Tales From The Sunny Side Of The Street

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Swansea City : 24 September 2011.

This was another home win and a further step in the redevelopment of the new Chelsea. It was a lovely day out in London Town, with friends old and new. A great Chelsea Saturday, in fact.

I had a later start than usual, picking up Glenn in Frome at 9.30am and Lord Parky in Holt at 10am. Knowing that our pre-match would be squeezed, we had a McBreakfast on the hoof and I made good time as I headed east. I passed a few Swansea City cars on the way. This would be my first ever sighting of Swansea at a Chelsea game. Our two paths haven’t crossed in any competition since that memorable 1983-1984 season, that most beloved of seasons from our past.

As I have mentioned before, for some reason, season 1981-1982 has been in my thoughts recently. I always remember our opening game in that season was a 2-0 win against Bolton, but the biggest news story on that day was newly-promoted Swansea’s 5-1 annihilation of Leeds United. I can still picture the mixed emotions of the two sets of fans on that blisteringly hot day at the Vetch Field. Swansea’s big win definitely got a loud cheer in The Shed that afternoon. I became good friends with a Leeds fan at college, who had travelled down to South Wales on that day and he told me that it was one of his worst ever days as a Leeds fan. Leeds took thousands down and I can still see the silent and shocked reactions of the Yorkshire hordes every time Swansea scored. Swansea, in fact, finished in second place in the old first division in 1981-1982 – an amazing achievement – but were then relegated in 1982-1983. We met in 1983-1984, but our paths then took very different directions. I actually saw Swansea at Yeovil in 2005 – a Yeovil team which included JT’s brother Paul – and for the best part of the past thirty years, they have been mired in the bottom two divisions. Credit to them for clawing their way back to the top flight.

Glenn and Parky darted off inside The Goose, but I had other plans. I raced down the North End Road as I had friends to meet down at the hotel. The weather was surprisingly warm and I quickly peeled off my zip-up top. Underneath, I was wearing a bright “Clockwork Orange” T-shirt (picked up in Bangkok for about £5) and I soon realised that Swansea’s away colours were also orange.

Oh well. I wasn’t worried. As I wasn’t sporting a moustache, I knew I wouldn’t be mistaken as a Welshman.

Another Chelsea game, another CIA visit. This time, it was Damian (Trojan Man) and his lady Laura. I dipped into “The Butcher’s Hook” to collect them and took them over to the hotel, where I knew other friends would be waiting. We had a lovely pre-match, albeit a rather short one. I met up with Mick, who had managed to get me a few of my Asia tour programmes signed by Terry, Lampard, Drogba and Torres. The original idea was to sell these on Ebay, but I soon decided to give these away to a few close friends. Gill, Graeme and Ferdi were in the hotel bar (Gill had managed to get a photo with JT an hour earlier) and Mike from NYC was there too.

Two pints of Singha – thanks Mike, thanks Damian – and a nice time chatting about the entire gamut of Anglo-American sport culture with my two Southern Californian guests. As his CIA handle would suggest, Damian (and Laura) are fans of the USC gridiron team and we spent quite a while chatting about NCAA fandom, rivalries, ticket prices, match day routines and rituals.

Mike had brought me a recent copy of the NY Post which featured a few articles about Mariano Rivera’s historic 602 save. Damian, with a pained expression, enquired why I was a Yankee follower and I’m getting used to this now. I batted the question away with aplomb, like a cricketer driving a ball through the covers. I always used to say I wish I had £5 for every time someone asked me why I was a Chelsea fan. It’s getting that way with the Yankees now.

Mike told Damian that his wife was from New York and that they met at college. Damian enquired which college and Mike replied “UCLA.”

Damian’s face was a picture.

But Mike added – “UCLA – the university at the corner of Lexington Avenue.”

I felt Damian’s relief sweep over him.

For a Chelsea fan, it must have hurt to see us train on UCLA’s campus during the summer tours of 2006 and 2007.

That must have been awful for him.

We were stood by the window at the front of the hotel bar area on the first floor. We had a lovely view of the forecourt area, with the busy Fulham Road in the distance, the “Butcher’s Hook” pub on the corner. We spotted six Chelsea pensioners being dropped off and making their way through the match-day crowds. They are always a lovely sight. They continue to be a wonderful reminder of our history, our proud past and long may they continue to be a part of our identity as a club. Damian asked me briefly about our continued presence at Stamford Bridge and if I favoured a move away.

To be blunt, I want us to stay at Stamford Bridge forever. Just looking out at that forecourt area was enough for me. Photographs of thousands flooding that area for the Moscow Dinamo game in 1945, grainy film of the team playing five-a-side amongst the portacabins and parked cars every Friday morning in the late ‘sixties, personal memories of me looking up at the monstrous East stand for the very first time in October 1974 (this still gives me goose bumps), scary memories of Millwall in 1977, memories of West Ham in 1984, gorgeous memories of getting Pat Nevin’s autograph outside the old club shop in 1984, my mate Glenn chatting up a girl in the programme hut in 1983, memories of the ivy on the wall of the old offices, memories of getting Ray Wilkins’ autograph in 1978…memories, memories, memories.

What I fear is my club playing in a soul-less stadium five miles away in 2025…what will we have lost?

At 2.20pm, I reminded Laura and Damian that the players would soon be going through their pre-match drills and so I quickly escorted them out of the hotel and towards the entrance to the Shed Lower. To our right, we saw a cluster of fans around a bald gentleman and I soon realised that it was Ray Wilkins.

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I told the two Californians to “get in there” and I grabbed Laura’s camera. While Damian quickly spoke to him, I said “thanks Butch” and I had this horrible feeling that he might have thought that I was taking the Mick.

He replied –

“Cheers fella. Nice T-shirt.”

I said my goodbyes to the Trojanistas and made my way to the MHU turnstiles. It made a nice change to be inside early for once. I was at my seat at 2.30pm and Stamford Bridge was looking gorgeous. Pre-match chat focussed on how well we played at Old Trafford.

The 3,000 Swansea fans were in good voice and treated us to the Welsh standard “Hymns And Arias” (aka “Land Of My Fathers”).

The Swansea team featured two players born within 12 miles of my home town; Scott Sinclair from Bath and Nathan Dwyer from Trowbridge. Parky’s mate Kris used to play footy with Dyer in a Trowbridge park and, even at a young age, he was special. My home area is not known for producing professional footballers.

Whatever happened to Shagger Lambert from Farrington Gurney, Nasher Ruddock from Midsomer Norton and Crapper Lacey from Buckland Dinham?

The football world is a lesser place with their absence.

No real surprises with AVB’s team selection, with Anelka in for Daniel Sturridge. Ominously, Frank Lampard was on the bench, but this was not a surprise. He faces new challenges this season.

The game began quietly, with the highlight being a lovely dribble along the by-line by Juan Mata and a ball back for Ramires to fire goal wards, but the shot was blocked. The opening period also featured two horrendous crosses from the not-so-trusty right foot of Jose Bosingwa. Swansea had a few attacks, but were not causing us huge concerns. I was getting a little annoyed with Torres coming deep to search for the ball. I wanted him to stay on the shoulder of the last man.

On 29 minutes – just after I had said “Come on Torres, move!” – Juan Mata chipped a fantastic ball over the Swansea defence and the ball fell right at the feet of Torres, who had nimbly lost his marker. A deft touch and the ball nestled inside the far post.

“YES!”

I took some photos as the team joined Nando down in celebration corner, and I hoped that Laura had some good shots, too.

