I was silent, of course. I don’t enjoy booing – my thoughts on that are well documented. Rather than characters from the Muppet Show, my fellow residents in the upper tier resembled emperors from the Roman Empire.

The thumbs were pointing down.

Lo and behold, a Benitez substitution took place at the break with the lack lustre Marin being replaced by Juan Mata. We definitely improved and equalised via a wonderful flick from Oscar.

Rather than push on, though, we seemed bogged down in the Griffin Park mud. At times, I was surprised how quiet the atmosphere had become. I expected more noise from the home fans, with only the terraces end at the eastern end making much noise.

Chances were at a premium. Then, a Brentford break and Adeyemi touched the ball past Turnbull. From my perspective, contact seemed minimal, but it was wishful thinking. There was only text which suggested that Ross didn’t touch him. The home crowd were on tenterhooks to see if a red card was to be issued. Thank goodness, it wasn’t.

However, the penalty was smacked home and we were down 2-1 with only twenty minutes remaining.

The home fans erupted once more and the hard-core in the far terrace set off a magenta flare to celebrate.

Things were now dire.

Perhaps thinking about any potential Mickey-taking which might be headed our way, Alan asked me if I knew of any Brentford fans. Thankfully, he had never met one. However, I knew of one. There was a chap, from Frome, who was a Brentford fan. He was the son of Frome’s mayor at one stage and went by the nickname of “Trotsky” due to his left of centre politics. He was a bit of a character when we used to watch Frome Town back in the early-‘eighties. Trotsky reached a formidable level of notoriety in Frome circles when he was caught in flagrante with his girlfriend on a mini-roundabout in the middle of Frome one night.

I wondered what he might have planned for his current lady if Brentford were to hold on for the win.

Meanwhile, time was running out for Chelsea Football Club.

Bizarrely, Benitez replaced Ivanovic with Azpiliueta. Work that one out. Lampard went close and Bertrand headed over when it was easier to score. At last, Ba entered the fray at the expense of the disappointing Bertrand. With time running out, Ba stumbled but did well to hook the ball towards Torres. Without checking, he intuitively curled the ball into the goal.

We roared with relief. To be fair, it was a great finish. Torres had not enjoyed the best of service all afternoon. His goal was an echo of his pomp at Liverpool. Fair play to him.

At the final whistle, more boos and jeers from the Chelsea fans were aimed at Benitez. The players seemed relieved but hardly happy. Frank and John especially thanked us for our support, but these must be testing times for them too. The turmoil within our collective psyche – certainly fans, certainly players, maybe even the board, with their consciences possibly pricked – is there for all to see.

Despite promising much, this was a dire Chelsea performance, with virtually no positives. There were grim faces amongst us all as we filtered out of the tight away end. Just to rub it in, the Brentford DJ decided to play “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang.

“Thanks for that.”

The day turned even bleaker when I heard that Parky’s lap of the stadium had to be aborted after just two pubs when a dozen or so Chelsea yobs in their ‘fifties caused a major disturbance. Firstly, they became lippy with some Brentford fans. The mood in the pub then turned sour with fans squaring up to each other after the first equaliser. Then, finally, after the Torres goal, chairs and tables were smashed. How pathetic. To his credit, Parky soon realised that he didn’t fancy getting caught up in this mindless vandalism and so made a hasty retreat.

So much for the magic of the F.A. Cup

Tales From The Confidence Game

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 23 December 2012.

This game was all about getting back in to the groove again. After my fantastical flight of fancy to Tokyo, there was a chance that the game with Aston Villa might be a test of my dedication, or at least my enthusiasm. However, this would be my oldest CFC mate Glenn’s first game since Munich, so it was all about getting him back in the groove, too.

Glenn collected me at 11am. This was to be a treat for me; a door-to-door collection and delivery service which would enable me to get a few beers down my neck.

With Lord Parky having an extended leave of absence (he was unable to travel due to a few ailments rearing their ugly head once more), this was just like the old days for Glenn and myself. As he headed over Salisbury plain and past Stonehenge, we chatted about my experiences in the Far East. And we chatted about the past. I have known Glenn since 1977 and started going to football with him in 1983. With a house and mortgage to pay for, he stopped going regularly in 1986 and it was a couple of years before our paths would cross, excepting a few boozy conversations in various Frome hostelries.

In November 1988, with Chelsea starting to find our feet after relegation to the old second division, I was up in London for the game with Sunderland. I was working in the cold store of a local dairy in order to save some money to embark on a lengthy holiday in North America (starting point unknown) but was still going to a Chelsea game every four weeks or so. I had travelled up on the train to Paddington by myself, and was on my way to Fulham Broadway to meet my college mate Ian, who would eventually accompany me on my jaunt around the US and Canada in 1989. It would have been around midday and I was on the southbound district line train, just south of Earls Court. I looked up and who should be standing opposite, no doubt clocking the talent in the train carriage, but Glenn.

“Hello mate. What are you doing here?” I said ironically.

Well, what a surprise. Brilliant. Glenn had travelled up with the folks from his work – a carpet factory – who were off to see the Lord Mayor’s Show. It was a free coach and Glenn took advantage; he, meanwhile was off to see Chelsea. How lucky that our paths would cross on that tube train. It was our first game together since Spurs away in late August 1987. We had a couple of beers at the “Kings Arms” before Ian joined us. We then shot over to “The Black Bull” where Alan was drinking. I was soon off to see Juventus vs. Napoli, so the talk was varied as we caught up with each other’s lives. Alan had season tickets in the front row of the East Upper in those days, but Ian, Glenn and I watched from The Shed. In truth, it was a poor game watched by 19,000. It ended-up 1-1. I always remember that Sunderland went ahead with a fine strike by Marco Gabbiadini. The Geordies used to have a special song for him –

“He is an itsy bitsy, teenie weenie Mackem bastard Gabbiadini.”

Kevin Wilson equalised, but it was a poor game. After the game, Ian and I met up with another mate in the West End and we embarked on a pub-crawl – as was often the case in that 1988-1989 season – before heading back to their gaff in Woking on a late train from Waterloo.

Good times.

Twenty-four years later, Alan, Glenn and I would be drinking and laughing again.

Great friends.

In The Goose, everyone was thrilled to see Glenn once again. As it happened, there was a more than healthy turnout from friends all over England. The Nuneaton posse were well represented. Simon, fresh from the filming of his biggest feature “Still,” was back in circulation along with his son Milo. The filming has gone very well and it is “in the can” awaiting the laborious process of editing. Simon promised us all places at the premier. I can’t wait for that.

Glenn was all smiles as he hopped around the tables, chatting away to the folks who make our Chelsea so special. I know it is the festive season, the time for over-sentimentality, but we are both truly blessed to know so many “top geezers” at Chelsea.

The game was hardly mentioned as we walked down to The Bridge.

I saw that Villa had a block of around 100 seats that they couldn’t sell out of their 1,400 allocation. At least we wouldn’t have to endure their “Have you won the European Cup?” ditty on this day and subsequent others.

Elsewhere, it was another sell-out. I quickly had words with John, Kev and Anna about Tokyo.

“This is all a bit hum drum, innit?”

Anna brought me back a pack of “Chelsea” butterscotch from Japan. I remember that Alan brought us all back the same product from one of his work jaunts to Tokyo around ten years ago.

I suppose that the big talking point was the pairing of David Luiz with Frank Lampard in the defensive midfield positions. Although Luiz is by nature a defender and Frank is more attack-minded, we hoped that this would work. I’d be happy to try out a more attack-minded formation such as this at home games. The pairing of Romeu with Mikel – to use another option – hasn’t worked too well.

Glenn was sat next to Tom – both dressed in light blue jackets, like two peas in a pod – and Alan was next to me. The boys back together once again.

In the first few minutes, David Luiz was charging up field like an unleashed stallion. However, a few errant passes caused Alan to utter –

“Come on Luiz. That’s too sloppy and casual.”

“Like Glenn in the ‘eighties” I responded.

We didn’t have to wait too long for further reason to smile. After only two minutes, Azpilicueta sent over a perfect cross for Fernando Torres to meet it a good 15 yards out. With a header which Didier Drogba would have been proud, the ball was sent crashing into the Aston Villa goal, with Guzan unable to react. It was Torres’ 26th. goal in Chelsea colours. As he raced away to the south-west corner flag to celebrate, I snapped away. In those photographs, there is joy on the face of Torres and his team mates alike. There is no reason to believe that there is “distance” between him and his team mates, despite the rumours amongst our support of him being disinterested and selfish.

Sure, Torres went through a horrible spell over the past month or so, but so did the whole team. But before that, he was working hard and scoring the occasional stunner, such as the goals against Newcastle and at Arsenal. I’m sure that the Torres of around five years ago, when Liverpool largely played a counter-attacking game – even at home – under Benitez, is long gone. Think of how many times Torres broke through to latch on to long balls from Mascherano, Alonzo and Gerrard and the ball ended up in the Kop net before anyone could blink. Those days are gone. Chelsea have, ironically, too much possession for that style of play to aid Torres. Our build-up is involves more touches. However, Benitez was absolutely correct to say that we need to get the ball up to him quicker.

It makes me chuckle to hear the legions of pro-Drogba / anti-Torres “supporters” in our midst as they complain about Torres’ lack of involvement, lack of desire and selfish and sulky behaviour.

Such derogatory comments were continually-levelled at Didier Drogba throughout every one of his eight seasons with the club.

When Drogba couldn’t be bothered in a game, there was nobody worse. He was the ultimate self-centred prima donna. In his early years, too, he was forever falling over himself and looking for free-kicks. At times, he was an embarrassment to the club. I am sure that a couple of senior professionals took him to one side after the 2005-2006 season and told him sternly “this has to stop.”

From 2006-2007, the diving abated. The petulance and moody behaviour didn’t, but that was Drogba.

In comparison, the shy Torres – a different beast completely – needs support.

And that’s where we come in.

It can’t be easy to be the absolute focus of a team’s endeavours, especially with a £50M price tag and the horrible start he had in Chelsea colours. But let’s continue our support of him. After all, he is a Chelsea player.

It’s obvious to me that Torres lacks self-confidence, but we can help rebuild that. It’s a two-way process. But that confidence is so brittle. At Sunderland, his confidence was at an all-time high when he positively took the ball and struck home a penalty. A week later in Tokyo, he looked like his confidence was shot away completely after missing that one-on-one with the Corinthians ‘keeper.

Let’s rebuild that confidence.

I can well remember a moment in my life as a young footballer when I suffered badly. I was a starter in the Frome College Third Year team of 1978-1979, playing as a right-winger, sending crosses over for a variety of centre-forwards. I thought I did OK. I scored a few goals. Only towards the end of the season did I lose my place and I subsequently played a couple of games for the “B” team. A month or so later, came my report card, which included a damning appraisal of my time in the school football team. Our sports master began by saying “Chris has virtually no confidence in his ability. He has the technique to beat a man, but far too often chooses not to…”

I was mortified. The sad thing is that throughout that entire season, the PE teacher – a Kevin Keegan lookalike called Mr. Freeman who still resides in the town – never ever came up to me to give me a pep talk or to offer advice. A show of support would have worked wonders for me I am sure. The clichéd arm was never put around my shoulder. In 1979-1980, and the subsequent few years, I played for the B team and never regained my place in the first team. My confidence was shot.

Let’s all put our arm around Torres’ shoulder, plus any other player who is suffering through a loss of that vital commodity, confidence. This has always been my view. I don’t go to Chelsea to berate players unnecessarily. Sure, I get exasperated at times, but I just wish fellow fans would offer whole-hearted support at games, rather than become 40,000 critics.

A Luiz free kick seemed to bamboozle the Villa ‘keeper and we were 2-0 up. A scramble from a corner was headed home by Ivanovic and we lead 3-0 at the break. Although there had been a minute of applause for Roberto on 16 minutes, there had been no anti-Rafa noise throughout the first-half.

We live in interesting times.

We played some lovely football in the second-half as Villa’s resistance simply melted away. I caught Frank’s low drive from thirty-yards on film and how we celebrated that. He was replaced shortly after by Ramires and received the loudest bout of adulation all season.

“Super, Super Frank…”

Villa amazingly caused Cech to deflect a shot onto his crossbar, but Chelsea simply carved out more and more chances, too numerous to catalogue here.

I missed the Ramires goal as I was outside on a comfort break, but more goals soon followed.

First, a penalty from Oscar.

6-0.

My personal favourite was the delightful piece of wizardry from Eden Hazard, a few yards in front of me. His skills were lighting up the early evening and his strong dribble into the Villa box was followed up with a strong strike high into the goal.

7-0.

At this point, the Chelsea faithful, who had been watching with growing bemusement and befuddlement, chose to ridicule the away supporters.

“Gone Christmas shopping. You should have gone Christmas shopping.”

Lucas Piazon, making his league debut, was fouled and it was another penalty. After Luiz, Ramires and Oscar, would he become the fourth Brazilian to score? Alas, his strong penalty was tipped over by Guzan.

Amazingly, there was still time for one more goal, when Ramires slotted home after a lovely ball from Oscar.

8-0.

Phew.

After the game, a few of us reconvened over at the Lillie Langtry at West Brompton where we tried our best to quantify what we had just witnessed.

To be honest, we tried and failed.

We surely live in interesting times.

Tales From Gillespie Road

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs.Chelsea : 29 September 2012.

There was no doubt at all – in the vernacular of the British football fan – that I was “up” for this one. Chelsea versus Arsenal at The Emirates. This game would surely prove to be our first real test of the domestic league season. It was potentially a tough game, for sure. Would this be a case of the new Chelsea versus the same old Arsenal? Would there be a convergence of styles now that we have changed our modus operandi? With Didier, Arsenal’s tormentor for so many seasons, no longer in the Chelsea blue, would Arsenal now fancy their chances? Would they punish us? Would Chelsea’s position at the top of the table prove to be a false dawn? There were many questions to be answered.

I couldn’t wait.

Wagons roll.

I left the rural delights of east Somerset at 8.15am; with no Lord Parky alongside, this was another solo-run to the capital. Again, I headed up and over Salisbury Plain. It was a beautiful autumn morning. There was no need for a musical accompaniment. I was just happy to be alone with my thoughts, letting my mind wander and letting it pick out aspects of the up-coming game.

There is a passage in Nick Hornby’s book “Fever Pitch” in which he describes how football is never far away from thought. A vacant mind will soon become occupied at the merest hint of a football memory and then us football fans will then become dreamy with thoughts of Teddy Maybank scoring at Bristol Rovers in 1975, a Pat Nevin shimmy in 1984, a song at Anfield in 1985 or a depressing trip back from Villa Park in 1994.

My mind underwent the same process as I drove past Stonehenge. Above, there were no clouds in the sky; it was a perfect morning. I noticed that a battalion of soldiers were lining up, with the stones in the background, and I guessed that a photograph was being planned. There are army camps dotted all over Salisbury Plain; it is one of the training centres of the British Army. There are barracks in the garrison town of Warminster and Tidworth Camp is nearby. I presumed that the hundred or so soldiers, in battle fatigues, were lining up for a ceremonial photograph. I hoped that it was in recognition of their safe return from Afghanistan.

And then, in one split second, I made the connection between the young soldiers in a line on a field in Wiltshire in 2012 and the origins of Arsenal Football Club, formed in 1886 as Dial Square by some workers at the Woolwich Arsenal, the main armament factory of the British army.

As I edged onto the A303, I was deep in thought about Arsenal and Chelsea. How odd that Arsenal were once a team from south London – Woolwich is just south of the Thames, not far from Charlton Athletic’s home territory – but are now firmly based in North London, where most of their London fans are based. Chelsea, however, are geographically a team from north of the River Thames, but whose supporters have traditionally been based to the south of the river.

Of course, the seismic shift of Arsenal from Woolwich to Highbury in 1913 is one of the main reasons why supporters of Tottenham despise them so much. North London was Tottenham’s alone, but the arrival of Arsenal ate into their support base and things have been feisty, to say the least, ever since. I have read that the 12 miles which Arsenal moved just under one hundred years ago is comparable to the movement to Milton Keynes of the Wimbledon team in 2004, in terms of travel time between the two locations; 90 minutes by bus, tram and foot in 1913 and 90 minutes by tube and train in 2004.

Maybe Arsenal was the original “Franchise F.C.” after all.

And then I thought about Fulham’s relationship with us. Fulham was all theirs until we appeared on the scene, kicking and screaming, in 1905.

I can hear the disparaging call of a Fulham supporter from 1905 even now –

“And they have the damned audacity to call themselves Chelsea, but they want to play in our borough!”

Ah, the inter-borough rivalries of the nation’s capital are certainly intriguing.

As I approached Chiswick – presumably Fulham’s heartland, cough, cough – I was listening to the entertaining Danny Baker (Millwall, not too far from Woolwich) on Five Live. The musicians Midge Ure and Chris Cross, from Ultravox, were his studio guests and they were talking about the various musical backgrounds of the members of the band. The keyboard player Billy Currie was from a classical background. Chris Cross was explaining that Currie had a tendency to over play.

“At the start, Billy had to strip his style down. There were too many notes.”

Midge Ure laughed and said “yeah, there was a good tune in there somewhere. But there were just too many notes.”

“Too many notes.”

The phrase hit home. My mind leapt back to football again. Surely Arsenal played with too many notes. If they were a band, they would be either an interminably self-indulgent prog rock band or a jazz quartet, with each member trying to out-do each other. They would have had no number one hits, but a sweaty troop of obsessive fans.

And here is the real problem for Arsenal fans. The team is over-elaborate in its approach play. There are too many lilies being gilded. There are too many passes for the man who wears glasses. Chelsea’s play over the past ten years has been more pragmatic.

And more successful.

I can’t deny that – whisper it – Arsenal are a very well run club; they have a firm financial base and do not overspend. In many ways, they are the blueprint of how clubs should be run. And yet, the stubborn nature of Wegner must be so infuriating for their fans. He will not bend from his vision of the way Arsenal play.

And us Chelsea fans just love it. Seven years and counting.

Of course, we went twenty-six years with no trophies, but our expectations throughout that fallow, but fun, period were way different from the pompous expectations of the Arsenal hordes.

We never really expected to win much. It allowed us to be ourselves.

Put it this way, if Arsenal were to go a further nineteen years without silverware, I doubt it very much that they will have as much fun as we did between 1971 and 1997.

I parked up at 10.30am and walked past Brompton Cemetery to Earl’s Court. I caught the Piccadilly Line straight through to Arsenal tube station. The journey took just thirty minutes. Three generations of Arsenal fans – Turks, I think – sat opposite me. They each had the same bulbous nose. The grandfather and father were wearing Arsenal scarves but the young girl was wearing an Arsenal shirt and Arsenal shorts and a big “Number One Fan” foam hand. Lots more Arsenal fans were wearing scarves. They love their scarves, the Gooners.

As the train stopped at Holloway Road, I spotted around five or six Chelsea fans alighting. Funnily enough, I didn’t know any of them by name, but recognised their faces. Were they from Bristol Rovers in 1975, Anfield in 1985 or Villa Park in 1994? I don’t know. They just looked familiar.

Faces in the crowd.

I got off at Arsenal. For the first time, I spotted that the original tube station name of Gillespie Road was written in small mosaic tiles on the platform wall. I stopped to take a photograph. Herbert Chapman, the pioneering Arsenal manager who steered the club to a trio of back-to-back-to-back titles in the ‘thirties, negotiated with the tube authorities to successfully change it to Arsenal.

One can only imagine what the supporters of Tottenham thought of this.

Every time I alight at Arsenal, I am taken back to that sunny Saturday morning in 1984 when I and thousands more Chelsea fans welcomed our boys back to the First Division. That 20,000 army of Chelsea fans, packed like sardines, in the Clock End remains the one moment of my life that perfectly sums up what being a Chelsea supporter was all about.

Loyal, noisy, strong, humorous, unbridled, passionate.

Back in the big time.

Fcuk Them All.

I bumped into a couple of acquaintances on the short walk from the art deco frontage of the tube station to the grand new structure of The Emirates. We agreed that the match would be a test, alright. I circumnavigated the stadium for the first time; I was surprised how close it was to the main railway line from Kings Cross to the north of England. Ex-Arsenal defender Nigel Winterburn walked past. I took a few photographs. The Emirates is a very photogenic stadium.

For a change, I had arranged to watch the game alongside Gill. I arrived inside the plush and roomy seats of the away corner with a good thirty minutes to spare. Usually, my arrival at Arsenal is a lot more rushed. The Chelsea team went through their pre-match drill and, for once, I was able to observe. I was surprised how empty the seats remained until around ten minutes before kick-off. All of those red seats. Ugh.

The team was announced and I was surprised, though pleased, that Oscar had retained his place within the “three tenors” of the midfield. Frank was on the bench again.

There were blue skies overhead. The stadium was bathed in September sun. Most Chelsea fans were wearing jackets, though; there was a chill in the air.

We were in all blue and enjoyed the majority of the ball in the first opening minutes; this was a good sign. We didn’t appear to be fazed by the occasion. We moved the ball around intelligently, with the midfielders soon on top and playing the ball out to the flanks where we always seemed to have the extra man. John Terry, and Ashley Cole, were systematically booed throughout the first part of the game, though the Arsenal fans soon became bored of that.

As I was watching from the very front row, I found it hard to judge if the away contingent were making much noise. Gill and I had already reiterated how we prefer the fervour at away games to the morgue-like atmosphere at home these days. A steward was sat right in front of me and so I was unwilling to constantly use my main camera. The pub camera was used for a few shots.

The Chelsea choir erupted with a couple of beauties –

“Robin van Persie – he left ‘cus you’re s**t.”

“Seven years – you’ve won f**k all.”

Although we looked pleasing going forward, Arsenal had the first few attacks on goal, but Cech was untroubled.

On twenty minutes, Fernando Torres was fouled just outside the Arsenal box. I quickly lifted the main camera up to my eyes and snapped just as Juan Mata lofted the ball towards the far post. I just saw a group of players rise as one and then saw the net rustle.

Yes! Get in!

I was unsure who had scored. I was unsure how we had scored. The away support soon told me.

“Fernando Torres – he scores when he wants.”

Even better. Seventeen goals for us now. Lovely.

Gill turned to me and said –

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

Ah, that made me laugh…”come on my little diamonds.”

We were in good form, on and off the pitch, now. The Chelsea supporters behind me wasted no time in reminding the Arsenal fans about the events of Saturday 19 May.

“We know what we are. We know what we are. Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

Torres then robbed the ball from Koscielny and advanced alone, with just the ‘keeper to beat. We waited with intense anticipation. Two goals would kill them off. Sadly, Torres stumbled just as he was about to strike the ball goal wards. “One step forward, one step back” seems to be Torres’ mantra at Chelsea. We all want him to go one step beyond.

Oscar was rightly booked for a couple of silly fouls, but his overall play was excellent. We continued to attack down Arsenal’s flanks and our play was neat and tidy. The midfield were playing as a unit, passing the ball intelligently. I said to Gill that Arsenal seemed content for us to keep the ball. How they miss a Viera.

Sadly, with the first-half closing, a fine Arsenal move caught us out and Gervinho was able to spin and thump the ball past Petr Cech. We were then treated by the most naïve chant of the entire game. The Arsenal fans alongside us in the Clock End, exultant and jubilant, boisterously enquired of us –

“Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?”

Hardly a nano-second had passed before we belligerently and joyfully replied –

“We know what we are. We know what we are. Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

There was silence in the Arsenal section.

At half-time, there were no complaints. It was an open game with some nice stuff being played. There was no doubt we could go on to win this.

David Luiz was booked, in my eyes, for a pitiful attempt at getting a penalty. He then decided to berate the referee further. Now that was just stupid. Soon after, Torres was released but Vermaulen clipped his heels. I steadied my camera again and snapped just as Juan Mata whipped the ball into the box. Again, it was headed towards the far post. By the time I had brought the camera down to my side, Gill was shouting in my ear and the ball had nestled inside the goal.

Again – how the hell did that happen?

The Chelsea section was again in full voice. We sang a couple of new songs in praise of John and Ashley.

“One England captain – pause – fcuk the FA.”

“Ashley Cole’s won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup.”

We had to thank Petr Cech, though, soon after our second goal was scored. The quiet Podolkski looped a header goal wards, but our great goalkeeper arched his back as he flew through the air to his left and spectacularly clawed the ball away. It was a magnificent piece of ballet, let alone football.

Tu-tu, not 2-2.

Cech again beat out the ball, this time from Giroud effort which deflected off Luiz. Arsenal seemed to be in the ascendency in the last quarter and I lost count of the balls which were zipped and whipped across our box. A rogue deflection here, a prod there and we would be very likely to concede. In the end, shoddy finishing from Arsenal was the decisive factor. Giroud, again, sliced the ball into the side netting when it seemed easier to score.

Despite four minutes of extra time, we held on and the Chelsea fans, with several grey inflatable CL trophies playing prominent roles, were bouncing once more.

I walked back to Highbury & Islington tube with Gill, two Chelsea faces smiling away, amidst a sea of red despondency. This had been a massive statement of intent by Chelsea.

We had hit all the right notes.

It had been a fine day.

Tales From A New Dawn

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 25 August 2012.

My very first Chelsea game was over thirty-eight years ago. The opponents on that life-changing afternoon were Newcastle United. Since then, our paths have crossed with alarming regularity, including some very memorable battles in the old second division. Our third Premiership game of the new 2012-2013 season would be my 31st Chelsea vs. Newcastle United match at Stamford Bridge. I have only seen Liverpool on more occasions at HQ. In those thirty previous games, our record was excellent; just four defeats. Our 2-0 loss to the Geordies in early May was our first league loss to them at home since a 3-1 defeat in November 1986.

There was a sense of revenge in the air. That game will be remembered, of course, for those two wondrous Cisse strikes. Strangely enough, while I was over in New York recently, I got chatting to a Newcastle United fan at the New York Yankees game on my last night. She had been at the game in May, one of the 1,500 away fans who had been rewarded for their support by a rare away win at Chelsea. I told her that there aren’t many times that I want to check out an opponents’ goal as soon as I reach home, but that was one occasion. We haven’t seen a goal like Cisse’s second strike at The Bridge for quite a while. Its trajectory seemed to defy all laws of physics. It was a cracking strike.

After our maximum six points being garnered from our two league matches, and our play improving over the past three games against City, Wigan and Reading I was truly relishing this one. Newcastle United would be a stern test. It had the makings of a classic. And this brought me a great deal of joy; I love the fact that teams outside of the big four or five have their moments. How boring it would be if our only tests each year were the same opponents.

With the evening kick-off, there was no need to leave until lunchtime. Out shopping in Frome in the morning, I bumped into Dave and Karen, fellow Chelsea fans and season ticket holders for around six or seven years. Regretfully, Dave informed me that they didn’t renew for 2012-2013. A few years ago, there used to be six season ticket holders travelling up from Dodge each game; Dave, Karen, Frank, PD, Glenn and myself. Only the latter two remain.

I collected Young Jake from outside Trowbridge train station at 1pm and Old Parky from his house soon after. There was a look of joyful glee on Jill’s face when I collected Parky; she often calls me her respite carer.

“Don’t worry, Jill, I’ll take care of the old bugger today. Send the cheque to my office.”

We chatted away as I headed east. Parky was fortified by a four pint pack of Foster lager. I made use of the new “Starbucks” drive-in at Membury Services near Swindon; another American innovation that has found its way over the Atlantic. The weather was bizarre; fine one minute, rain showers the next. We must have had twenty individual rain showers on the drive in.

As I drove past Slough to the north and Windsor to the south, it was obvious that London was in the middle of a pretty intense rainstorm. The sky was wild and wonderful. A great towering cumulonimbus cloud dominated the vista in the centre, but huge billowing white and grey clouds were everywhere I could look. We spotted occasional lightning forks. It was like a gatefold album cover from some hideous prog rock group in the ‘seventies. I almost expected to see dragons, serpents or bare-breasted Nordic goddesses.

Calm down Parky.

But then it got serious. The rain became heavier. We got drenched as we had a quick pit stop at Heston. The last twenty miles into town were painful. The rain came down in a never-ending deluge and the traffic slowed. The spray made visibility difficult. We drove past Brentford’s Griffin Park and saw that the floodlights were already on, even though it was only 3.15pm. Heading around Hammersmith, the rain bounced back up off the road and we saw great puddles of surface water.

“Honestly can’t see the game taking place, Parks…all this rain, bloody hell.”

The streets and pavements were virtually deserted. The sky was a brooding, dark shade of grey. It felt like a mid-winter evening, not a summer afternoon. The lightning strikes grew more frequent. There were even thunderclaps.

At least there were no text messages to say that the game had been postponed. We spoke about the last time that a match was called-off on the day of the game at Chelsea; we have been lucky, it was as long ago as 1998. Jake needed to meet Mick down at the Copthorne Hotel and so I decided to drive down to Stamford Bridge as the poor tyke would get soaked if he was to walk from The Goose. I turned left at the bottom of the North End Road and onto the Fulham Road. Where was everybody? Again, the streets were deserted.

It was, without doubt, a very eerie sensation. As I headed past the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall, the rain continued to fall. There was an apocalyptic air to what was before me; these familiar streets, usually so full of brightly coloured pedestrians and football supporters, were virtually devoid of people, save for a few poor souls sheltering under shop fronts and secluded nooks and crannies.

Dark skies, incessant rain, the wind howling and solemn streets devoid of life.

Like a terrible vision from the future.

Is this what Fulham Broadway will be like when Tottenham next win the league?