This was the quintessential New Chelsea Goal; Mata the creator, Torres the finisher. May there be many more.

Shortly after, a lovely searching ball found Ramires who advanced and despatched a low strike through the legs of the Swansea ‘keeper and it was 2-0 to Chelsea. More photographs of the team, smiling away down in the SW corner.

Coasting.

Then, a crazy calamity. We all knew that Torres’ ridiculous challenge warranted a red card. That was obvious. Slightly less obvious was why Nando needed to make that challenge. It wasn’t in a threatening position. I guess – I’m just rationalising – after Old Trafford’s highs and lows, after his goal, after his nice contribution to Ramires’ goal, his head was buzzing.

But he needs to learn from this. I’ve noticed before how he makes rash challenges.

My comment after the Manchester United game (“what next in the chequered Chelsea career of Fernando Torres?”) came into my mind as we discussed the tackle in the last few minutes before the break. The poor chap seems fated.

At the break, Neil Barnett spoke about the sad incident recently which resulted in the deaths of four Swansea miners and passed on our deepest sympathy to the Swansea fans. This was a nice touch and both sets of fans applauded. Additionally, Neil mentioned that there had been collections throughout the day and Chelsea would match the funds raised and give all the money to the families of the bereaved.

A class act.

The Swansea fans applauded this.

Good stuff.

Anelka was deployed as a sole attacker ahead of the infamous “two banks of four.” However, Swansea sensed the initiative and Dyer let rip with a shot which was deflected off the outstretched leg of Mikel and dipped wildly onto the bar. A Swansea effort was then hacked away off our line. These were tense moments.

Florent Malouda replaced the bubbly Mata on the hour. Fresh legs for the team. For the second game in four days, ten men were being asked to do the work of eleven. Anelka found himself surrounded by four defenders, but with no support to be found anywhere. In a classic piece of football, he shrugged his shoulders, went on a run and clipped a heavenly strike against the bar.

What a goal that would (could? Should?) have been.

Down below me, Ashley Cole stretched and blocked an attempted clearance by Routledge, then narrowly shot past the far post. He was roundly applauded.

On 75 minutes, I disappeared off for a toilet break and returned just in time to see a ball played into Ramires’ path, a shimmy and a cool finish.

That was really unexpected – we had been playing a containment game really, but this goal killed the game…time to celebrate? Not really. The Bridge crowd cheered the goal, but there was no continued barrage of noise.

Didier on for a great Anelka, Josh on for Meireles.

We then let in a “typical Chelsea” goal from a wide free-kick. An unmarked leap at the far post and we all knew what was coming…the ball crashed down and into the corner of Cech’s goal. We had two late chances…a Malouda shot blocked and then, with Ramires on a deserved hat-trick, he unfortunately drilled his shot wide.

At the death, a sweet turn and a deft finish from Didier.

4-1.

Easy.

I left the Barons Court area at 5.45pm and we listened to “606” on the drive home. Mark Chapman, who I neither like nor dislike, tried his damnedest to get Chelsea fans to ‘phone in and comment on the Torres sending-off (not his goal, I hasten to add), but I was very contented when nobody could be bothered to do so.

Good. Let’s concentrate on the positive (two goals in 135 minutes) and not get sucked into this Torres bashing session. As I came off the M4 at Chippenham, all three of us “whooped” at the news of good old Stoke’s draw at home to United, who – in my book- are the team to beat.

Another positive.

It had been a good day.

Tales From Bar 68

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2011.

What a game. What a crazy game.

With my head still spinning with continued talk of boycotts and the rumbling aftermath of the morgue-like atmosphere at the game on Tuesday, I faced a long journey up to Manchester. I left my home village at around 9.30am. With the nascent development of Andre Villas-Boas’ team still in its opening sequence, I couldn’t help but think that the game with the old adversaries was just a few weeks too soon. There is no doubt that this would be a stern test for the team and supporters alike. There had been a sense of foreboding in the earlier part of the week, but my attitude had changed a little on Friday and Saturday. What was the reason for this upturn in my optimism? The manager himself. He has impressed me in almost all the things he has said and done since being at the helm of our club. He seems placid, yet passionate. He is calm, yet calculating. He seems to fit the bill, alright. We have to trust him.

Of course, part of my excitement about this match was centered upon which team he would select. Thousands of words have been uttered and written since Tuesday on this very subject.

We waited with baited breath.

Unfortunately, the weather which greeted me as I drove the short distance to collect Lord Parky was overcast and gray. I also had developed a slight headache – not through pondering Villas-Boas’ game plan I hasten to add – but I knew that this would be remedied after we stopped to collect a McBreakfast and a McCoffee at McMelksham on the long drive north.

We endured a variety of weather as I pounded the familiar tract north. Talk was of the next batch of games, the plans, the travel arrangements, the tickets, the itineraries.

This would be my sixteenth trip up to Old Trafford with Chelsea and, although we had a superb record from the ‘sixties through to the ‘eighties, our recent record hasn’t been too great. Of the fifteen previous visits, I had witnessed just four Chelsea victories. But – in all honesty – four of the greatest domestic away games ever. A Kerry Dixon brace and a double Tony Godden penalty save in two different games in 1986. A gorgeous 3-1 win after we won the championship in 2005 and Old Trafford as quiet as it has ever been. And then the goals from Joe and Didier giving us a seismic triumph on the way to our championship in 2010. Away victories simply do not get any better than these four.

We hit some slow-moving traffic between Stafford and Stoke and so I veered off through my former college town. We raced past the Britannia Stadium – only five weeks since our opening-day visit – and I was soon back on the M6 and the motorway was relatively clear.

I had hoped to have been parked-up by 2pm, but the delay around Stafford meant that I was running thirty minutes late. This was my third visit to Old Trafford in only six months and the approach on the Chester Road is very familiar now. I drove past the McDonalds where Gumby and I had a pre-match bite in 2006 and then past a few familiar landmarks including a sadly disused art deco-fronted cinema which welcomed me on the slow drive towards Old Trafford. I make a point of mentioning this as the sculptured frontage is a bright sky blue. A statement from its former owner, a proud Manchester City fan, perhaps?

“This may be United territory, but this is our city.”

I’m not so sure about this clichéd view to be honest. Although I always hear accents from all four corners of the UK and Ireland – not to mention many foreign accents – in and around Old Trafford on match days, I’m always surprised how many local “Manchest-oh” accents I hear, too. I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed it, but there seems to be more and more local Manchester banners on show at United games. It’s as if their fans have made a conscious effort to re-dress the balance of this perceived notion that there are more Blues than Reds in the city. A few years back, you would see banners which said “Exeter Reds”, “Devon Reds”, “Dublin Reds” and “Malta Reds” at away games. Today, it seems that you are now more likely to see “Urmston Reds”, “Salford Reds”, Sale Reds and “Clayton Reds.” It’s as if they are reclaiming Mancunia as their own. There always used to be a certain amount of “niggle” amongst local United fans and their fans from elsewhere in the UK. This is certainly true of Liverpool, too. There is a notion that out-of-town United fans are the glory hunters, forever besmirching the name of Manchester United. It was United who invented the derogatory nickname “daytrippers” which described the out-of-towners arriving en masse at Old Trafford, buying United paraphernalia and not really “getting” what United is about.

To be honest, Chelsea have always embraced supporters from all over the UK and I’m proud of this. In my youth, when I was alone in The Shed, Londoners would always welcome my presence at Chelsea.

“Where you from, mate? Somerset? Wow.”

However, the shifting sands of support in the UK at the moment has resulted in a greater resentment of “tourists” and probably no more so than in London. I lose count of the number of times I hear the terms “JCLs” and “tourists” being banded during discussions about the atmosphere at The Bridge getting worse and worse with each season. This is a lop-sided view though. Not all tourists or new fans lack passion. The problem that Chelsea has is that a large proportion of tourists who go to The Bridge just happen to be in London and are not really Chelsea fans. They attend our games because The Bridge is convenient. I’m not convinced that United have this exact problem. I have the distinct feeling that United’s fans – and there are 330 million of them Worldwide – are enticed to Manchester solely to watch United. This might not be correct, but this is my view.

In some respects, the loyal fans of United and Chelsea – plus all of the big clubs in the Premier League – are experiencing these self-same notions of being disenfranchised, being priced out, being taken advantage of. It’s just the scale and timings which differ. Fully expect Manchester City’s long-suffering legions to be complaining about their club’s new fans next.

Locals were attempting to usher me in to a variety of match day parking lots – ₤5 a car – but I ignored them and parked outside the same house as I did for the fated league game in May. The only change to the immediate locale was the appearance of two new floodlight masts at the nearby Old Trafford cricket stadium.

Parky and I donned our jackets and made the twenty minute walk to the stadium. It dawned on me during the week that I have never ever had a beer in a pub outside Old Trafford. The over-riding reason for this is the paucity of options and – hence – the fact that all the pubs are for home fans only. There was the usual singing emanating from The Bishop Blaize and the usual mobs of red-clad United fans by the chip shops. As I turned and walked down Sir Matt Busby Way, I spotted more grafters selling their wares; the infamous half-and-half scarves.

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At just past 3pm, I joined Alan and Gary inside the stadium, at the Chelsea only bar – Bar 68, named after Wembley 1968, the European Cup Final and all that – in the South Stand. A bottle of Singha for ₤3.10. On the TV screen above the bar, Tottenham were thrashing Liverpool, but we were ambivalent. Gary had been to the Surrey versus Somerset cricket final at Lords on Saturday and it was no surprise that his county beat mine.

The Chelsea team was flashed up on the screen and I approved. It was the team that I would have chosen. It elicited a few moments of discussion with Alan about the manager’s game plan.

“To be honest, it could work in our favour to be under pressure if Torres sits on the last defender and we break at pace and hit him early. Important that the wide men up front, Mata and Sturridge, drop back and cover United’s wide players. We need Bosingwa’s pace. Ashley will be OK.”

“All sorted. I hope the manager is listening.”

Before the game, Mickey Thomas – all suited and booted – was interviewed on the pitch and he made a few comments about the game. A former Chelsea legend, it still grates to hear him refer to United as “we.” He spoke of United’s fine start to the season and he used a phrase that I have used recently –

“United have hit the ground running.”

At least Mickey said that he thought we would represent United’s biggest threat, not those mischievous fellows across the city.

Old Trafford seemed to take ages to fill up. Long gone are the days of the ’eighties when most of a 40,000 crowd would be inside with half-an-hour to go, chanting and trading insults with each other. The build-up to the kick-off used to be great in those days, the noise levels increasing minute by minute. My seat was along the side, slightly beyond the goal line. I like how the pitch is raised on a bed – like a stage – at Old Trafford, with a steep decline down to the terraces. In the immediate ten minutes before the game’s commencement, we were in great voice and United weren’t singing at all.

We had the first chance of the game as the effervescent Ramires troubled the shaky de Gea but the United ‘keeper thwarted the effort with his feet. Soon after, Anderson lost possession to Fernando Torres, who quickly advanced but fluffed his shot wide. Sturridge was looking lively down below me. I had spoken to Alan about the absolute need not to concede an early goal – certainly not a repeat of the opening goal within the first minute back in May. Well, those plans went up in flames.

We weren’t sure about the foul which resulted in the Nani free-kick and the powerful leap from Chris Smalling. But the former Fulham player appeared to have an unhindered leap. The United support roared for the first time.

After twenty minutes, a lovely flowing move found Torres but he again shot wide.

Soon after, a gorgeous through ball by Mata allowed Torres to beat the offside trap as he raced past the United back line. He was through on goal but decided not to shoot. My immediate thoughts were of Tuesday night when his unselfish play aided others. He squared the ball to Sturridge and we held our breath. In the end, the firm strike was well saved.

We had a little conference amongst ourselves and I said that if Studge had scored, we would all have been saying what a great ball it was from Torres. To be honest, it was a great ball and Studge should have scored.

All three thousand Chelsea were standing and bellowing our support. The United legions, basking in the September sun, appeared to be very docile in comparison.

Sturridge picked out Torres again, but his overhead kick whistled wide.

Then a rasping drive from Sturridge, from an angle, well saved by de Gea.

We were playing well and the two wide men were tracking back and adding numbers to our midfield. We seemed to be well on top when our world caved in. We allowed Nani time and space to shot and his perfect shot rattled into Cech’s top corner. The United fans momentarily roared, but there was not a reverberating depth of noise which was present, for example, at the Champions League game last season. However, we did not let up. We chased every ball and pressed with determination. Nice movement upfront. We were still in it.

The third goal was a joke. The ball just fell for Wayne Rooney – otherwise quiet – and he swept the ball into the net.

How on earth were we 3-0 down? It seemed that everything was falling into United’s path. What a farce.

The United fans were enquiring “are you Arsenal in disguise?” and we stood silent. We had no answer.

The half-time interval, looking back, was a bit of a blur. We stood around, quite shell-shocked, but there were plentiful smiles and laughter amongst the away fans. We knew that we had played well, with Mata looking very lively in that roving role. Everything seemed to come through him. However, I did quietly say to Alan –

“I hope no more goals are scored in this game” and he grimaced as if to say “I’m with you.”

There was a very bold move at the break when Villas-Boas replaced the under-performing Frank Lampard with Nicolas Anelka. I can’t honestly say that I was aware of the slight change to the formation as my viewpoint was not great; our attacking was taking place in the other half after all.

As the second period began, we were singing “we’re gonna win 4-3” and everyone was smiling.

Losing, but smiling. What a strange game.

Within a minute, Anelka had played in Torres and his delicate flick past the onrushing de Gea found its way into the net. I was stood right in front of CFCUK’s Dave Johnstone and I just turned around, grabbed his arm and screamed. It was a lovely finish, right in front of a silent Stretford End.

Nani’s thunderbolt then rattled the bar with Cech well beaten. In the onrushing scramble – it was all a blur – Bosingwa fouled Nani and Phil Dowd pointed to the spot.

Oh hell. So much for the Chelsea recovery.

I focussed on Petr Cech with my camera and hoped for a wonderful save being captured on film. In the corner of my eye, I saw Rooney approach and then slip outrageously on the damp turf.

Oh, how we howled with laughter. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who thought of Moscow.

Still the chances came. A wonderful dribble from Torres was well saved by de Gea, but Torres blazed the rebound over.

United hit the post.

Then, the moment of the match. Torres gracefully shimmied into the box and used his pace to push the ball past a floundering de Gea. With an open goal gaping, Torres flashed the ball wide with his left foot and we stood in horror. Hero one minute, villain the next. I felt for him. The United fans were wailing and the poor chap looked distraught. What next in the chequered Chelsea career of Fernando Torres?

In a passage of play eerily similar to the profligacy of Torres in the first-half, Rooney broke free but chose to pass to Berbatov rather than shoot himself. Doctor Death’s strong shot was cleared away by a scrambling Ashley Cole.