We dropped Young Jake outside the main entrance -“go, go, go!” – and I then drove around the block, past The Black Bull, The Finborough and up to the Brompton Road. Then, miraculously, the rain eased. By the time I drove past West Brompton tube, the newly-arrived passengers were briskly walking towards the gaggle of pubs as if the thunderstorm had not happened.

I then saw a sight which saddened me and stirred me in equal measure. Chelsea fan Kyle Broadbent tragically passed away during the week. He was just 26. Although I did not know Kyle, the eulogies being posted on Facebook during the week were enough for me to know that he had touched so many lives and was loved by many people in the Chelsea fraternity. Draped over the metal railings of the “Prince of Wales” pub, I spotted a damp, limp flag which simply stated –

“Kyle Broadbent 1986-2012.”

Several of his friends had walked that morning in his honour from Euston Station, some three miles away, to Chelsea. It seems that Kyle often went on wild and wondrous walks at various Chelsea games; it was his thing.

Oh boy. What to say?

Rest in peace, Kyle.

Miraculously, the rain stopped just as I parked up on Bramber Road. A few minutes later, Parky and I were with the usual suspects in The Goose. Another pint of Peroni. I’ll get a new nickname at this rate; “One Pint Axon.” I guess it’s better than “Half Pint Axon.”

The scores were being monitored on the TV screen. The place was packed. A little group of around ten away fans were spotted a few yards away. No malice, times have moved on. However, I don’t think Chelsea have any real problems with Newcastle. Everton fans are sometimes spotted in the pub. West Brom, Blackburn too; no big deal. None of our main rivals would take these same liberties, though.

It simply wouldn’t be allowed to happen.

For once, The Goose was rocking with loud and boisterous singing, no doubt inspired by the presence of the away fans. We all joined in. We couldn’t let the Geordies win that battle. With our trip to Monaco for the UEFA Super Cup coming up, Andy and I spoke about our memorable coach trip to the 1998 game in Monaco when we beat Real Madrid 1-0.

The coach broke down on three separate occasions on that trip; it was, however, a great excursion which was full of many great memories. A few lads from Burnham-on-Sea in my county of Somerset were on the coach and soon got stuck into many flagons of “Rich’s” cider. One of the lads, attending his very first football game, unfortunately bore a striking resemblance to the notorious killer Fred West and his experience on the night of the game proved to be the funniest moment of the whole trip.

Fred West – I can’t remember his name – was out on the Nice seafront in the small hours after the match had long finished, chatting with a few ladies of the night. After things got a little boisterous, one of the street-walkers approached Fred and, to his absolute horror, pulled her skirt down to reveal that “she” was in fact a “he.”

With that, Fred started to recoil in horror, only for the same individual to pull out a shotgun, which was fired into the air.

The image of a startled Fred West sprinting back to the hotel had his friends roaring with laughter. I bumped into one of Fred’s mates at the Reise game at Anfield in 2009; Fred hasn’t been to a football game since.

Ed bought Parky a double Jack Daniels and Coke. I wondered if he should have bought me a shovel, to allow me to scoop Parky out of my car when I would eventually drop him off later that night.

We left the pub just as the Tottenham let in a late – a very late – equaliser.

Happy days.

At “the stall” I had a quick chat with a few acquaintances. Mark W had lost a lot of the new edition of “CFCUK” during the deluge’ leaving Dave to try to hawk a few dry copies of the August edition. Cliff A gave me a flier about a “test the water” meeting to look at setting up a Chelsea Supporters’ Trust. The meeting is scheduled to take place after the Stoke game; watch this space. I accompanied Steve M on the walk to the ground; we spoke about the great time we had in the States.

Despite the torrential downpour which had hit south-west London, the pitch looked stunning. There was no surface water at all. Well done the ground staff. Neil Barnett introduced the new signings Victor Moses and Cesar Azpilicueta before the game. There were team changes from Wednesday; the big surprise was Raul Meireles partnering Mikel at the base of our newly-evolving midfield.

The game was indeed a cracker.

Despite the concerns over the summer about the new players taking a while to settle, we produced a very mature performance, with all players interacting well, against one of the fancied teams of the division.

The Bridge was soon rocking to the newest song of the moment. Out on the pitch, our play flowed in a way that was missing for vast tracts of last season. We simply purred. We began the livelier, with a few chances being carved out, with only sporadic Newcastle retaliation. In the 22nd minute, Fernando Torres spun into space and prodded the ball past a Newcastle defender. An outstretched leg, a fall, a penalty.

Three games, three penalties.

With Lamps side-lined, we pondered the options. Mata has missed a few penalties of late and so it was no surprise when Eden Hazard stood up.

A short run, a confident finish.

1-0 to the European Champions.

Alan and I had our “YHTCAUN – COMLD” exchange in a Geordie accent and, indeed, spoke in Geordie accents for the vast majority of the game.

The 1,500 away fans in the corner were clearly not impressed with the volume of our support and hit us, predictably, with the boring “Your Support Is F***ing S***.”

We yawned.

Fernando Torres, clearly now enjoying his permanent role at the front of our team, touched the ball past Coloccini and fell. Much to our horror, not only was a free-kick not awarded, but the Spaniard was booked.

Revenge came soon after. Although Alan was full of moans about Phil Dowd’s decision to allow five minutes of extra time at the end of the half, we were smiling in the 50th minute. A quite delightful move, which resulted in a Hazard back-heel into the path of an on-rushing Torres, ended with a delicate flick from the outside of Torres’ right boot. The ball simply flew into the net and The Bridge erupted.

Two goals in two games; Fernando Torres, you know what you are.

We all agreed how well we had played amidst our half-time chat. Out on the pitch, Neil Barnett was with former striker Joe Allon – famous for his jump over the Shed End advertising hoardings during a 2-2 draw with Wimbledon in 1991…but not much else.

Newcastle came at us in the first part of the second period. Our flow had been interrupted by the half-time break and the visitors’ new found thrust. But, in all honesty, we were hardly troubled the entire game. Ryan Bertrand hardly put a foot wrong. Both Mikel and Meireles covered a lot of ground and were the unsung heroes.

Three moments to cherish from the second period.

As the heavens opened again, a delightful back heel from Eden Hazard which almost reached Torres. I think we can expect similar moments of inspiration from our new Belgian as the season progresses. I noted that he has a very low centre of gravity – always an advantage for a dribbler – and, once he sets off on a forward run, he almost hugs the turf.

Fernando Torres was a man reborn and often ran at the Newcastle defence. His close control is one of his brightest assets. When he was on the edge of the Newcastle box, he fooled everyone by crossing the ball with his right foot from behind his standing left foot. Lovely stuff.

Eden Hazard, now full of running, teased Coloccini down below me and left him for dead over ten scintillating yards. His change of pace was amazing.

Newcastle had two or three goal scoring chances at the Shed End. We were slightly edgy, knowing that a goal from the visitors would bring them right back into it.

We held on. It had been a lovely game, which augers so well for the rest of the season.

With no trip to Monaco for me next weekend, I now have to wait three whole weeks for my next game; a feisty trip to our neighbours at Loftus Road. Who knows, by the time we reconvene there, we might still be top.

Tales From The Underdogs

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 August 2012.

The weather on the oh-so familiar drive up the M5 to Birmingham was horrendous. The near constant rain was painful enough, but the inclement driving conditions resulted in the traffic slowing right down to the speed of a Florent Malouda dribble. As a result of the delays, our pre-game plans of popping into the Crown and Cushion for a couple of pints of Red Stripe were knocked into touch.

I didn’t park up until 12.50pm.

It didn’t seem that long ago that Parky and I had last visited this particular part of Birmingham; the 4-2 win against Aston Villa seemed like yesterday. Ah, a lovely Torres goal too, I seem to remember.

We were parked to the north of Villa Park; the end allocated to the City fans. I expected the area to be inundated with them. To be honest, it was surprisingly quiet. There was a mixture of Chelsea and City fans milling around in the warm drizzle. It soon became apparent that many fans had expected warmer weather. Many were wearing shorts with trainers and plimsolls, with no rain jackets for cover.

It appeared to me that the drizzly conditions had travelled south with the thousands of Mancunians.

It was typical Manchester weather.

As we approached the stadium, we spotted a gaggle of familiar faces sheltering under the slight overhang of the Doug Ellis Stand. It was good to see them all once again. The others were off to sit in the two-tiered Holte End (the home end at the stadium), while I was by myself in the upper tier of the Doug Ellis. Just as I was finding my bearings, none other than Lovejoy walked past. I hadn’t seen him for almost two years. I was wondering if I’d see him at football ever again.

My seat was in the second row from the rear of the upper deck, down at the south end, behind the goal line. It soon became apparent that the 42,000 capacity was not going to be tested on this particular match day. I spotted large gaps in both tiers of the Holte End. Chelsea had been entitled to over 13,000 tickets for this game, but it was clear that we were a few thousand short of that figure. As kick-off approached, there were just as many gaps in the City sections. City had fans on three sides; the main west stand, the north stand and about a quarter of the Doug Ellis.

It was easy for me to think back to the one game that this scenario reminded me of; our 1996 F.A. Cup semi-final against the other Manchester team, in the days when Gullit and Hughes played for us and Cantona and Beckham played for them. I used to love attending F.A. Cup semi-finals en masse at these neutral venues. I loved the idea of 20,000 Chelsea fans taking over large swathes of other clubs’ stadia. And it preserved the thrill of Wembley for the Cup Final itself. How I wish the F.A. would revert to this, but I know it will never happen again.

Chelsea had both tiers of the Holte End for that game and, as luck would have it, our seats were in the very first row of the upper tier. I immediately seized this opportunity and decided to make a banner to hang over the balcony wall.

Over a week, I painstakingly made my “Ruud Boys” banner, featuring the smiling face of our dreadlocked hero who had so thrilled us in his first season.

The Chelsea fans were out in force on that Sunday in the spring of 1996. Our end was festooned with banners, streamers and balloons as the teams entered the pitch. I always remember that the United sections filled up really slowly and I am pretty sure that there were empty seats throughout the game. Just before the break, that man Gullit leapt at a cross and headed us into a lead.

Oh, how we celebrated that one.

Sadly, two defensive errors – and some unfortunate injuries to key players – allowed United to recover and win 2-1. Wembley would have to wait for one more season.

However, the story continues.

The sight of the Chelsea fans packing out the Holte End in a riot of colour must have been spectacular. There are many photographs of us from that day. One in particular was used in two publications.

One photographer down at pitch level took a photo of my Ruud Boys flag and it was used by “Action Images” to illustrate a piece on Chelsea’s influx of foreign players in a copy of “Total Football” later during that year.

It gets better.

The former Wimbledon striker Dean Holdsworth once had an affair with glamour model Lindsey Dawn MacKenzie. At a game at Selhurst Park in the 1996-1997 season, the Chelsea fans were full of rude comments about this romantic liaison. In the “Daily Sport” newspaper – that beacon of journalistic integrity – the following day, there was a photo of Lindsey Dawn MacKenzie (baring all) with a headline to the effect of “How dare Chelsea fans be rude to both Dean and me.”

The editor chose to illustrate her tirade at the Chelsea fans with a picture of some Chelsea fans, set just behind a large photograph of Lindsey Dawn and her quite substantial charms.

The photo that the editor chose was from the Villa Park semi-final. It was the photo of my Ruud Boys flag. Or rather, a close-up photo of Glenn and me (looking, strangely, straight at the camera).

Imagine the scene.

Glenn was sitting with his workmates during a tea break when one of them opened up the middle pages of his “Daily Sport” to exclaim –

“Hey, Glenn – there’s a picture of you and Chris Axon next to Lindsey Dawn MacKenzie here!”

The Chelsea and Manchester City teams entered the arena from that quirky tunnel towards the corner of the main stand. I guess this was a conscious decision by the Villa club, who were lambasted for replacing the much loved Trinity Road stand with a brutal structure, to maintain certain elements of the old stand. The curved panelling of the original Leitch balcony has been replicated, too.

Chelsea were in the royal blue of old, while City wore a new away kit of Torino pomegranate. The guests of honour were the former city winger Mike Summerbee and none other than our very own Ron Harris. I saw Ron sharing a joke with several of the Chelsea players as he was introduced to them.

The game began and it was clear that di Matteo was staying with his tried and tested 4-2-3-1, with Mikel and Lamps in the withdrawn roles, and Ramires out right, Hazard out left, Mata in the middle. With our influx of new players, I wondered if the manager was wondering about testing the old conundrum of whether teams should be system based or player based.

Should the formation dictate which players to use or should the players force the formation? One suspects that the answer, like a lot of things in life, is a muddy compromise.

The rain had ceased and Manchester City created a flurry of early chances. Petr Cech was in the thick of it and was soon covering himself in glory as he repelled several City efforts. With time, though, we began to make inroads as the game progressed. Eden Hazard took a few nice touches, but then drew instant laughter from the City hordes when he cut inside but tripped over his feet as he attempted a back-heel to Ashley Cole. I’m sure we’ve all done that in our time on the football pitch; I know I have.

I must admit, I didn’t know too much about Eden Hazard before we became linked with him. My knowledge of his attributes is due to a typical search on YouTube; I was mightily impressed. I just hoped that there wasn’t another selection of Eden Hazard clips on YouTube involving him falling over himself, clipping balls Gronkjaer-esque into row Z of the stands at Lille, losing possession after one touch, missing clear chances and setting up opponents’ goals with lazy back-passes.

Two chances in quick succession raised our hopes; a flowing move involving Mata and Ramires allowed Fat Frank to shoot straight at the City ‘keeper and then Hazard cut inside before shooting low.

It then occurred to me – in a lovely moment of self-awareness – that after three games of varying involvement, I was now right back in to the football. After the surreal experience in New York, the boozy song-fest of Chester and the docile frustration of Brighton, I was now kicking every ball, making every tackle, shouting words of encouragement and getting more and more involved with every passing minute.

This turned out to be the most important moment of the entire afternoon for me.

There may come a time when I suddenly lose this passion for Chelsea, but I knew at around 2pm at Villa Park that it wouldn’t be this season; European Champions or not, there are still games to attend, games to win and songs to be sung.

“Come On You Blue Boys.”

With the first half coming to a close, we were rewarded for our slight improvement in play with a goal against the general run of play. What a lovely finish from Fernando Torres, who deftly flicked the ball over the ‘keeper from Ramires’ through ball. I celebrated wildly – yes, I was back – and still managed to capture several shots of El Nino reeling away towards the Chelsea fans in the upper deck of the Doug Ellis. Another goal for him at Villa Park. I maintained my proud record of seeing every Fernando Torres goal in the flesh, from Stamford Bridge to Old Trafford to Camp Nou to Villa Park.

I hope that continues.

I spotted Mick and Della a few yards away from me and I walked over to say “hi” just as the Ivanovic tackle happened. My first reaction was that it was a tough decision; replays on the TV in the bar area at half-time suggested that Kevin Friend got it right. Down to ten men, I doubted that we would be able to hold off a physically tough City side. Up front, Tevez and Aguero looked the business.