The minutes passed by and we kept singing. I know it is a cliché to bemoan United’s home support, but they really were quiet. I could tell that they were nervy and, with a little more luck, we could so easily have secured all three points.

From pre-match worry to post game buoyancy. What a transformation. To celebrate the team’s new-found confidence and swagger, we rounded off a great show of vocal support by a deafening “we’re gonna win the league” and I hoped and prayed that the viewers at home realised that it was the bubbling away support shouting those words.

I waited for Parky outside and we couldn’t contain our glee. This was a mighty strange feeling, though; a game we had lost, but we were not bothered at all. Of all the Chelsea games I have witnessed, never have I been as content with our performance following a defeat.

We must be mellowing with age, eh?

We were held in traffic for ages and it wasn’t until 7.45pm (almost two hours after the game had finished) that we reached the southbound carriageway of the M6 – and with it, that great big sludge of United traffic heading back to the southern counties of England, and possibly beyond.

We had enjoyed ourselves. Our throats were hurting from all of the singing, but we weren’t complaining. As I drove south, time for some music. Parky and I are going to see the old punk band Sham 69 on the evening of the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game in late October and so Parky brought along their 1978 album “That’s Life.” Sham’s first album “Tell Us The Truth” was edgier but this second album contains a few gems. In fact, it is probably punk’s first concept album, in that the album tells the story of a day in the life of a London teenager through songs interspersed with dialogue.

Despite the sore throats, we were singing along as we headed south.

It wasn’t a normal day in the life of the main character. He got sacked from his job, won a fortune on the dogs, got drunk with a mate, pulled a girl at a disco, got into a fight and crashed a stolen car.

It soon dawned on me that the game we had just witnessed at Old Trafford had been equally manic.

We stopped off for a coffee at Stafford services and I eventually dropped His Lordship off at just before 11pm. I reached home shortly after, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for ages. My head was still buzzing and I needed my body to steadily tire before I closed my eyes.

Did I have nightmares about Fernando Torres’ miss?

No, but I suspect he might have done.

Tales From A Day Of Blackouts And Blowouts

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 23 April 2011.

A quite magnificent day.

This is a good week for us here in England; Good Friday and a day off work, Chelsea at home on St. George’s Day against West Ham, Easter Sunday, Easter Monday and another day off work, then just three days of toil before the Royal Wedding – another day off – and finally the second home game of the week against the old enemy, Tottenham. All of that, plus the added bonus of tons of American visitors in town to share this great week with my usual match day companions.

The Easter weekend began on Friday with another visit to nearby Rowde for a Chelsea Legends night. Back in November, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke were down in the West Country. This time, it was the turn of Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling to accompany Chopper. Our two highest appearance makers and our highest ever goalscorer.

It doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

Suffice to say, we had a lovely time and I particularly enjoyed talking to Bobby Tambling out in the sunny beer garden about a variety of football-related topics. He is from Hayling Island, down near Portsmouth, and he told me the story about the 1953 F.A. Cup Final. He was a boyhood Blackpool fan, lured by the two Stans Matthews and Mortensen. In probably the most famous F.A. Cup Final of all, Bobby told me that he watched the game through a shop window and was mortified to see Blackpool losing 3-1. He decided to cycle back to his house but was met by the news that Blackpool, inspired by typical wing-wizardry from Matthews and a hat-trick from Mortensen, had turned it around to win 4-3. He had mixed emotions; happy his team had won, but deeply frustrated that he had missed the comeback. It was lovely to hear him recount this story, his boyish enthusiasm shining through. Bobby now lives in Cork in Ireland with his lovely wife Val and he told another football-related story. He was recently coaching some youngsters and he decided he needed to illustrate his teachings with some practical illustration. He took aim and chipped a ball through for the kids, but felt immediate pain in his groin. Val was still giving him loads of grief for this “silliness” but I just had to admire his love of the game. I hope that I am still playing at the age of seventy.

I collected Lord Parky at 10am. To celebrate St. George’s Day, we listened to the light and breezy English pop of The Sundays’ 1997 album “Static and Silence.” I first became a fan of this band way back in 1989 when they brought out the gorgeous “Can’t Be Sure” single. This has some lovely lyrics, laced with humour, and almost Smithsesque in their content.

“Give me a story and give me a bed.
Give me possessions.
Oh love luck and money they go to my head like wildfire.
It’s good to have something to live for you’ll find.
Live for tomorrow.
Live for a job and a perfect behind, high time.
England, my country, the home of the free, such miserable weather.
But England’s as happy as England can be.
Why cry?”

By 12.15pm, the two of us had walked down the North End Road – warm weather, getting warmer – to “Lloyds” at Fulham Broadway and had met up with The Wild One, plus three first-time visitors from across the pond; JR, Dennis and Anna, all from Michigan, all members of the Motor City Blues. JR kindly bought us pints and soon began questioning me on a few Chelsea topics. Beth had warned me that she had a “little gift” for me, but with increasing disbelief, I was swept away with the contents of her Chelsea carrier bag.

I was presented with two magnificent bespoke bounded albums containing all of my various match reports from seasons 2008-2009 and 2009-2010.

Oh boy – I was speechless.

So, a fantastic gift from you to me and I thank you all. I began posting on CIA in 2006 at the time of my trip over to Chicago for the MLS All-Star Game and immediately felt “at home” on CIA. This has always been a two-way street; I love sharing my passion for this wonderful club and, in turn, I get a massive buzz from all of your enthusiasm too.

We toasted each other – “Friendship and Football.”

We spent a nice relaxing time at “Lloyds” before it got too busy. We were joined by Gill and Graeme, who I know get just as much satisfaction out of their new trans-Atlantic friendships as me. Parky and I wolfed down a burger and chips as the American guests flitted around, buying CFCUK fanzines and St. George pin badges.

Another pint.

Then, we moved on to Stamford Bridge. The weather really was heating up now and many fellow fans had decided on shorts. I took a few candid shots of the three Bridge virgins as they rounded the corner and set eyes on the West Stand for the first-ever time. I remember my first sighting in 1974. These are magical moments.

Then, some photos of The King, Peter Osgood, bathed in sunshine, standing proudly outside The West Stand. A lovely time.

Our next port of call was – of course – the hotel bar area where we met up with Bobby and Val Tambling again. Bobby just chatted away to JR, Dennis and Anna as if they had known each other for years; he is a naturally charismatic fellow and a lovely ambassador for our club. Ron Harris then appeared and also gave the American guests some lovely memories with his friendly comments and humorous asides. Of course, these two Chelsea greats (Mister 795 and Mister 202) posed with JR, Dennis and Anna for some photographs.

Another pint.

In the background, the Manchester United vs. Everton game was on a TV, but I was ignoring it in the main. There were a few “oohs” and “ahhs” but the game was scoreless. Then, Parky uttered the horrible words “they’ve scored” and the jolly pre-match atmosphere changed. I had ironically predicted that “United will probably score in the last five minutes” and I wasn’t too far out. So, that makes our task even more difficult this season but let’s not get too downhearted.

Gill had just bumped into Frank Lampard and was all of a shake. The manager was having his pre-match team talk in an adjacent meeting room and a few players were flitting about. One day I’ll provide a plan of all the rooms, walkways and hidden nooks and crannies of the hotel for you all. The daily pre-match routines do tend to vary a bit each game, though. Frank had even given Gill a quick kiss and I joked with Graeme that I would soon be on the ‘phone to the “News of the World” to report that Frank had a secret rendezvous with a “mystery blonde.”

Gill whooped with laughter.

Next, the neat silver hair of Carlo Ancelotti appeared at a window – he was on the ‘phone – and Anna was convinced that he had waved at her.

A quiet respectful chorus of “Carlo” echoed around the bar area.

It was now 2.45pm and time was moving on. We all decamped up to The Goose, a fifteen minute walk away. Andy Wray and his wife were on their way and soon joined us. The Goose was absolutely rammed and, with the heat and the cigarette smoke in the beer garden, not as enjoyable as on other days. There was simply nowhere to move. I was now on the Cokes and had a slight headache, too; drat. Not only were my usual mates standing in groups, but there was a 15 strong group from Herr Grupenfuhrer Neat’s New York Blues to attend to. Amidst all of this, Beth was chatting to Andy, JR, Anna and Dennis and I am sure they were having a blast. I quickly showed a few of the lads the album from last season and they were suitably impressed. Not only are the match reports included, but the album contained many of my photographs, too. Of course, a lot of my mates are featured and this was met with much merriment and Mickey-taking.

I asked Walnuts, who lives in Brighton, if the rumours were correct about us opening up Brighton’s new stadium at Falmer were correct. He wasn’t sure, but promised to keep me informed.

I disappeared off for twenty minutes to take the albums back to the car, grab a headache tablet and I had a little moment to myself amongst the mad activity of the afternoon. It had been a lovely day thus far, but there was a fear that the match would be a massive ant-climax.

How wrong could I be?

By the time I had met up with His Lordship back at The Goose, there spots of rain in the air. I could hardly believe this; English weather…maybe The Sundays were correct! Parky had heard rumours that West Ham had launched an attack on The Malster and I hoped that nobody was hurt; specifically, our CIA friends who were planning to call in and see the Fancast team. As we walked down the North End Road, we heard unfamiliar songs and we soon spotted a line of OB guarding around forty West Ham fans standing on the pavement outside The C0ck and Hen. As far as I could see, none were wearing colours. They were youngsters, maybe the latest incarnation of their “Under Fives” and I envisaged that they may well have been on the Thames boat which had transported a hundred or so West Ham fans from the East End. I guess they had split up into ones and twos and then mustered enough in the pub to create a scene. Anyway, they were full of bravado. I just rolled my eyes at one song which they were singing –

“Chelsea’s a 5hit-hole, I wanna go home.”

West Ham aren’t known for their irony, so I just cringed at this.

Urbane, cosmopolitan, expensive, sophisticated SW6 versus raggedy-arsed Gor Blimey Land.

Simply no contest.

I could tell Parky was itching to hang around and see what developed, but I moved him on. Outside the old tube station, a West Ham fan – foolishly wearing a replica shirt – was obstructed by an indignant Chelsea fan and bumped off him. I only saw two West Ham fans wearing colours the entire day; old habits die hard. Mind you, when we go East, Chelsea never wear colours. Too risky. At the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall, a St. George’s flag was flying proudly atop the flagpole.

As we lined up the turnstiles to the MHU, the clouds darkened and the rain increased. Everyone was in short-sleeved shirts and even flip-flops.

Inside with five minutes to go; phew. I noted that quite a few West Ham had not yet made it in; maybe they had indeed decided to go home, back east to the land of pie and mash, discount supermarkets, used-car salesmen, fake designer wear and old-fashioned violence to anyone outside of the “manor.”

I kept an eye out for the steward who had troubled me against Birmingham City with his warnings about using my camera. I planned a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse with him; I had packed a compact camera too.

The teams – Ivanovic for Ferreira, but thankfully no Scott Parker for them.

Neil Barnett had announced that Scott Parker had won the Writers’ Player of the Year award and this was warmly applauded by the Chelsea supporters. I can’t imagine the bitter West Ham fans doing likewise.

Ah – the John Terry & Wayne Bridge Non-Handshake Act Two.

I didn’t agree with the booing of Wayne Bridge all afternoon, but there you go.

At kick-off, all of the itinerant wastrels from the East were inside and making quite a din. There was every colour under the sun on show except much claret and light blue.

We began strongly in the first twenty minutes. After just two minutes, Florent Malouda was played in and only had Robert Green to beat. His weak shot was straight at the much-maligned ‘keeper. With the rain now falling heavily, a lot of spectators in the front rows of the West Stand scarpered to watch, presumably, on TVs in the stand. Wimps!

Kalou wasted a good chance when clear and then Ba forced a save from Petr Cech on 23 minutes. This was West Ham’s first effort on goal, but they then enjoyed a period of possession. Soon after, a break and despite a desperate run from Ashley Cole to stop the cross, the ball was played in and Petr Cech nimbly pushed the resulting header around the post.

On 27 minutes, Didier did well to create space and he advanced down the right, but selfishly blasted over. This was met with groans from the frustrated home crowd.

On 28 minutes, the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard rumbled around The Bridge. The rain was falling relentlessly and the early evening atmosphere was quite strange. There was a weird feeling. An intense, heavy, gloom hung around. Meanwhile, the pastel coloured away fans were singing away and I don’t think Chelsea were retaliating with the required amount of volume and venom. I was hoping that the American guests weren’t disappointed.

After 31 minutes, a West Ham corner was flighted in and after a kick and a lunge, Petr Cech fell on the ball just before it crossed the line. The natives were restless, especially when a wild shot from Branislav Ivanovic careered off for a throw. Then, Kalou lost possession with a very loose ball and we were very lucky not to concede a goal; a courageous block from David Luiz saved us.

Then, salvation. We attacked down the left on 44 minutes and a delightful ball from Didier Drogba was played between some defenders to Ashley Cole (“f***ing ball of the season” I said to Walnuts) and our left-back played the ball across the West Ham goalmouth. Before I could blink, the ball fell to none other than a previously subdued Frank Lampard and he joyously slammed the ball in to the roof of the net.

We hollered our joy and I saw Frank reel away, leaping in front of 3,000 enemies. It was a lovely moment. I jumped down and looked at Alan.

Alan : “They’ull ave ta cam at us naaaa.”
Chris : “Cum on moi little doimonds.”

At half-time, two treats. Chelsea boxer Darren Barker was introduced to the crowd by Neil Barnett just as a massive fork of lighting lit up the sky just behind the towering East stand. Then, Bobby Tambling was on the pitch, initially carrying a massive blue umbrella to fend off the rain. However, the wind took it and it reversed itself. After a couple of attempts to right it, Tambling said “f it” and threw it to one side. As he strode around the pitch with Neil Barnett, he got absolutely drenched. I bet Ron Harris was grinning up in the executive area.

After the break, more Chelsea possession. A lovely Drogba cross found Malouda who cutely set up Kalou. In space, he took his time but drilled the ball well wide.

On 54 minutes, Michael Essien pulled up and was soon replaced with Yossi Benayoun. After 60 minutes, a great Drogba free-kick was played with pace into the danger area, but evaded all of our lunging bodies. Two minutes after, an almost identical ball from Didier was played in to Frank Lampard but he miraculously couldn’t get the desired touch.

The chances were coming thick and fast now. A thunderous shot by Frank from way out was parried by Green and Malouda slammed the loose ball wide.

“Chim, chimeny, chim, chimeny, chim, chim, cheroo – We hate those ba5tards in claret and blue.”

On 68 minutes, David Luiz gathered the ball 25yards out and steadied himself. He unleashed a venomous dipper which rocked the bar.