I had more words with Mick and Della at the break; they had thoroughly enjoyed their time with Ron Harris in New York and it was great to see them once again.

At the start of the second half, Mancunian drizzle and then Mancunian goals. A couple of lax defensive clearances allowed the ball to fall to Kolo Toure. He smashed it goal wards and I was right behind the path of the ball. I said “goal” as soon as it left his foot.

The City fans, who had swelled their numbers considerably during the first-half, now roared. Their version of “Hey Jude” was deafening to be fair. I wondered if there had been traffic problems for the City fans on their trek south down the M6 from Ancoats, Hyde, Droylesden and Longsight.

A sweet strike from Tevez and a flick from Nasri got them singing again. This now looked like “damage limitation” for us. I wanted Friend to blow up straight away. As Daniel Sturridge warmed up, he took tons of abuse from the City fans in the main stand.

“One greedy bastard, there’s only one greedy bastard.”

That’s ironic, eh? Half of City’s team are only there for the sheikh’s millions.

Oh well. It is what it is.

It was sad to hear the Chelsea support so quiet. Even when we were 1-0 up, the noise was no more than a murmur.

Must do better.

I thought back to the game at Yankee Stadium. The only three English shirts I saw at the stadium which were not Chelsea belonged to two Manchester City supporters and one Manchester United fan. I was expecting more to be honest. I was certainly expecting shirts to be worn by a few Liverpool, Spurs and Arsenal fans in a sad attempt to wind us up. There is nothing sadder than that, in my opinion. However, the sight of the two City shirts certainly made me double-take; outside of Manchester, sightings are rare. In NYC, I decided to take the “good cop, bad cop” approach.

To City Fan #1 – “You’re at the wrong game mate”

This resulted in the City fan puffing his chest out and giving me a look of aggression.

To City Fan #2 – “Congratulations on the title…at least you’re not a red.”

This resulted in the City fan looking confused and befuddled at my – honest – compliments.

Late on, a Daniel Sturridge shot was only parried by Pantilimon and the other substitute Ryan Bertrand pounced. We roared again. Could we rise up from the dead and snatch a draw? Despite a late charge, including big Pete coming up for a corner, it was not to be.

In truth, City could have scored again at the death but Sergio Aguero screwed the ball wide in front of a virtual open goal. With us a man down throughout the second-half, a 3-2 loss was no big deal. Outside, Parky was sage like and philosophical, sharing the opinion that there were several plus points to take from the game.

With a lot of the City fans still inside, our escape route north and then west to the M6 was clear of traffic and, aided by some classics from the Stranglers, we made good time on the drive south.

Throughout the game, I had soon realised that City were the new target for all clubs in the division this season. They are a formidable team – solid in the right areas, with many attacking options. I also realised that it certainly felt “right” for Chelsea – or at least “my” Chelsea – to be classed as the underdogs once more. I’d guess we are third favourites for the league, behind the two Manchester clubs, but I can deal with that. After all, I dealt with it – and the club certainly dealt with it – against Barca and Bayern.

It’s no big deal. I quite like it. After all, a goal scored by the underdogs is celebrated five times as loudly as a goal by the favourites.

I won’t deny that there are the inevitable concerns about our team at this very moment in time. But let’s give everyone time to adapt to each other, to let the newcomers settle, to give the manager his six months to sort out his formation and his methodology. With the possible triumvirate of Hazard / Mata / Oscar feeding Fernando Torres, we could be in for quite a ride.

The league season is almost upon us.

Wigan awaits.

I’m ready.

Let’s go.

Tales From Munich : Part Two – Arms Were Linked

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Bayern Munich vs. Chelsea : 19 May 2012.

The walk to the Allianz Arena on the evening of Saturday 19th. May 2012 probably took around fifteen minutes. At the start, we were together as a group, but occasionally we splintered away to talk to a few fellow fans, faces from home, as we marched north. I spotted many fans – of both teams – holding rather pathetic looking home-made cards with phrases such as “Need Ticket Please” on them. I brushed past them, feeling no guilt. There were Chelsea fans singing still. Bayern were relatively quiet. I then realised that most of the Bayern support was probably already within the stadium a few hundred yards away.

Onwards we marched. Glenn was still struggling with the basic concept of putting one foot in front of the other and he occasionally lurched and swayed to the left and right. It was time for me to have words with him. In the absence of an adjacent naughty step, I grabbed him by the arm and read him the riot act. I had visions of him being pulled at the gate by an over-zealous policeman.

“Listen mate, sober up. We’ve come this far. You have your ticket. Don’t fcuk it up at the last minute.”

Not every Chelsea fan was in colours. Amongst our little group, only the John Bumstead T-shirt being worn by Daryl and the black and orange Chelsea gear being worn by Gal gave a clue to our allegiance. Elsewhere there was the usual smattering of new Chelsea shirts, current Chelsea shirts, old Chelsea shirts and retro Chelsea shirts. Packs of lads without colours – typically the faces I see at most away games – were similarly attired as us. The forty-something dress code of trainers, jeans, polo shirts, designer tops and occasional baseball caps. Most Bayern fans were wearing replica shirts, though an alien from another planet might have been bemused by the obvious variety of colour schemes adopted by Bayern over the years. I always think of the classic Bayern team of the mid-seventies – Maier, Breitner, Beckenbauer, Muller – wearing the all red Adidas kit. This is how it stayed for years until the design gurus at Bayern decided to foist all sorts of strange designs on FC Hollywood’s fan base. The first bizarre kit to appear featured a red and blue striped shirt and I think this was a nod to the blue of the Bavarian flag. For a connoisseur of football kits like me, this was a bizarre choice. Since then, Bayern have had a variety of kits and even special Champions League variations. Some of the most recent variants have been red and black shirts and also red and white hooped shirts.

It made me wonder what Adidas have in store for us.

I spotted Dutch Mick and shouted across the grass verge. He was wearing the new shirt and I wondered if Chelsea would do the same for this last game of the season. We wore a new shirt in Moscow remember; I didn’t want us to follow suit.

Callum raced past and we shook hands. He was buzzing and said something to the effect of “the night is ours.”

As we neared the stadium, I heard Alan talk to Cathy and so I reeled around and had a very quick word while Alan took our photograph.

“It’s a long way from the Rum Jungle, Cath.”

I had enjoyed Cathy’s company in Kuala Lumpur way back in July on our Asia tour. Of course, in reality, it seemed like last week. These football seasons certainly race by.

Ahead, a young lad was perched on his father’s shoulders, and they were carrying a fifteen foot pole, bending under the weight of a large St. George’s Cross flag, with two smaller chequered Chelsea ones above and below. I took an iconic photograph of them with the pristine white of the stadium now only fifty yards or so away in the background. It was a defiant statement of intent and captured the mood precisely.

This was the ultimate away game. Let me run through some numbers. Here we were, an English team in Germany; plenty of history there. This was arguably our biggest game ever in 107 years. It was supposedly a neutral venue but fate had conspired for this to take place in the home stadium of our opponents. Sure, we took around 25,000 to the Rasunda Stadium in Stockholm in 1998. Sure we took 25,000 to Old Trafford for the 2006 F.A. Cup semi-final against Liverpool. We have taken similar numbers to Cup Finals at Wembley. But, despite the folly of a neutral venue, make no mistake; this was an away game. This was our biggest ever show of strength for an away game since we swamped Highbury in August 1984, when close on 20,000 squeezed into the Tick Tock and hundreds more took residence in the home stands. In addition to the 17,500 in the stadium, Munich was being swelled to the tune of an extra 10,000, maybe 15,000, maybe 20,000 auxiliaries. We were a Chelsea army in Germany for the biggest prize in World football.

In 107 years, there has never been an away game like it and perhaps there never will.

The Allianz Arena stands at the northern end of a ridge of land, bordered by train lines and autobahns. Access is only at the southern end; the Bayern end. We hurriedly entered at the gate – there was a minimal search and I immediately rued my decision to leave my trusty zoom lens at home. We were in. I hugged Glenn and then began the short walk up to the Nord Kurv. I stopped to take a photo of the setting sun, disappearing behind clouds to the west.

Daryl stopped to have the quickest of chats with Terry, who was originally going to be sat alongside us, but had since wangled a seat in the press box. Terry is one of Chelsea’s iconic names from a distant past. I last saw him in Moscow.

We aimed for the gate to section 341. It was now 8.30pm and kick-off was but fifteen minutes away. There was a long ascent up a hundred or more stairs; these wrap themselves around the stadium but are hidden from view by the translucent plastic shell which gives the stadium its unique identity. My limbs were aching by the time I had reached the upper level. Behind me, several Chelsea fans were singing about Auschwitz. Ahead of me, I battled the crowds to force my way into the concourse and then the gents’ toilets.

An incoming text at 8.33pm – “atmosphere?”

I replied – “still not in yet. Typical Chelsea.”

And this was typical Chelsea. We are so used to leaving it late at home games – the ubiquitous mantra of “one more pint” was made for the pubs which envelope Stamford Bridge – and here we were, leaving it late in Munich.

Typical Chelsea.

I quickly found my way to my seat as the home fans were unfurling their impressive banner of the Champions League trophy in the Sud Kurv. Their end was a riot of red. In row 10, there was a nasty altercation between Glenn and a fellow Chelsea fan and I had to act as peacemaker. A few words were exchanged. The plan was for Glenn to sit alongside Alan and myself, but Glenn – still wobbly with alcohol – was despatched to the other end of our row. Although Daryl bought tickets for ten of us, such is the ineptitude within the Chelsea box office, Simon and Milo’s tickets were not with the rest of ours.

Blue flags were waiting at our seats and the Champions League anthem was echoing around the stadium.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7OkWI…&feature=g-upl

From the left; Alan, Glenn, Gary, Daryl, Neil, Ed, Chris.

The magnificent seven.

Simon and Milo was ten yards behind us. Callum and Dunc were spotted. Dutch Mick too.

In the rush to get ourselves inside, hardly a thought had been paid to the game. The rumours were true; Ryan Bertrand was playing out wide. I immediately thought back to Danny Granville at Stockholm in 1998. Clearly, di Matteo was taking a risk on the youngster but I did not have time to dwell on this. Thank heavens the two centre-backs were playing.

So, what were my thoughts as kick-off approached? There was no doubt that we had reached the final due to a healthy share of luck, especially against Barcelona when woodwork and a missed penalty aided our formidable rear guard performance. I was in no doubts that this luck could easily run out – if only due to the laws of probability – and I can remember quietly warning Gary in that serene Munich beer garden that “you do realise we could get thumped here?” He was in agreement.

And yet. And yet there was a positive air in the Chelsea end. In the back of my mind, there was unrelenting belief that – yes – despite the odds, or maybe because of them, we would prevail in this most hostile of situations. In our 107 years, there has never been a more unlikely story than our assault on this magical trophy. A team in disarray in early March, a team in decay, a team divided, now only ninety minutes from glory.

Without time to dwell, the teams appeared down below me and I spent a few minutes trying my best to juggle photos, texts and songs of support. It will surprise nobody to know that I had no plans to sit. In Moscow, I had stood for – what was it? – six hours, from bar to tube to stadium, to game, to bus. I envisioned the same in Munich.

The scene was set. The stadium seemed huge and yet compact at the same time. I was a fan. The cool grey concrete steps of the concourse and the aisles were mirrored by a similar colour for the seats. If only Wembley had decided on something similar – a cool cream maybe – rather than a brash ugly red. The Chelsea end was keen to cheer the boys on but I knew we would be in for a tough battle to be heard over the tumultuous support being handed out by the Bayern faithful. I spotted pockets of Chelsea blue in the lower tier to my left, but the neutral areas were predominantly red. There were three rows of unused seats in front of the line of TV studios in the east stand. To my right, I noted a ridiculous number of seats in the press box; maybe 3,000 strong. This was a sure sign that football was eating itself. Elsewhere in this lovely city, 100,000 fans were without tickets yet 3,000 seats were being used by gentlemen of the press. Beyond, in the corporate areas of the stadium, pink and yellow lights were shining in the many restaurants and suites. The blades of a solitary wind turbine, high on a hill, were able to be seen in the thin slither of sky. Bayern flags hung on every square inch of balcony. Chelsea flags countered.

I quickly spotted one which is often seen, away to my right –

“If I Had Two Lives I’d Give Them Both To You. Forever Chelsea.”

The 2012 Champions League Final began.

It was clear from the first few moments of play that Bayern were going to have most of the possession. It was galling to see Arjen Robben having so much of the ball. There was a consensus when he left Chelsea in the summer of 2007 that, due to his glass ankles, we had seen the best of him. Would he now have the last laugh? I feared the worst. Ribery, of course, was the other major threat and it was clear to me that the game may well be won or lost in the wide areas. It was key for Kalou and Bosingwa on the right and Bertrand and Cole on the left to close space. I soon realised, and it shames me to admit it, that I was not au fait with many of the Bayern players. The wide men Robben and Ribery, Gomez, Schweinsteiger, Nauer, Lahm, Boeteng…who were the others? I had little idea.

At least I was in control. Unlike Barcelona, fuzzy through alcohol, I was able to take everything in. It was my biggest fear that I would be drunk beyond words in Munich, unable to play a significant role in supporting the boys. Despite many beers in the afternoon, I was fine…it had been perfect. I looked over several times to check on Glenn; phew, he was still standing, not slumped in his seat.

Bayern dominated the first half with only rare advances by Chelsea into the Bayern defence. In truth, we were playing a wholly subservient role in this game. Our plan was of containment. Wayward shots from a number of Bayern players rained in on Petr Cech’s goal and I began wondering if our luck was going to hold out once more. The first “heart in the mouth” chance fell to Robben way down below, but Cech managed to deflect his shot onto the woodwork for a corner. Bosingwa then fluffed an easy clearance, only for the spinning ball to end up in an area devoid of red-shirted attackers. Lady Luck was in the building and sporting Chelsea colours.

All eyes were on the clock.

15 minutes.

30 minutes.

In a rare attack – our best of the game – the ball was worked to Salomon Kalou, but his shot hardly tested Nauer at the near post.

In the closing minutes of the first period, a Bayern chant petered out, but its familiar melody was picked up by the Chelsea hordes.

“Oh Dennis Wise
Scored A Fcuking Great Goal.
In The San Siro.
With Ten Minutes To Go.”

It was easily our loudest chant of the evening and I was comforted that we, as fans, could impact upon the night’s atmosphere.

A text from the US confirmed this –

“Heard the Dennis Wise song loud and clear on the TV coverage in the US!”

Just before the teams re-entered after the break, around ten red flares were let off in the top tier of the Bayern end. It was an impressive sight for sure. The smoke drifted to the east, then hung in the air for ages. The second half told a similar story. Tons of Bayern possession with Chelsea players – all defenders now – scurrying around and closing space. I was particularly enamoured with Mikel, whose stature rises with each big match appearance. Elsewhere, Cahill, Cole and Lampard were magnificent. Luiz caused me a few worries. Bosingwa had his moments too. Juan Mata, the one midfielder who had the tools to unlock any defence, was struggling. Didier Drogba’s main job was to continually head away corner after corner; a job he has done so well in these last eight amazing seasons.