At the other end, an equally vicious blast from Ba was well stopped by Petr Cech, who then did well to gather the follow up.

On 69 minutes, Nicolas Anelka came on for Kalou.

Robbie Keane (oh, how we all love him at Chelsea) came on for the injured Noble and was soon sent in with only our Great Dane to beat. Unlike on so many previous occasions, the Irish fecker shot wide and we were spared the sight of his pathetic summersault.

On 77 minutes, Fernando Torres came on for the revitalized Drogba and we shouted his name. He was industrious for seven minutes, full of movement and guile. He soon selflessly set up Anelka but his shot was blasted straight at Gabbidon.

Then, it happened.

It is with regret that I did not have my camera to capture this, but here are my memories. A perfectly paced ball by Anelka was played centrally into space for an onrushing Torres to run on to. The offside trap had been breached.

We stood up. We gulped. We hoped.

Just as he was about to dispatch the ball with his right foot, the ball held up in a Stamford Bridge puddle and we immediately groaned all of those usual Torres thoughts. Unperturbed, Torres kept his footing, moved the ball onto his left foot and – off balance – calmly swept the ball into the net. I think this slight pause caused by that puddle heightened the drama and intensified our emotions.

Stamford Bridge went into orbit. The noise was thunderous. Delirium. Absolute delirium.

I glanced down and, amid screams, I reached down for my camera, resting atop my bag. I felt my brain doing something very strange – it felt like it was about to explode with joy. This goal obviously meant a lot. Too much, maybe. At that moment in time, Torres’ goal seemed like the most important goal I would ever witness.

I then blacked out momentarily and fell back on my haunches. For a split second – I guess – I was gone. I tried to jump up, but my legs were like jelly. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. I clambered to my feet and – so embarrassed…I thought everyone must be looking at me – I steadied myself and unscrewed by camera lens cover.

Snap – an unsurprisingly blurred shot of Torres and team mates on their feet in the far corner. I think I had missed the massive pile of bodies.

Wow. That has never happened to me before. I have felt very light-headed at moments of joy (Gallas against Spurs in 2006, for example) but I’ve never blacked out before.

As I explained to Alan and Walnuts about what had just happened to me, The Bridge was rocking and the noise didn’t let up.

West Ham were silent.

The rest of the game was a massive blur. Just time for a diving JT chest pass (a first?) and then, on 90 minutes, the coup de grace.

A pass into space from our boy Fernando and Malouda slammed the ball in. Camera at the ready I took ten photographs of the joy amongst our players as Malouda welcomed a smiling Torres to join him. Both were mobbed by the rest of the team and the day was complete.

What an amazing end to the game. I can only imagine what was going through the minds of Anna, Dennis and JR. On my first ever visit to Yankee stadium, my hero Don Mattingly hit his 100th home run (on film!) and I was a very happy man.

But this…this was something else!

Out through the joyous crowds, past the So Bar, onto Vanston Place, we were all singing…it didn’t take long for a new song to be borne.

“Fernando Torres – He sent West Ham down.”

I soon caught up with His Lordship as we sauntered back to the car. We did well and left Chelsea Town at 8pm.

A text from JR : “Does it get any better?”

As we drove past Windsor Castle on the M4, I glimpsed at the famous round tower and spotted a St. George’s flag atop its flagpole. We stopped at Reading for a little indulgence… coffees and a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Parky did a lucky dip of my CDs and pulled out “Soft Cell.” He then fell asleep and I drove on, heading west, not thinking about the title, just thinking of being Chelsea.

However, just two miles from Parky Towers, there was a rumble and I knew that I had a flat tire. We pulled over and, in the darkness of a Wiltshire night, I quickly changed the wheel. It had been a blow out and I thanked the lucky stars I was only doing thirty miles per hour. This delayed my return home; after dropping Parky home, I reached my house at 10.50pm. I only had to wait a minute to see Fernando Torres’ goal on “Match of the Day” and I just thought –

“Perfect timing.”

We’re still in with a shout of the title, you know. It’s a long shot of course, but please prepare yourselves for yet more drama next weekend when we play Tottenham at home.

Love it.

Tales From Scouserbowl XXXIV

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 6 February 2011.

Has there ever been more anticipation for a regular league game than this one? The build-up throughout the week, from the signing of Fernando Torres late on Monday, dominated the UK media and, with each passing day, I could not wait for Sunday to finally arrive. Putting aside the concerns over the money invested in Torres – and David Luiz – for one moment, this was a phenomenal transfer, the like of which we rarely see. This was Chelsea Football Club’s most newsworthy signing since Ruud Gullit back in 1995 and a massive statement of intent. On the Richter scale of Chelsea transfers involving centre-forwards, I would imagine it is up there with the sepia-toned signings of Hughie Gallagher and Tommy Lawton.Strikers in their prime. The best in the business.

At moments throughout the week at work, with Liverpool fans being sheepishly quiet, I couldn’t help but think to myself –

“Bloody hell – we’ve got Fernando Torres.”

From a simple fans’ perspective, I found it nerve-tingling stuff.

And yet, there were still the niggling doubts and concerns eating away at me throughout the week too. Over the past few years, we have preached financial sobriety with the end goal being that of planned and sustained self-sufficiency. Our signings have been in moderation compared to the “splash” of the summer of 2003. How did the sudden, dramatic splurge of £70M on two players sit in my mind? I was uneasy with it if I am truthful – I am always so wary that this great Chelsea Experiment could implode at any given moment…this is Chelsea after all…and the financial noose that has now been put around our neck is substantial.

In a nutshell, we must keep winning.

And then there are concerns of Torres’ fitness and how we could fit him in to our team, so reliant on the trusted 4-3-3 since the arrival of Jose Mourinho in 2004.

We then had the incredible appetiser of the games on Saturday. On a day when a record number of goals were scored, not only Arsenal did let in four late goals at Newcastle United, but Manchester United lost at Molyneux too. But there were also wins for Spurs and Manchester City, though…

On a weekend when Superbowl XLV was taking place, I had no doubts in my mind that the Chelsea vs. Liverpool game would be The Greatest Show On Earth. In preparation, I consulted my big old spread sheet – growing with each passing week – of Chelsea games…I have now laboriously entered team line-ups for the first 200 games that I have had the pleasure to attend and am therefore almost a quarter of the way towards completion. It acts as a great memory aid to be honest…so many games, so many moments, so many Kerry Dixon goals, so many Pat Nevin dribbles, so many Eddie Newton turns…

Some facts and figures – the game on Sunday 6th. February 2011 would be my thirty-fourth Chelsea vs. Liverpool game. In the thirty-three previous games (24 League, 5 Champions League, 3 F.A. Cup and 1 League Cup), we had only lost four…a pretty remarkable achievement. I have only missed two Chelsea vs. Liverpool games since 1979 in fact – on both of those occasions, I was on holiday in the USA (1989 in Seattle and 1993 in St. Augustine).

The first three of these games all resulted in Chelsea wins – and this was back in the days when Liverpool was a force to be reckoned with. Then, two home games in 1985-86 and Liverpool started to redress the balance. Firstly, Liverpool beat us 2-1 in the F.A.Cupin January when Kerry went off with a groin strain and was never the same player again. Then, dramatically, the league game in May – and a goal from Kenny Dalglish which gave Liverpool the title. Liverpool brought thousands down to that one and packed the crumbling north terrace. I have one distinct memory of that game. I watched the game from The Benches and, a few moments after the game had ended, I was walking up the Shed terrace, by the Bovril Gate, just as the Chelsea PA played “We Are The Champions” and I had a little moment to myself, thinking –

“Bloody typical – the only time I will ever hear that song at The Bridge is when some other team wins the league here.”