Ribery’s goal was flagged for offside and thankfully I wasn’t perturbed. What is the German for “calm down?” Bayern shots rained in on our goal, but our brave defenders threw themselves at the ball and blocks were made.

60 minutes.

Bayern’s support was now getting frustrated at the quality of their finishing and the Chelsea support grew and grew. Songs of old rolled around the three tiers of the Nord Kurv. I was heartened by the noise. It clearly galvanised the team. Still Bayern shots missed the target. Was I the only one thinking that a force field had been set up around Cech’s goal frame?

Ryan Bertrand, non-existent offensively, gave way for the much-maligned Florent Malouda. We stood and watched. We sung. We hoped. A few half-chances way down below gave us renewed sustenance. The songs continued. I was so proud of our support.

On 83 minutes, our world collapsed. A cross from the left and a leaping Bayern player – Muller, a name from the glory years –out jumped our defenders. In one of those moments that happens in football, time seemed to slow to a different speed. The ball bounced down. The ball bounced up. The ball flew past a confused Cech. The ball hit the underside of the crossbar.

The ball was in.

The previously quiet Sud Kurv bellowed and roared. It was a horrendous sight. We stood silent. What could we do? The PA announcer then, shamefully in my opinion, announced the scorer to the spectators in a rousing tirade which seemed to last for ever. For a supposedly neutral venue, I thought this was a poor show…he ended his belligerent outburst with the word “Thomas…”

…and the Bayern fans responded “Muller!”

That sickened me almost as much as the goal.

We were losing 1-0 and Lady Luck had seemed to have packed up her belongings in a suitcase and was heading out of town. My thoughts were of sadness; that this iconic Chelsea team, forged under Ranieri, fine-tuned under Mourinho, cajoled by many managers since, were now going to disband over the summer without that most desired of prizes, a Champions League victory. For this, make no mistake, was their – our – last chance. There would be no return for a while. I sighed.

Callum – you were wrong mate and I was foolish enough to believe you.

Immediately, di Matteo replaced the ineffective Kalou with Fernando Torres.

Torres, with a thousand points to prove despite his goal in Barcelona, seemed to inspire us. His darting movements breathed new life into our attack. In turn, the Chelsea support responded. It was his endeavour down in the corner which gave us a corner. It was our first of the entire game. Juan Mata trotted over to collect the ball. I lifted my trusted camera from around my chest and zoomed in as best I could. I held the camera still – constantly focused, the button half-depressed – and waited for the corner. I looked up and trusted that my camera would do its job.

88 minutes had been played. This was it, Chelsea.

Death or glory.

Juan Mata blazed the ball in towards the near post. In a moment that will live with me forever, two players in blue rose to meet the ball.

I clicked.

The ball cannoned into Nauer but then flew into the roof of the net.

The Nord Kurv thundered. I clenched my fists and roared from deep inside my body. Tears of joy soon started flowing. We were back in it.

Chelsea – I fcuking love you.

I was soon aware that my glasses had flown off and so I tried to steady myself and search for them, but I felt my head spinning, imploding with joy. I feared a blackout. It happened when Torres scored his first goal last season. Steady Chris, steady.

I tried my best to find my glasses – but they were gone.

The Chelsea fans were yelling, shouting, clambering onto seats, pointing. I looked down and in to the row in front. There, miraculously perched on a seat, were my glasses. I reached down to retrieve them just before a lad stepped on them.

Six seats away, Alan had smashed his sunglasses at this moment. There was carnage in the Chelsea end, but devastation in the Bayern end.

Advantage Chelsea. Bayern had already taken off Muller. The home fans were on the ropes. We were going to do this.

We were going to win.

My head was still spinning, the Chelsea end was buzzing, my world was perfect.

In the short period of time before the extra period of thirty minutes began, we roused the team by singing “The Blue Flag.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9X8N…&feature=g-upl

Our confidence took a battering soon into the first period of extra time when Didier Drogba, back defending, tripped Franck Ribery inside the box.

Oh Didier.

I just turned my back to the game and sighed. This was virtually a carbon copy of the penalty he gave away in Barcelona. Didier messed up our chance in Moscow. He redeemed himself in Munich. And now this.

We stood and hoped. Cech looked large and impressive. Robben approached the penalty spot. I wasn’t sure if I should tempt fate by taking a photograph of a potentially match-losing moment.

What the hell.

Robben shot.

I clicked.

Cech saved, then gathered the loose ball.

Destiny.

It was going to be our night.

Much to our joy, Ribery was substituted. Good work Didier, I take it all back.

The rest of the period of extra time was truly a blur, though. Torres had a few runs at the Bayern defence. Luiz and Cahill miraculously held out. Our players were strong. As the minutes ticked, I was happy for the game to be decided on penalties.

My main reasons were probability and destiny.

We lost on penalties in Moscow.

We’ll win on penalties in Munich.

It’s our night.

Simple as that.

We weren’t sure about the rules for determining the ends at which the all decisive penalties were to be taken, but there was a certain grim inevitability that, like in the Luzhniki Stadium in 2008, they would be at the other end.

I wasn’t sure if I should take any photographs.

I took a photo of Philip Lahm scoring past Petr Cech, with the other players, arms linked in the centre circle.

I didn’t take a photo of Juan Mata. His penalty was poor – too close to Nauer – and we fell silent.

I had my hands in my pockets, I was still stood. So here we go, Chelsea – another loss on penalties. How brutal this game of football can be. I consoled myself that at least I would not be as distraught as in Moscow. Nothing, surely, could be as bad as that.

Mario Gomez made it 2-0 to Bayern. The home fans roared.

David Luiz took a ridiculously long run up. Death or glory. I had horrible visions of his shot not only clearing the bar, but the third tier. His hair bounced as he raced towards the ball. Goal. A gasp of relief from Chelsea.

To our surprise, the goalkeeper Nauer took his turn and he scored to make it 3-1. I felt the weight of probability slipping away.

Frank Lampard simply had to score. Memories of all the others. Liverpool 2008. Go on Frank. Get in.

Frank scored.

Then it was the turn, not of Ribery, but of the substitute Olic. He looked nervous. I sensed that this could all change in an instant. Probability versus practice.

He still looked nervous. I sensed he would miss. A poor penalty was swatted away by the diving Cech and we were back in it. The whole stadium was on edge now. A tightrope. Sudden death. Sudden life.

Ashley Cole – a scorer in Moscow – was next up. The Chelsea fans were buoyant now. We sensed the momentum had changed. Ashley dispatched the perfect penalty.

Back in the beer garden, Gary had asked Michaela if Schweinsteiger meant “pig fcuker” but Michaela had dismissed this as a myth. It meant “pig climber.”

I didn’t care. I saw him place the ball on the spot and saw his Germanic features on the TV screen. In my mind I called him a pig fcuker. He again looked nervous. His approach proved this. He stopped, mid-run, and I again sensed a miss. His shot was hit low, but it hit the base of the diving Cech’s post.

Oh boy.

Advantage Chelsea.

The Nord Kurv, the watching thousands in the city centre, the fans at Fulham Broadway, in Malaysia, in Nigeria, in Australia, in Singapore and in North America were one kick away from glory.

Who else but Didier Drogba? It had to be him.

I got the call from Ed.

Arms were linked.

Alan linked arms with Glenn, who linked arms with Gal, who linked arms with Daryl, who linked arms with Neil, who linked arms with Ed, who linked arms with me, who linked arms with Steve in Philly, who linked arms with Mario in Bergisch Gladbach, who linked arms with Parky in Holt, who linked arms with Danny in Los Angeles, who linked arms with Rick in Kansas City, who linked arms with Walnuts in Munich, who linked arms with Tullio in Turin, who linked arms with Bob in San Francisco, who linked arms with my mother in Somerset, who linked arms with JR in Detroit, who linked arms with Dog in England.

I took a photo of us together; the magnificent seven.

I turned the camera towards the pitch.

Wide angle.

Approaching midnight in Munich.

Didier placed the ball on the spot.

A small run up.

No fuss.

Impact.

I clicked.

I saw Neuer move to the right.

I saw the ball go to the left.

It was in.

Pandemonium ain’t the word for it.

The Earth tilted off its axis for a split second.

We were European Champions.

In a split second I turned the camera to my left and clicked again; I caught a blurred mass of unreal and simply unquantifiable happiness.

It was no good.

I was overcome with emotion and I crumpled to the floor.

For what seemed like ages – it was probably no more than ten seconds – I sobbed tears of pure joy, alone in a foetal position.

A football position.

For that moment, I was alone with only my thoughts, my emotion, my journey, my life.

Seat 18 in row 10 of section 341 in the Nord Kurv of Munich’s Allianz Arena will always be mine.

Tales From Cloud Six

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Queens Park Rangers : 29 April 2012.

I had been floating on clouds – or possibly way above the clouds – since Barcelona on Tuesday. It was now time to reconvene back at The Headquarters for the more prosaic game against our local neighbours and irritants Queens Park Rangers. I will waste no time in trying to excuse my lack of relative enthusiasm for this match; no amount of self-imposed hype would manage to lift this game up in my estimations. After Tottenham at Wembley and then a double dose of Barca Fever, this was decidedly hum drum.

For the second time this season, in fact, an encounter with QPR was making me feel a little anxious. I wasn’t concerned about our performance on the pitch. I was more concerned about the actions of a small but noisy fragment of our support who might – I did not doubt – spoil the day with some chants (well, one in particular) aimed at Anton Ferdinand.

You know which one.

I was hoping that our supporters would replicate the fine show of wholesome support for the team which we witnessed in the FA Cup game at Loftus Road. No silliness. No ammunition for the massed ranks of the Chelsea haters in the media to have a pop at us. I was hopeful. Or at least until I remembered the nasty shouts made by some of our supporters at Wembley during the Hillsborough silence.

I just hoped for our fans to show true support not only for the club but for John Terry, too. But without any bile or unpleasantness.

Throughout this season – and if I am truthful, before it began – I have sensed that this might be a season in which I might develop a different relationship with my club. I’m not sure why. Maybe the new manager. Maybe a season of treading water. Maybe a season in which my support might be tested. Maybe even a year in which I lose that desire. As much as these match reports have been a record of Chelsea’s successes and failures on the pitch this season, they have also possibly tried to demonstrate how sometimes my strength of support and feeling for the club has sometimes varied. I’ve also tried to think more objectively about what I get out of the match day experience. I’ve tried to push my boundaries. I’ve constantly asked questions of myself.

“Why do I want to drive to Norwich on a bleak winter day?”
“Why do some sections of our support rile me?”
“What is my relationship with the club?”
“Do I often get more fun out of the social side of football than the actual football?”
“What would I do if I lost that desire to go to games?”

I’ve stuck with it this season. It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve made mistakes along the way; maybe I came down on the wrong side of the AVB debate. Maybe I should have trusted the club more. Maybe I should have trusted the club less.

Questions. Questions.

Throughout it all, I’ve almost been expecting a cataclysmic event which might prompt me to take a step back and take a long look at it all; the obsession, the craziness, the support, the whole nine yards. Well, I needn’t have worried. The early season promise under AVB gave me hope. The CPO share offer galvanised our support and made me so proud to be a Chelsea supporter. I stuck with AVB and tried my very best to support him. I even tried to understand the forces at work within the camp which lead to a players’ revolt. It has been a crazy season but I’ve stuck with it.

And here we all are everyone. We are gasping from an incredible two week period, the like of which our football club has rarely seen before. Not only is this changing Chelsea team heading to Wembley for our fourth FA Cup Final in six seasons, but we are also heading to Munich for our second Champions League Final in five years.

It really is incredible.

Glenn collected me at 8.45am and was full of stories about local roads being flooded after the high rainfall and high winds which have battered this land of ours of late. Glenn collected Parky at 9.15am and we were London-bound. For the second successive Chelsea game, I was able to relax and have a few drinks before the game. Talk was of the two cup finals, but mainly of Munich. I get a deep warm glow just thinking about it. The traffic was atrocious nearing Hammersmith and Glenn wasn’t parked up until 11.45am. There was a sizeable line outside The Goose, awaiting the doors to open at midday. On the walk to the pub, a passing car had soaked us with water from a deep puddle in the road. I have no doubt the driver was a bitter Fulham fan. It was typical that my designated drinking day had coincided with only an hour’s worth of supping time. Oh well. After Tuesday, maybe it was just as well. Two lads from Bristol soon commented –

“You were pi55ed in Barcelona, weren’t ya?”

Guilty.

The whirlwind hour involved three pints of Peroni and a typically frantic period spent chatting to various mates. I chatted to Mike and Frank – my partners on that merry pre-match on Tuesday in Barcelona – and also several other NYBs. Some old friends, some new friends. Things were so rushed. It wasn’t as enjoyable as I had hoped due to the time constraints. I chatted briefly to my mates in The Bing and Munich was the centre of attention. Tell me if I am boring you. A few mates wryly commented that “we’re playing in the Cup Final in six days and yet everyone is talking about Munich.” In our parlance, there is still only one cup final that can rightly be called “the” Cup Final.

Alas, one friend was notable by his absence. On Saturday, Jesus had travelled back to his home on the Mexico / US border and he will be missed. He has enjoyed the time of his young life these past three months and I only wish he could have found a way to stay – and get tickets – for the two finals. I spoke to him on Friday and we planned to meet up at some juncture on the impending US Tour.

I left Parky at the bar to order “one last pint” and departed for The Bridge. The drizzle had continued but my main concern was getting in on time. At the bottom of the steps for the Matthew Harding Stand, the supporters were faced with a wait. Drat.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50846964697658

My watch was ticking. We had heard the last strains of “The Liquidator” and we then fell silent in the knowledge that we had missed the kick-off. It doesn’t happen very often.

Then, a roar out of nowhere and it was obvious that a goal had been scored. The noise, though, seemed relatively subdued and we all wondered if – horror! – the away fans were the ones celebrating. By the time I had reached my seat, I had heard the name “Sturridge” mentioned a few times and so I could relax. Phew.

Glenn was sat next to Alan and me again for the first time in ages and it felt right. I was keen to ask Alan if there had been any nonsense from Chelsea fans in the pre-game routines involving Anton Ferdinand. Thankfully, apart from a few schoolboy jeers, there was no racist stuff – implied or otherwise. Alan did say, though, that dear Anton made a point of jogging down to our corner and gesturing to the crowd. I guessed this was done to get a reaction, but nothing untoward apparently happened.

Top marks, Chelsea.

What then happened in that first half just typified our incredible self-confidence and joie de vivre at the present time. There had been talk in the pub of the derby with QPR being a massive let-down; the phrase “after the Lord Mayor’s Show” was used more than once. We couldn’t have been more wrong. What a goal fest in the rain. Fernando Torres loves the rain in April doesn’t he? He loves getting his socks grey with mud, he loves the puddles and he loves plundering goals against soon-to-be-relegated London rivals.

But first, a John Terry header, close in from a corner. John doesn’t miss from there. As he celebrated, running calmly towards us in the corner, he patted his chest and gestured to the adoring fans. I first took this to mean “calm down, don’t let the Anton Ferdinand stuff take over here” but it could just as easily have meant “so sorry for Barcelona – I can’t smile when I know I have let you down.” Maybe it was a mixture of the two.

And then, the Fernando Torres Show.

I was chatting to Alan about Munich (…sorry) during the sweet build up to our third goal. A sublime pass from Sturridge found an on-rushing Nando who adeptly rounded Paddy Kenny and slid the ball home. It was a super move and the crowd were in heaven. Soon after, an almighty faux-pas from Kenny presented Torres with a guilt-edged chance to score again. With a natural extension of his right leg, he whipped the ball into the net and we screamed once more. This time, The Kid celebrated down below…snap, snap, snap.

Chelsea 4 QPR 0 and only 25 minutes had been played.

The drizzle gave way to periods of sun…this was proving to be a lovely, lovely day.

At half-time, Neil Barnett paraded ex-Chelsea and Aston Villa player Kenny Swain to the four stands. Swain and I share something very special. On Saturday 16 march 1974, Ken Swain made his Chelsea debut as a substitute in the Newcastle United game. On that spring day over 38 years ago, I made my debut too. Swain was a good player for us, often playing upfront alongside Steve Finnieston in the 1976-1977 promotion campaign. He was latterly used at right back by Aston Villa, where he won back-to-back League Championship and European Cup medals. By the West Stand, Neil asked for all spectators to sit down and I wondered “where’s he going with this…” He announced that a Chelsea fan called Daniella from Ireland was on her hen party, dressed in a bridal gown, and asked her to stand up to receive some applause. She not only received some applause, but some choruses of “Celery” too.

As Neil led Ken Swain past the QPR fans, they typically shouted “Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?” and Neil, for once, was on the money –

“He’s won the European Cup – and you don’t know who he is? I don’t know…”

In the second-half, it was just a party. A further Torres goal was the icing on Daniella’s Wedding Cake. A fantastic ball from Mata was played into space and Torres nimbly timed his run to beat the offside trap. His slow and studied finish was a classic Torres goal and reminded me so much of his many strikes in Liverpool red. His celebrations took him on a run down past the inhabitants of Parky Land in the south-west corner.

Alan pointed towards Torres and said :

“See that monkey running down the tunnel? He’s just hopped off of Torres’ back.”

“That same monkey could have got a place in Geoff Hurst’s team, Al.”

“Blimey. Don’t mention Danny Blanchflower. He would have been captain.”

I howled with laughter.

By now, some of the Rangers fans had gone back to each others’ sisters houses in Ealing and Greenford. It was time for the songs to be sung –

“Anton – what’s the score?”

“We’re going to Germany – you’re going to Barnsley.”

“Fcuk off – to the Championship.”

“He’s got bird 5hit – on his head.”

“One di Matteo.”

Frank came in for a little stick as he took a succession of second-half corners, but he just seemed to be laughing. QPR tried to annoy him by suggesting that Christine Bleakley exhibited equine characteristics.

What a load of pony.

This was a great Chelsea performance on an energy-sapping pitch. Full marks to Michael Essien, who put in his best performance for ages. Credit too, for Jose Bosingwa who has found a new lease of life at centre-back. Alan couldn’t resist a laugh though –

“It looks like he’s marking the centre-forward, but his positional sense is so bad, he’s actually marking the left winger.”

The appearance as substitute of Sam Hutchinson provided another good news story on an enjoyable day in the Chelsea story of this season.

The last Chelsea goal was pummelled home by Florent Malouda.

Cisse – he of the ridiculous hair cut – nabbed a consolation goal and we even sarcastically applauded it.

Another Chelsea win, another three goals for Fernando Torres, another Blue Day.

Next Up : Newcastle on Wednesday, Liverpool on Saturday, Liverpool on Wednesday, Blackburn on Saturday, Bayern on Saturday…five games to go. The end is in sight, but let’s relish these moments. I know I said all of these things two years ago, but these really are the times of our life.

Let’s enjoy every minute of them.

Tales From The Miracle Men

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Barcelona vs. Chelsea : 24 April 2012.

Ahead of our game in Barcelona, despite our memorable first-leg win at Stamford Bridge, I was still not too confident of us progressing to the final. After weighing up all of the likely outcomes, I conservatively calculated that our chances of a game in Munich at no more than 25%. We had all seen the miracle at Stamford Bridge. A miracle at Camp Nou, too? I tried to be positive, but was fearful of retribuition on a seismic scale. Of course, Barca were wounded by their arch-rivals Real Madrid at the weekend. This made things worse – much worse – in my mind. Our boys, creaking two months ago, were in for a mammoth fight. I awoke at 3.30 am on Tuesday and tried not to think too much about the game later that day.

My flight was set to leave Bristol Airport at 6.55am and, although I left in good time, I think I broke the World land speed record on my drive up and over The Mendips. At Maesbury, a peacefully still white owl sat in the middle of the road and the sight was unnerving. I drove past, missing it by mere feet. It barely blinked as I passed. It’s face was peacefulness personified. In a shuddering moment, my imagination ran riot and I envisaged the owl thinking to itself –

“Turn back, fool. There is nothing for you in Barcelona.”

I had previously travelled to Italy for the Napoli game from Bristol, my most local airport. On that day in February, despite a later flight, the airport was deathly quiet. Only two other Chelsea supporters – Emma from Bridgewater and Tony from Westbury – were on that flight to Italy. Well, what a difference. The airport was teeming with travellers. I bumped into several Chelsea fans that I knew. However, the vast majority of Chelsea fans were unfamiliar. I heard Welsh voices and accents from the Home Counties.The signs were good; it seemed that we were travelling in formidable numbers. While I enjoyed a “Starbucks” coffee, I noted a famous face nearby; Andy Robinson, the former Bath and England rugby player, now the coach of Scotland. Unlike my chance encounter with Seb Coe on Saturday, a conversation with Robinson was never likely to happen. We had nothing in common, save for being at Bristol airport at the same time. If anything, this reinforced my thoughts about how easy it had been to strike up a Chelsea conversation with Coe three days earlier.

At the departure gate, a semi-familiar face told me that we had sold our full allocation of 4,500 tickets. We guessed that a thousand or two had been inspired by the first-leg win and had decided to travel en masse to Catalonia.

The flight left a little late at around 7.30am and I tried desperately to grab some sleep.

Past trips to Barcelona passed through my mind as we flew over France. I had previously visited Camp Nou on four other occasions.

July 1986 – I called in on Barcelona on one of my train-travelling extravaganzas during my college days. Paris to Biarritz to Barcelona and then on to Rome and Corfu. I spent a day in Barcelona and made a bee-line from the Sants station to the huge edifice of Camp Nou where I paid a few pesetas for a tour. It was all quite magnificent in my eyes. The steep stands were huge and Barca’s home was quite easily the most luxurious stadium in Europe. I was equally impressed with the huge trophy cabinet and the mini-stadium alongside.

September 1987 – Another year, another trip around Camp Nou, this time with two friends on another European adventure. Paris to Biarritz to Madrid (and the crumbling Bernabeu – nowhere near as impressive as it is now) to Barcelona and then on to Rome, Venice, Milan and Munich. Unknowingly, our visit coincided with the day that FCB chose to dispense with the services of manager Terry Venables.

April 2000 – Only 1,500 Chelsea fans were allowed to witness our CL Quarter-Final and I was one of them. I travelled out with Paul and Jonesy and we had a lovely time. Up in the very top of the Camp Nou that night – we were in the very back row – I watched the sun set against the backdrop of those hills to the west of the city. At the time, it was my most memorable Chelsea experience. We almost made it through when Tore Andre Flo made it 2-1 on the night (and 4-3 on aggregate) but a late FCB goal took us into extra-time before two other goals gave Barca a flattering 5-1 triumph. Roberto di Matteo was in our midfield on that night. When we silently descended from the dizzy heights of the stadium, I wondered if I would ever return with Chelsea. What a horrible defeat, but what an amazing experience.

February 2005 – Unlike in 2000, over 6,000 Chelsea fans were allowed access to our game against Barcelona in the oddly-named “round of 16.” We went in a large group; Daryl, Neil, Frankie Two-Times, Alan, Gary, Glenn and myself. We had a fantastic time. Glenn and I had bought tickets via a ticket agency when we expected only 1,500 tickets were going to be available. We watched from the middle tier, alongside Barca fans, behind the goal where Maxi Lopez and Samuel Eto’o gave the home side a narrow 2-1 win after none other than Juliano Beletti had gifted us an own goal. Glenn and I always remember that an elderly FCB fan reached over and prodded Glenn with his walking stick when their second goal was scored. He had a look of pure disdain for us two interlopers.

Since then, even more Barcelona vs. Chelsea games have taken place – the group phase game in 2006-2007 and the knock-out games in 2005-2006 and 2008-2009 – but I had not been tempted back. This time was different. I simply had to go.

I peered out of the window just as we were flying over the snow-capped Pyrenees. I had been warned that the weather on the Monday was cold and wet. Thankfully, I saw only blue skies. We landed in Girona at 9.45am and were soon heading towards the sprawling Catalan city of Barcelona on a transfer bus. I spoke excitedly with two friends from Bristol about plans for Munich.

Maybe. Just maybe.

The route in to the city took us past the F1 grand prix circuit and then the FC Espanyol training centre. We arrived at the Barcelona Nord bus station at 11.15am. I had spotted the surreal towers of Antonio Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia a mile or so to the north and so I headed straight towards it. I texted a former work colleague Oscar, who I was meeting for lunch, and he texted back to say “take your time and see you at 12.30pm.”

I spent a blissful hour outside the magnificent cathedral and went predictably mad with my camera. Every footstep, a different viewpoint. The sun was warming the air and I was regretting the warm jacket I was wearing. I didn’t spot a single Chelsea supporter, but is this any real surprise? Along with The Ramblas, the harbour and Parc Guell, the cathedral is one of the main city sightseeing hotspots. Most Chelsea fans would have already visited it in 2000 or 2005 or 2006 or 2009.

Oscar arrived at 12.30pm and we drove into the heart of the city. We both used to work for the same company but had never met; we stayed in contact over the years through our shared love of football and the almost fateful way in that UEFA continuously threw our clubs together. I was able to witness the fluid form of two more Gaudi buildings before Oscar treated me to a fantastic meal at Citrus, a modern restaurant on one of the main thouroughfares. Seafood ravioli and then veal escalopes, washed down with the first two beers of the day. Superb. We spoke about various subjects, but football dominated. I spoke of Villas-Boas, of Abramovich, of di Matteo, of the CPO. Oscar explained how he thinks that Pep Guardiola’s days as manager of FCB are coming to an end. Guardiola is not obsessed about football in the same way that Mourinho is. He is a cultured political man, with many varied interests outside of Barcelona football. But Oscar hinted that he is seeking a fresh challenge; away from the FCB goldfish bowl. A new challenge, eh? It got me thinking. I suggested to Oscar that he would be crazy to leave Barcelona, but who knows? Oscar tellingly said that the president of Barcelona’s grandchild goes to the same school as his child and that the talk among (in Oscar’s words) “the mamas and the papas” at the school is that Pep will leave Camp Nou at the end of the season.

I had easily dismissed the chance of the sophisticated Guardiola taking over the reigns at Stamford Bridge. After my meal with Oscar in the heart of Barcelona, I am not so sure.

Oscar dropped me off at my hotel near the Sants train station. Before we said our goodbyes, he told me that “if you win tonight, you must promise me to beat Madrid in Munich.”

I soon met up with two good friends, Mike and Frank – from NYC – who were also staying in the Expo Hotel. We spent a few moments on the hotel roof terrace where the city sprawled all the way around us. To the north-east, the new Torre Agbar, a skyscraper which is very similar to London’s Gherkin. To the south-east, the hill of Montjuic, where the Olympic Stadium from 1992 stands behind the palace. FC Espanyol, the second team in Barcelona, no longer play at the stadium and now reside to the south. It’s all about Madrid in Barcelona; FC Espanyol are a hindrance to Barca, not a rival. Did somebody mention Fulham and Chelsea? To the west, the top of the Camp Nou east stand was just visible, though not as dominant as might be expected. Like many stadia, the pitch is below street level and although cavernous inside, the stadium is quite unobtrusive from the exterior. To the west and north, the hills which circle the city.

We caught a cab down to the area at the base of the famous Ramblas, which is overlooked by the statue of Christopher Columbus pointing to the sea.

From 4.30pm to 7.30pm, we had the time of our lives. We bought cans of Estrella from harbourside kiosks and wandered past the marina, chatting away about the great Chelsea obsession. Fellow fans were occasionally spotted. The skies were clear, there was an onshore breeze and the early-evening ambience was superb; in truth,we all wanted time to stand still.

Walking with good friends in a foreign city, drinking and laughing, why do we have to ruin it by going to a game? Let’s suspend time. No need to play the game. We’ll always be in the semi-finals. No need to worry. Forever in Europe, forever on tour.

It was a quite brilliant hour or so.

We briefly joined up with a few friends who had gathered with around five hundred Chelsea fans in a small square outside “Flaherty’s” bar. Chelsea flags were pinned to walls, shirts were worn around waists, songs were sung. There was no feeling of malice, just a good buzz. I had no doubt that all of the 4,500 tickets on offer had been picked up by Chelsea loyalists from all stations east, west, north and south. Although Frank, Mike and I had not spoken about the match at all, deep down my feeings of doubt about our progress to the final were being eroded by the site of all the blue-clad hordes. However, the lines for beer inside the bar were ridiculous, so we made the quick decision to vacate the area and find somewhere with more character, a little more sedate and with a little less people. We soon found a superb little bar on Las Ramblas and dived in. Several pints of San Miguel and a few shots for good measure, too. To my amazement, it was only 6pm. Plenty of time. More beers, please.

A group of old school Chelsea faces joined us and the merriment continued, with obscure songs being sung and jokes exchanged. Frank had met some of the chaps at the tapas bar on the Kings Road a year or so ago. Frank, who has an infectious character, seemed bewildered that he should know somebody in a foreign city. I assured him that this was quite normal when supporting Chelsea. Frank was full of praise of the New York chapter and even uttered the immortal words –

“This club has changed my life.”

The beers were going down well and I was enjoying being able to relax without the worry of having to drive home. I was unleashed and on the lash.

Still no talk of the game though.

“The first rule of fight club is that no one talks about fight club.”

I sent a text out –

“A toast to absent friends.”