Charlton Athletic in May 2005 was indeed a long way off.

I collected Parky at 9.30am and it was a desperately bleak day. There seemed to be hardly a hint of colour in the countryside as we rolled eastwards. However, the densely-packed tress which lined the M4 – neither brown, nor grey – had a stark beauty all of their own. Despite the lead grey skies and the austere landscapes, we were in good spirits. I popped an album by “Keane” on the CD player and our chat abated as we drove on, the music combining perfectly with the countryside all around us.

In the small hours of Friday morning – 4.20am to be precise – Andy Wray had awoken me with a text with the simple message –

“Jack Kerouac. See you Sunday.”

Ah, great stuff…I was previously unaware that he was coming over for the game, but I had made plans to meet up with him. We were parked up at 11.30am – the skies still grey, but at least no rain. Parky and I raced down to “Lloyds” – above the Fulham Broadway tube – and got stuck into a match day brunch. Andy, plus fellow Orange County stalwarts Tom “there has to be another way” Motherway and SteveO, soon arrived and joined us for breakfast. This was SteveO’s first game at Chelsea, though I had previously bumped into him in Baltimore in 2009. I think that SteveO was suffering the excesses of the previous night, bless him. This was a whirlwind trip for them – for Tom, especially…arrive Saturday, match Sunday, depart Monday. I take my hat off to them.

Parky left us to go back to The Goose. I trotted up to the hotel with Tom who was keen to see if Ron Harris was available for a quick chat and photo call. Our luck was in – we spent a good fifteen minutes in the company of our leading appearance maker and I took the requisite photo of Ron Harris With Smiling American Guest, for what must be the twentieth time. A pint in the hotel bar while we waited for Andy and SteveO to join us. From there, we spun round, over the bridge, past The Black Bull and down to The Fox And Pheasant. This is one of my favourites – a miniscule pub in a mews, with the the East Stand roof visible only 300 yards away. We took our pints and stood outside on the pavement along with a hundred more. We had hardly seen a Scouser. Tom spotted a sign outside the pub – and commented that this would just not be seen anywhere in America.

“Sorry – No Admittance To Away Fans. Chelsea Supporters Please Show Match Tickets, Members Cards, Season Tickets.”

We spoke for a few minutes about the various differences in the sporting rituals of our two nations – now, there’s a book waiting to be written! – and enjoyed the lovely pre-match. The skies were still overcast, though – and SteveO was still looking, ahem, under the weather. I had to go off and wait for a mate outside The So-Bar, so we got some chap to take our photos outside the main entrance and went our separate ways. Unfortunately for them, the three Californians had seats in the deathly quiet East Lower, albeit next to the away 3,000. I hoped that “Ring Of Fire” would not be ringing in their ears for the next few days.

The match? This is where I may have a writer’s block.

Despite the heightened anticipation all week long, I thought that the atmosphere was strangely muted. I got in rather early for me at about 3.40pm, just as the players were leaving the pitch after their pre-match warm-up. That first photo of our new Number Nine would have to wait. The Scousers took a while to fill their section, but it was another full house at Stamford Bridge. We should be justly proud of our attendance record these days – constant league sell outs for ages…only three sub 40,000 league games since 2003. And despite Liverpool’s obvious status as a big club, Anfield was 4,000 short during the week.

There was a minute’s polite applause for 1955 Championship winner Les Stubbs who had sadly passed during the week.

Rest In Peace.

On the Shed End screen, the cameras lingered on the teams waiting on the steps in the tunnel. A tense moment. JT alongside Gerrard. Stony faces. No communication. There is no love lost.

As the teams entered the pitch, all eyes and cameras were on Fernando Torres. I snapped away during the walk across the sacred turf. I was struck with how thin Torres is. The handshakes between former players. A scene reminiscent of Manchester City at home a year ago – another game witnessed by Andy and Tom…another fly in, fly out game. Amidst the hype of Torres, I had largely forgotten about Joe Cole. A lost soul now, but still a Chelsea legend. Would we boo him, should he play? Of course not. The Scousers though, visibly wounded by the Torres transfer, had already made their position clear.

There were boos for Torres, but also two specially crafted banners –

“He Who Betrays Will Never Walk Alone.”

“Breaking News – Ya Paid 50 Mil 4 Margi Clarke.”

The Chelsea support were roused at the start with a couple of corkers –

“He Wants To Play For A Big Club.”

“F*** Your History, We’ve Got Fernando.”

However, the tense game which unfolded seemed to sap our strength and our ability to support the troops. I only – very briefly – heard the Chelsea Torres song once…despite it appearing on thousands of texts, emails and websites over the past week. To be honest, I was rather sickened to see an exact copy (but in blue) on Facebook of the Liverpool “El Nino” banner which had been produced by Chelsea fans over the past few days. I was hoping that it would only be used for this one game only – a one game wind-up – but I have a feeling it will be paraded around away grounds for a while. Could we not come up with our own banner? To be honest, I didn’t see it at the game…only on TV after…and my heart sunk. It looked so “un-Chelsea” it was ridiculous. Let’s hope it doesn’t appear again.

In a passage of play which reminded me of Vinnie Jones getting booked after just 10 seconds in 1992, Mikel was booked after 30 seconds. We began with lots of possession.

Fernando Torres collected an errant pass and settled himself outside the “D.” However, his shot sailed over. After a few Liverpool breaks, we raised our game with a few chances. A Lampard corner, in swinging towards the near post, but Ivanovic headed over. Soon after – in retrospect – the chance of the match…a break, a ball from Didier Drogba into Torres in the inside-right channel, but that old warhorse Carragher stretched out a leg to block. Then a gilded chance for Liverpool. Steven Gerrard was involved in a lot of the play and his ball into the box bobbled just as Maxi Rodrigues pounced. It was an open goal, but he shinned it up onto the bar from just six yards.

We weren’t playing well and everyone knew it. The midfield was off the pace and – of course, my big fear – we had no width.After the goal fest of Saturday, how typical that this one looked like it was going to be a lot less lively.

The crowd seemed to be roused a little after the break – perhaps the top ups of beer had the desired effect. At a corner, I spotted Carragher and Torres tussling and snapped. The photograph I took is amazing. It shows Carragher grabbing hold of Torres’ arm with both hands and applying a tight grip. We were fuming. However the noise soon subsided and The Bridge fell eerily quiet. A Nicolas Anelka shot bobbled narrowly wide. Then – oh dear – Torres was substituted and the away fans roared. They had been reasonably quiet in the first half, but grew louder as Liverpool had more and more of the ball. At times, they were all over us in midfield. Gerrard was dominant, Lampard absent.

“Clap, clap – clap, clap, clap – clap, clap, clap, clap – Dalglish” echoed around red-half of The Shed.

To be honest, I don’t mind Dalglish – a superb player and a decent man. I find it strange that many newer generation Liverpool fans can’t pronounce his name correctly, though.

Kenny Daglish never played for Liverpool.

The game wore on and Liverpool was chasing every ball. Then, a rare chance as Essien sent a curling left-footer over on 66 minutes. But soon after, a calamity. Gerrard seemed to be hemmed in right down in the corner, near to where Parky watches the games from. However, Lampard gave him too much room and a cross was lobbed into the box. What happened next was a terrible blur. The ball by-passed Cech and Ivanovic and was nimbly poked home by Meireles. The Scousers erupted and there truly is nothing worse in the entire world than watching 3,000 away fans celebrating a goal at Stamford Bridge. And yet – I must be some sort of masochist – I always have to watch.