It was time to move. We hopped into a cab and were on our way to Camp Nou. Despite an attendance of almost 100,000 assembling, we found it easy to enter. I lost contact with Frank and Mike but bumped into a few familiar faces. Looking out on the streets below, an old friend Mark commented –

“Fucking hell – I’ve been here more times than Reading.”

I made my way inside the very top tier, way up in the heavens. To be honest, Camp Nou is beyond words. It is quite phenomenal. I took my place alongside thousands of others and tried my best to concentrate. I have rarely had more than three pints at games this season but I had certainly made up for it in Catalonia. The mixture of alcohol and the incredible sense of occasion was making me light-headed. The view below me – way below me – was breathtaking.

The sun began to set to the west. The lights of the city were flickering. I was part of the stadium, but part of the city at the same time. We were on the very rim of the massive bowl, able to peer in, able to peer out.

It reminded me of my feelings in 2000.

“There ain’t no better place to watch a game anywhere, Chris.”

During the period leading up to the entrance of the teams, I tried to juggle my two cameras and my mobile phone, throwing out texts to friends near and far, taking video-film of the crowd, taking photos of the sun disappearing from view, taking photos of the multi-tiered Barca fans. That beer was taking hold and I was finding it hard to concentrate.

“You give me beer, you give me ten flights of stairs to walk up, you put me on the edge of a precipice, you put me among four thousand noisy fans, you make the pitch so small, you make the players so small and you want me to concentrate?”

It seemed an impossible task.

And yet, the photos were taken. The shots of the Catalan flags being waved frantically by the thousands upon thousands of Barca fans. The video film of the Barca club anthem.

“Blaugrana al vent.
Un crit valent.
Tenim un nom, el sap tothom.
Barça!, Barça!, Barça!”

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v…type=2&theater

The team line-ups. The mountains. The inside. The out. The up. The down.

Oh boy.

There were no surprises in the manager’s choice of players for this game. It was the team that had performed so resolutely at The Bridge less than a week previously.

The first part of the match involved me taking yet more photos, sending and receiving yet more texts and trying my utmost to try to stay with the game. We were so ridiculously high up that I had might as well have been watching from the moon. By the time I had managed to focus on the game down below me, we had lost Gary Cahill. This was not a good start. The Barcelona players swarmed around the Chelsea penalty area and the white defenders scrambled to keep close to the raiding attackers. Messi, who had already slashed a shot against the side netting, was again the centre of our attentions.

Fabregas set up Messi with a delightful back-heal, but the little man’s shot was blocked by Petr Cech’s outstretched leg.

But, way up in the lofty heights, I was struggling. The alcohol was now taking grip and I soon realised that – as I tried to stay with the movement of the players – I was seeing double. I squinted to focus on the Chelsea players, but as soon as I relaxed, we suddenly had 22 players on the pitch.

No wonder Barcelona were unable to break us down.

A couple of Drogba half chances gave us hope. However, a typical Barca move with the ball being zipped around the box, ended in Busquets giving the ball a gentle prod from close in. The Barca fans, who had been pretty quiet, awoke with rapturous acclaim.

Then, madness. Did we see John Terry’s foul? No, of course not. I was even struggling to see anything. Our captain was dismissed and a series of texts from England and America were full of disdain. My friend Glenn, watching at home in Frome, explained that he had knee’d Alexis Sanchez in the back of the leg. The away section was stunned. We were punished almost immediately as Messi played in Iniesta, the demon from 2009, to calmly slot home from an angle.

Things were desperate.

That 25% chance of reaching Munich was appearing to be blindingly astute.

We were at a low ebb, but were soon to be cheered. Frank Lampard played a perfectly-weighted ball through for the rampaging Ramires. It seemed impossible that we would be rewarded with a goal-scoring chance so soon after conceding again. The whole Chelsea section strained to watch as Ramires pushed the ball once and then lobbed Valdes with a breathtaking chip. I was right behind the flight of the ball and I gasped as I saw the ball drop into the waiting net.

We were soon jumping around like fools. The terraces were steep with individual barriers and it was a good job. Oh, how we celebrated. The buzz at half-time was superb.

We were losing 2-1 in Barcelona but, with a precious away goal, we were ahead overall.

I met up with Jonesy – the same Jonesy who had been with me at the 5-1 defeat some twelve years previously – and his mate Neil, both from Nuneaton. Their smiles lit up the dark Catalonia sky.

The match re-started and there was more drama. I must admit to not witnessing the foul by Didier which lead to the penalty decision. I was probably texting somebody or taking yet another photo of the packed terraces below me. I did, however, gather my senses in order to take a photo of Lionel Messi’s penalty attempt.

Snap.

I saw the ball fly high and up onto the bar and away. The Chelsea crowd uttered a guttural roar once again.

Maybe the footballing Gods were on our side after all.

Our support grew louder with each minute. The texts from home continued to fly in to my phone. There was a growing sense of belief among us all. The remainder of the game was a further blur. Chelsea defended deep and with a passion which was quite amazing to witness at first hand. Our belligerent players must have frustrated every Barca attacker. They came at us in waves, but our players matched them. It seemed that every shot was blocked.

A rare Lampard corner, around three miles below me, was directed towards the strong leap of Ivanovic and our great Serbian should have scored with his header. It was to be a very rare threat on Valdes’ goal.

Fernando came on for Didier.

Late on, Barcelona managed to get the ball in our goal. To my great pleasure, the majority of the 95,000 crowd had failed to see the bright yellow of the linesman’s flag signalling “offside.” Luckily for me – and my heart – I had spotted it early. A Messi shot scraped the near post. The home fans only had one song – the club anthem – and we all sensed they were not helping to support their team. The spectators grew edgier, the Barca players grew frustrated and it was a beautiful feeling.

We were almost there.

The clock kept ticking.

“Come on boys, hold on.”

Then, a Barca attack broke and the ball was cleared upfield. Miraculously – and it was a miracle – Fernando Torres had decided to drift upfield when he perhaps ought to have held further back. He controlled the ball as it fell at his feet and the Chelsea fans were all eyes.

The lone figure of Torres, with nobody in pursuit, set off.

We inhaled.

Our eyes bulged.

We watched.

Torres took a touch past Valdes and slotted the ball home.

Pandemonium in Catalonia.

I do not know if the tears were immediate or if they came when the final whistle was blown.

Again – a blur. A big blue beautiful blur.

Way atop the Camp Nou, over four thousand Chelsea fans were roaring and singing like never ever before. Down below, the minuscule heroes in white came towards us. I soon met up with Jokka, Jonesy and Neil, Neil’s brother Nigel. We hugged and we laughed.

“How did we do that?”

“Best away game ever, Jonesy – best away game EVER.”

The texts came in. Not just from fellow blues, but from Liverpool fans, Manchester United fans, Cardiff City fans, Frome Town fans, Juventus fans, Sheffield United fans, Barcelona fans…

It was too much. I probably made a fool of myself for a few seconds, but I was wailing with joy. I didn’t care. I wasn’t the only one. How long were we kept inside the stadium? I have no idea. The songs were never-ending, but one was sung continually –

“Che sera sera.
Whatever will be will be.
We’re going to Germany.
Che sera sera.”

The Chelsea songbook got a great airing.

“He scores when he wants, he scores when he wants. Fernando Torres – he scores when he wants.”

“We’re not going home, we’re not going home, we’re not going, we’re not going, we’re not going home.”

We then sang the “One Step Beyond / Nutty Boys In Barcelona Mix.”

As we descended the many concrete steps down to street level, I bumped into complete strangers,old friends, good mates and many many more. It did not matter. We were all together. That walk out of Camp Nou – blissful, euphoric but still full of wide-eyed wonder and disbelief – will live with me forever. I dropped into a bar and then caught a cab back to the hotel, where I was soon joined by a clearly euphoric Frank and Mike. I am sure we could have stayed there all night, but – unlike the current Chelsea team – I knew my limits.

After the briefest of sleeps, the alarm sounded at 6.30am and I was soon up and away, on the bus to Girona and on the plane home. Thoughts were scrambling around in my poor head in an attempt to rationalise what I had witnessed in Catalonia. And then there were thoughts of how best to tackle the problem of getting to Munich for the final on May 19th.

Nobody need worry. After a frantic hour or so, I booked flights for myself and my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn – who I first started going to Chelsea with in the autumn of 1983 – to take us from Bristol to Prague in the Czech Republic on the Friday. We will then take a train to Munich on the day of the game. The last game of the season, the last kick of the ball…

“…we’re going to Germany…che sera sera.”

Tales From The Villa

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 31 March 2012.

As I drove north on The Fosseway, past the towns of Malmesbury and Cirencester, I admitted to Parky that I was finding it hard to get “up” for the league game at Villa. What with our extended runs in the Champions League and the F.A. Cup this season, I have a feeling that if the Chelsea section of my brain was to be analysed, it would show something like this, as of the morning of Saturday 31st. March 2012 –

Champions League 50%
F.A. Cup 40%
Premiership 10%

But that is not to say that I always rate these three competitions in this manner; far from it in fact. Given the choice of one trophy each season, I would always choose the domestic league. Why wouldn’t I? I spend countless days following Chelsea’s pursuit of league points throughout the season. It’s just that as we are at such an advanced stage in both of these tough cup competitions, it is only natural for me to devote more thoughts to these two trophies. Or more importantly, if the truth be known, not the matches at all, but the whole”Chelsea-Matchgoing Experience” for the games in those competitions.

Firstly, let’s think about the F.A. Cup. Daryl kindly bought tickets for a few of us on Friday so that we can all sit together on that Sunday in April. All of us want to expunge the sour memory of the 2008 Carling Cup final from our minds. Thoughts of the pre-match at a sun-drenched Duke Of York near Marylebone and then a game against the team I like to beat most (well, them and United, it’s a tough call.)

Then we have the return leg against the eagles of Benfica on Wednesday. That promises to be another superb night of European football at The Bridge (and let’s not mess it up, eh Chelsea?). Should we be successful, we will then reach our sixth CL semi-final since 2004. That’s an amazing achievement, isn’t it? For all the new fans out there, you are lucky beggars. It took us 49 years for us to reach our first CL semi-final (Monaco, 2004) and we have reached four more (Liverpool, 2005, Liverpool 2007, Liverpool 2008 and Barcelona 2009) since then. It is no wonder that my head is full-to-bursting with European day-dreams. Should we put Benfica to the sword, we meet the favoured Barcelona or the under-dogs Milan. To that end, I have gambled on a cheap flight to Barcelona from Bristol; just £28. It would, as they say, be rude not to.

The weather was overcast as I headed north on the M5. Parky wisely commented that the colour of the sky blended in seamlessly with the colour of the road ahead. Only the occasional blush of gold from roadside daffodils and forsythia added the slightest hint of colour to the view.

Villa, eh?

I was well aware of our recent poor run of form against them. Since our classic 3-0 win at Villa Park in the Spring of 1999, we had won just once; Guus Hiddink’s first game in charge on a ridiculously warm and sunny day in March three years ago. I had been present at both of those games, but for many years, the thought of visiting Villa Park did nothing for me. From 1995 to around 2005, I only used to be able to afford to go to around 6 away games each season. I would rotate the grounds I visited, but would tend to steer clear of Villa Park. Sure, our record wasn’t great there, but I am not a fan of Birmingham in general. From March 1999 to January 2007, I only visited Villa Park once – a 2-1 loss in 2003. One of the worst ever Chelsea performances I can remember took place at Villa Park, too; a 3-0 defeat just after Christmas in 1994. Driving home that night, the rain lashing against the windscreen, my friend Glenn fell asleep in the back of my car. I always remember him waking from a dream in which he had witnessed Paul Furlong paying the ultimate price for a dreadful performance by being guillotined.

This would be my thirteenth visit to Villa; we had only won three of the previous twelve games. I guess this is the real reason for my ambivalence to visiting the place.

And yet, Villa Park is a grand dame amongst football stadia. Aston Villa were formed in 1874 and have played at Villa Park since 1897. When I first became entranced by football in the early ‘seventies, Villa were a third division club and were off the radar. They rose through the league system and were promoted to the top flight – alongside Manchester United – in 1975. They won the league under the stern authoritarian reign of Ron Saunders in 1981, famously using a first team squad of just fourteen (yes, fourteen) players. They won the European Cup the following year. They were a good, if not great, team, playing a very British system, full of tough-tackling midfielders like Dennis Mortimer and were spearheaded by the twin strike force of Peter Withe and Gary Shaw. At right back was ex-Chelsea midfielder Kenny Swain (whose league debut I witnessed in my very first Chelsea game in 1974.)

I remember my grandfather saying that he followed – though with not the passion of his only grandson – Aston Villa and Newcastle United in his youth. I have a feeling that Villa was his first love, with Newcastle only gaining his attention via a family friend – a local vicar – who resided for many years in Newcastle. I know that he once visited Stamford Bridge, the only football stadium he remembered visiting, when he was a young man. I begged him to tell me more of this sole visit, but his memories of that one game were not great. He went with his great friend Ted Knapton, but that is all he knew. I like to think that both of them visited Stamford Bridge for the Aston Villa vs. Huddersfield Town Cup Final at Stamford Bridge in 1920. There is every chance that this could be the case; both of them (they were both called Ted) were stars of the village football and cricket teams. As was the way in days of yore, county football associations would always get tickets for the F.A. Cup Final and I like to think that in 1920, the name of Mells & Vobster United was drawn out of the hat and the two stalwarts of my village’s sporting scene were justly rewarded. Apart from a win in 1957, that victory in 1920 was Aston Villa’s last F.A. Cup triumph.

We were parked up at around 12.45pm and the two of us spent ninety minutes in a relatively quiet pub a mile to the north of Villa Park. The “Crown & Cushion” allegedly used to be one of the Villa firm’s main pubs back in the rough-and-tumble of the ‘eighties. We have never experienced trouble there, though there is no doubt that Parky and I were the only away fans present. The pub is run by West Indians and the menu behind the bar detailed such delights as jerk chicken, mutton stew, ackee and saltfish and the like. Parky and I were not tempted. We decided to stick with pints of Kronenburg 1664 amidst talk of plans for upcoming Chelsea matches. Parky reminded me that his daughter Jade once played as a goalkeeper in one of the Aston Villa women’s teams a few years back. She lives in nearby Tamworth.

Parky shot off inside the away end while I spent twenty minutes or so taking a few shots of the area by the Trinity Road stand. Much to many Villa fans – and certainly my – consternation, the original Trinity Road, complete with red brick façade and Edwardian towers and gables, was demolished in around 1999 and was replaced by a hulking mass of steel-cladding and little charm. Part of the stand now runs over the road which it gives it its name; the tunnel is not on the same scale as at Atletico Madrid’s stadium, but is a unique feature in the UK. One of these days I will visit the red brick Aston Hall, which resides atop the park to the south of Villa Park. Outside the stadium, there was the usual hustle and bustle of a match day which I find so beguiling even after all these years. A Villa fanzine seller was vitriolic in his comments about current Villa manager Alex McLeish. At centre-stage in front of the stand was a simple statue of a bearded man, who I knew to be the former Aston Villa chairman who helped form the Football League in 1888.

His name was William McGregor and I guess we owe him an awful lot.

As I re-traced my steps towards the away entrance on Witton Lane, I heard the chants from opposing fans.

Chelsea : “One team in Europe, there’s only one team in Europe.”

Aston Villa : “Have you won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup?”

I made it inside the upper tier seats with only a few minutes to spare. I was alongside Alan and Gary, high above Parky and others in the lower tier. If I am honest, I am still getting used to the new 4-2-3-1 formation, but it is one that I have long admired. I seem to remember Liverpool using it well a few years back. No need to guess who the “1” was in that team.

What a crazy game. We should have been well clear at the interval and Fernando Torres could easily have bagged a hat-trick. He has endured the most awful luck in our colours, but as Alan said, we would rather he was getting himself in positions to miss rather than not getting into positions in the first place.

An early Torres chance was spurned but then a cross from Ashley Cole found the on-rushing Juan Mata. He aimed for Torres, but his shot from close in was inevitably blocked. It fell to Daniel Sturridge who poked home. A long distance blooter from Mikel was slightly deflected and was saved by Shay Given. Soon after, Mata delicately lofted the ball goal wards but the ball hit the base of the far post.

On 19 minutes, the home fans stood and clapped in order to show solidarity with the Villa captain Stiliyan Petrov, diagnosed with leukaemia just 24 hours previously. We soon joined in. I honestly wonder why people are surprised to see how football fans behave at moments such as these; we’re not animals, you know.

We had impressive ball retention and occasional chances; we were clearly the better team. The Villa fans were very quiet and there were gaps in the Holte End and the Trinity Road. Villa Park usually hosts full-houses. Seeing so many empty seats was a new experience. The Chelsea fans taunted the gaggle of noisy youngsters in the North Stand –

“Your ground’s too big for you.”

They responded –

“If Torres scores, we’re on the pi55.”

Despite our superior play, Villa had a few late chances as the first-half ended. Sturridge lost possession deep in our half and Cech did well to save a shot from Agbonlahor with his foot. The ball flew up against the bar and we exhaled a collective “phew.” Luiz was replaced by Gary Cahill just before the break.

We all agreed that we should have been well ahead during the interval chat amongst friends. A few mates from Nuneaton called by; they had gambled on flights to Barcelona too. Nuneaton is only 25 miles away from Villa Park and Andy was dreading anything but a Chelsea victory.

“All my mates are Villa – maybe a few West Brom, a few Blues, but out of 100, maybe 70 are Villa.”

I love info like this. I love the changing face of football support throughout the UK. In my home area, Newcastle United fans were very rare as a child, but they are one of the top ten supported teams in the Frome area of late.

The second-half was a corker; a roller-coaster of emotion, a classic game of heart-in-mouth football. A Mata corner was poked home by Ivanovic and it was plain sailing. Torres headed over and the Villa fans were sniggering again. They were roaring soon after as two goals in quick succession brought the score, incredibly, ridiculously, level at 2-2.

We stood in silent disbelief, but the other stands were roaring. I will not lie when I say that the Holte End did not utter a single audible song during the entire first-half. Once their second goal was scored, though, the noise was very impressive. A flare was thrown on to the pitch from the unruly home section down below me. Its sulphurous aroma permeated the early evening air.

Chelsea responded again.

Another corner on the opposite side, this time for the substitute Malouda, was flicked on by Torres just as I snapped by camera…the ball ricocheted to the lurking Ivanovic and he reacted very well to guide the ball in, past Given.

We roared – and with more intensity than with the first two goals.

Then, a Villa move broke down and the ball was moved quickly to Studge. We all saw Torres breaking to his right and we begged for Studge to release the ball. Thankfully, the ball was played with perfect pace.

One touch, moving the ball on, then a low strike past Given and the net bulged.

We roared again – and it was undoubtedly the noisiest exclamation of support from our packed section of the Witton End all day. Torres reeled away and was mobbed by players. I roared and then gathered my senses to record the celebrations on film.

Superb.

I commented to Gary that the Torres goal was just like the ones he used to dispatch with aplomb for Liverpool; head up, laces through the ball, utmost confidence, the ball in the net before the ‘keeper was able to move.

At the final whistle, the Chelsea fans were exuberant and it wasn’t long before our number nine was serenaded.

And quite rightly, too.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50768850082658

I’ve been present at all the games in which Torres has scored; I guess I’m not the only one, but I have a sneaking feeling I will be a little sad when this record comes to an end. Wink.

I hope he starts on Wednesday.

Tales From Team Torres

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 18 March 2012.

I awoke on Sunday, fearing the news. I was obviously concerned about the awful episode involving Fabrice Muamba at White Hart Lane but I had also heard on Saturday that one of my favourite uncles – Ken, from Vancouver – was also poorly. I gingerly flipped the computer on, waited for the gears to whirl into action and sat still. Thankfully, no news was definitely good news. However, there was a certain low-lying fog, not outside, but in my mind, as I scrambled a few things together ahead of my third trip to London in nine days. I was clearly finding it difficult to garner massive amounts of enthusiasm for this third game of the week. After the euphoria of Wednesday, I suppose that this was only natural. Just before I left for London, I quickly checked on the CIA website to see what was being said about the game with Leicester City.

Oh. There wasn’t a thread about the match.

I tut-tutted to myself and departed.

Parky could tell I was a little bit low as I collected him at just after 9am. He started cursing me, I replied similarly and, by the time we had stopped off for our usual McBreakfast in Melksham, things had been restored to their normal equilibrium.

Parky talking, Chris driving.

Despite a little delay due to a road accident near Swindon, it was a decent drive up to London. Tuna – from Atlanta – was over for the week and was soon in touch. It’s always a pleasure to see him at HQ. Tuna plays a special role in my gradually evolving relationship with the burgeoning American fan base; he was, as I remember it, the first Chelsea fan in America I remember meeting at my first ever game in Pittsburgh in 2004. On that trip, I spent the day with friends from North Carolina and didn’t really mix with any Chelsea fans at all. In fact, to be honest, there weren’t many Chelsea fans present at Heinz Field for that match against Roma. Even the main Chelsea section only housed around 150. We watched behind one of the goals, in the front row, and if only I’d known how some of those Chelsea fans along the side would become friends over the following few years.

At the end of the game, as we were walking underneath the stands, Tuna saw my Chelsea shirt and spoke to me. At the time, I wasn’t sure if he was an Englishman with an American accent, or an American putting on an English accent.

I’m still not sure.

I bumped into Tuna again in New York the following summer, but I still wasn’t familiar with too many of the fans Stateside. It was only when I joined up to CIA ahead of the Chicago trip in 2006, did I start to make major in roads into putting names to all of those faces. It has been a great ride ever since.

The coffee was going down well and the banter was flying as we headed into Berkshire. With mild weather forecasted, we were both in our summer gear.

Lacoste Watch

Parky – purple
Chris – chocolate

With the chat finally stalling, Parky put a Jam CD in the CD player and the volume was cranked up. I have mentioned it before, but no band takes me back to my youth – of Chelsea trips in particular – like the Jam, in that 1978 to 1980 period especially. Working class heroes, singing about urban angst, the Jam struck a chord like no other band and were much loved by the football fraternity in that period.

“the distant echo of faraway voices boarding faraway trains to take them home to the wives that they love and who love them forever.”

As I rose above the streets of west London on the raised section of the M4 motorway, memories of my childhood raced through my mind. My Dad used to take me up to London for matches at The Bridge from 1974 to 1980; by the time his car reached this section, my excitement reached stratospheric levels. Each few yards of tarmac throws up tons of memories…a massive traffic jam caused by Southampton fans on their way to Wembley on League Cup Final day 1979 when we got to Chelsea just in time for the kick-off, tooting the car horn after promotion in 1984, the first sighting of the Griffin Park floodlights to the right, the massive Chelsea / Adidas advertisement on a building in 2006, the Wembley arch to the left way in the distance, the famous Lucozade sign to the left, the old art deco Beechem building to the right, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin, The Shard in the distance, the grey hulk of Earls Court…Chelsea tantalisingly close now.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v…type=2&theater

This section of the M4, as it rises and turns, always gets my blood pumping. Long may it continue.

Straight into The Goose at just before midday. The place was again rather quiet. Talk amongst my mates was mainly of the Benfica away game. As always, Rob seemed to have the best prices. I think he must have easyJet’s flight schedules from Stanstead and Gatwick memorised by now. I had a nice chat with The Fishy Boy, who is around for the games against City and Spurs, too. We chatted about mutual friends, the upcoming tour, and the CPO debacle. Everything but the game. You know the score.

Jonesy and Jokka mentioned our game in New York in the summer and I am hopeful that they will be joining me. A couple of pints of Peroni and it was soon time to head off to The Bridge.

I quickly bought a copy of “CFCUK” and the match programme. I noted that “CFCUK’ had an extra “Sheditorial” as the original was written just before AVB got the “Spanish Fiddler” two week’s ago. On page 41 of the programme, there is a lovely photo of none other than Cathy, with Roberto di Matteo, on the occasion of her fiftieth birthday. There was a large article about the 1997 F.A. Cup Final (thank you Robbie), but only a fleeting mention (in Johnny Vaughan’s column) about the iconic Chelsea vs. Leicester City replay (thank you Erland) in the fifth round that season. That was some night.

I did my usual “check the East Upper for empty seats” routine when I reached the entrance to the MHU. Yep, there were hundreds empty in the corners. I had heard that tickets were still being sold to personal callers in the morning. Away to my right, the 6,000 away fans were already ensconced in The Shed.

So, a question to Mr. Buck and Mr. Gourlay.

On the back of our best performance of the season against Napoli, how come we can’t sell 35,000 tickets at only £30 a pop for the quarter finals of the F.A. Cup?

And you say we have out-grown Stamford Bridge?

Think again.

I received a text from Tuna, who was watching in the MHU too…

“What’s with all the empty seats in the East Upper?”

Just before the teams came onto the pitch, I looked on with glee as the “upper tier” flag continued on past Gate 16, then Gate 17 and into the upper tier of the East Stand. It appeared to be seeking freedom as it went on unhindered, over the heads of the spectators who are not usually troubled by it. I quickly sent out a quick text to Steve and Daz, who are usually trusted to gather up the flag in the NE corner of the upper tier.

“Where’s that fcuking flag gone?”

It finally came to rest at the southern end of the upper tier.

It reminded me of the original “Pride of London” flag which made its debut at a game before the Chelsea vs. Wolves F.A. Cup quarter final some 18 years ago. On that day, it began in The Shed and ended up travelling over the heads of us in the West Stand. At the end of that particular game, the flag ended up on the pitch, along with thousands of ecstatic Chelsea fans, enjoying the thrill of our first F.A Cup semi final in 24 years. I remember that Glenn and I ended up on the pitch on that Sunday afternoon in March 1994; it was the day that “The Blue Flag” really came into its own too.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley, We’ll Keep The Blue Flag Flying High.”

With F.A. Cup semi-finals coming to us in 1996, 1997, 2000, 2002, 2006, 2007, 2009 and 2010, I acknowledged the fact that a return to Wembley in April would be met with hardly a raised eyebrow, let alone mass hysteria and a pitch invasion.

This is how far we have travelled and – I’ll be honest – it saddens me to the core that I will probably never again be as excited at reaching a semi-final as I did all those years ago in 1994.

The game was over as early as the twentieth minute really. Chelsea got out of the blocks and had a couple of early chances. A Juan Mata corner dropped into the six yard box and Gary Cahill rose to head down and in for his first goal in Chelsea colours. He decided to race past the silent away supporters and head towards the family section in the East Lower. Not many goals are celebrated in that area of the stadium; I hope that the inhabitants of that section took a few rare photos.

A shot by Juan Mata was cleared off the line. Fernando Torres showed great skill and awareness by breaking down the right before looking up and playing in Salomon Kalou, who painstakingly waited for the ‘keeper to move before slotting the ball past him. We all commented how cool a finish it was from the much-maligned Kalou. Further chances came from a Daniel Sturridge shot, a Torres header at the ‘keeper and a Torres shot which was saved. After a lovely piece of play by Gary Cahill, Alan commented –

“Gary Cahill is the nearest to JT we’ve had down here since Wayne Bridge’s ex-girlfriend.”

We were well on top to be honest, despite a few Leicester attempts on our goal.

At the break, I had a few words with the chap who was sat alongside Alan. Gordon was from Yeovil, a fellow Somerset fan, and knew of a few of the local lads who I used to occasionally meet up with on the Yeovil supporters’ coach in the mid-‘eighties; all of whom still go, but I’ve not seen them for ages. The midfield dynamo of that mid-‘eighties team, Johnny B, was on the pitch with Neil Barnett, at the break. I never tire of seeing these Chelsea heroes of my youth.

Attacking the Matthew Harding stand, we were rewarded with a flurry of chances down below us. Florent Malouda had replaced Juan Mata and forced Kasper Schmeichel to save down low. Unselfish play from Torres set up Studge, but he was annoyingly dispossessed after hanging onto the ball for an eternity. Studge was having one of those games. Torres then moved the ball nicely, but his shot was blocked.

Michael Essien replaced Kalou and a goal soon followed. After a great performance against Napoli on Wednesday, Torres had been the star attraction against Leicester. Meireles cleverly set up Torres who quickly and nimbly struck a shot goalwards. At last, he endured a little good fortune; the shot was not cleanly struck but just made it over the line, just inside the post, just beyond the despairing dive of Schmeichel Junior.

At last. His latest goal drought was over. Phew.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley, We’ll Keep The Blue Flag Flying High.”

A firm shot from Nando flew over the bar just after.

At the other end, the visitors forced a great save from Petr Cech. Then a shot from Dann ricocheted off the base of the post and Beckford slotted the ball in. There was a little anxiety in the Chelsea ranks.

David Luiz replaced Brana.

I took a photo of Raul Meireles as he clipped in an in swinging corner towards the near post. Who should be there to meet it, but the blond head of Fernando Torres. We looked on in amazement as the ball bounced down and in. This time, the celebrations were down below me.

Click, click, click, click, click, click.

I missed the second goal from the visitors; I am reliably informed it was a scorcher.

With everyone in the stadium begging for Torres to shoot once he dribbled free, he unselfishly set up his compatriot Meireles, who slotted the ball in past the off-balance ‘keeper.

5-2.

Get in.

On the drive home, news came through of our semi-final opponents. On a normal day, the chance of us playing Tottenham at Wembley would have elicited more of an emotional response. However, with the Tottenham / Bolton tie still undecided and clouded in doubt and possible sadness, I did not dwell too long on potential match-ups and possible days in the sun.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Fernando Torres

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Tales From A New Dawn

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Tales From Munich : Part Two – Arms Were Linked

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Tales From The Miracle Men

Tales From The Villa

Tales From Team Torres