“God – look at them, they’re losing it big time.”

The twist of the knife was seeing Gerrard sprint 40 yards and outstretch his right arm and touch many fans as he raced by.

We knew we were beaten, despite 20 minutes left on the clock. The Bridge was supremely funereal. The only bright spot from the entire day was the assured debut of David Luiz in the last quarter. He made two great tackles and was soon ordering team mates around. He looks a quality defender. One moment brought back memories of Frank Lebouef, when Luiz had the ball at his feet some forty yards out and seemed to move the ball, just like Lebouef, onto his right foot in preparation of a snorter. Alas, he didn’t take that option, but I wish he had. A further twist of the knife occurred when an obvious foul by Glen Johnson on Ivanovic was not justly rewarded with a penalty and our time was up. It was not to be. As much as it pains me to say it, we did not deserve the win and now the doubts are setting in again…

I picked up the last “CFCUK” left at the stall and – seeing a mate – I briefly summed it up in three words…

“Too much hype.”

With Parky sleeping like a baby, I was diverted off the M4 due to an accident and so was forced onto the M3. Just what I wanted! The long, mournful, drive home seemed to take forever. Yet again, words to a song on the CD player seemed to sum things up, almost too-perfectly…

“My side.
Is it any wonder I’m tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don’t know what’s right?”

I watched – with gritted teeth – “Match Of The Day Two” and then caught some of the action from that other game taking place that night, deep in the heart of North Texas.

“See that massive HD TV screen? John Terry hit that.”

By the time of the half-time show, I too was sleeping like a baby…

Tales From The Lower Tier Of The Bullens Road

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2011.

This was always going to be a long and tiring day. I woke at 5.45am.After making myself a wake-me-up coffee, I quickly turned the TV on to see that Fernando Torres had requested a transfer request from Liverpool. As I scrambled together my match-day essentials, I contemplated the whole Torres transfer story. It has many angles, many dimensions. Whether we get him or not – and I hope we do…he is one of the world’s best strikers after all – the reassuring thing is that Roman still has some spare roubles in his kitty after the Russian World Cup bid / bribe. Generally speaking, I’m more in favour of spending our resources on nurturing our own talent and promoting from within. But every now and then, it is important to refresh our squad with top talent and make a statement. Signing Torres would undoubtedly convince others to follow him to the Fulham Road. Torres would be, as the Americans say, a marquee player. Our strike force is aging and we need to refresh it. And I have a feeling that, for once, Chelsea may have got the timings just right. With our main bidding rivals Manchester City having already spent £23M on an inferior player, we may have a free run on Torres. I liken the January transfer window to one of those bizarre cycling races where all riders go incredibly slowly for 95% of the race – “me? I’m not going…what about you?” – but then sprint like mad in the last two laps. Manchester City, with typical gusto, seem to have spent their wad way too quickly. Signing Torres would be huge. How ironic that I would be walking within feet of Anfield later in the day. I half-expected to see a Chelsea shirt – 9 Torres – pinned to the Shankly Gates.

I set off at 6.45am and soon collected His Lordship. Grey and overcast skies greeted us as we pounded the tarmac of the M4 and M5. Parky was in “full on chat mode” and I let him talk – and talk. After a McBreakfast in Birmingham “on the hoof”, we called in to collect Burger in Stafford at 9.30am.

As I was back in Staffordshire, I was reminded of my college days. On every train trip down to Chelsea in the mid-‘eighties, I would pass through Stafford. Towards the southern edge of the town, I always looked out for “The Everton Estate.” This was a council-estate of around two hundred houses with its own walled garage area. Every spare foot of wall was sprayed with graffiti proclaiming a love of Everton Football Club. It really was quite a sight. In the post-war years, many Liverpudlians were given new lives in a variety of outlying satellite towns as a result of the heavy Luftwaffe bombings that befell the city in the 1939-1945 period. Many city-centre homes were decimated, but this gave the city authorities the chance to also clear surrounding slum areas in one fell swoop. Typically, Scousers moved to the immediate overflow towns of Skelmersdale, Runcorn, Widnes, Warrington and Kirby, just outside the city boundaries. However, it seems that Stafford had its fair share of Scousers too. And it seems it had a reputation of being quite an Everton stronghold. A similar scenario has existed in other UK cities too – the overspill towns of Dagenham and Basildon are West Ham strongholds, Harlow and Bishops Stortford are Tottenham enclaves, while the notorious “schemes” of Easterhouse and Drumchapel are hotbeds of Celtic and Rangers support respectively.

My first visit to Everton had been almost twenty-five years ago. I had travelled up by coach from Stoke-On-Trent with two fellow Chelsea fanatics – Pete and Mac – who I have strangely not seen since those college days. We played Everton – the reigning League Champions – on a Sunday in March 1986. It was live on TV. In those days, the antiquated Park End stand housed the away support on two tiers. There were a couple of thousand seats high up in the upper tier, but the lower tier afforded a far less satisfactory view. The trick was always to get in early and hoist yourself up onto the ledge at the back. On this particular day, the three of us weren’t so lucky and so we had to scramble around on the very shallow terraces of the lower tier. It was a proper mosh pit and I am always amazed how many fans were squeezed into that narrow area. For the games when Liverpool or United visited Goodison, it was just a bobbing sea of heads, with the lucky two hundred standing at the back. The couple of photos I have from that day show a forest of heads, with occasional glimpses of match action. Chelsea, in all-red, scored first through the much maligned Jerry Murphy, but Everton equalised late on. I just remember being happy to be in another new ground, at last able to see for myself the famous church overlooking the north-west corner, the gargantuan main stand, the lovely double-deck stands on all four sides. To this day, Goodison remains one of my favourites.

On the return bus ride back to the city centre, the irritable natives bricked the bus, but an even more unpleasant fate was to befall us. After games at either Anfield or Goodison, there was usually a delay to get back to Lime Street and this allowed the locals to regroup and plan their cowardly attacks on away fans. On this particular occasion, we were “sussed” as we loitered for a few seconds on the train station forecourt. One Scouser kicked me in the back of the leg and on turning round –“oh God, here we go” – I was faced by a pack of locals. The three of us were chased by five or six scrawny Scousers from the Lime Street train station around the corner to the National Express coach depot. We scrambled aboard just as the Scousers caught up with us. It had been a narrow escape. Back in those days, with the spectre of Heysel everywhere you went, Liverpool was a tough old place on match days. The myth of the wise-cracking, football daft Scouser, peddled by the media, tells only half the story. The city housed some of the most violent football psychos of the time. On the main approach by train into Lime Street, for many years, a piece of daunting graffiti said it all –

“Cockneys Die.”

Liverpool away in the ‘eighties was no place for the feint hearted.

Ironically, the game at Goodison Park in March 1986 represented one of the last away days for the original Chelsea firm before “Operation Own Goal” kicked in around two weeks later. I seem to remember up-close and personal photos of the main Chelsea faces being shown on the news – and police surveillance photographs from that game at Goodison in particular.

They were crazy times really. It was the fear of getting hit which made every away game a battle of nerves. I was lucky to come through relatively unscathed – a lone punch to my face was my total involvement in football hooliganism and I am glad we have moved on.

Tuna, over from Atlanta for two games, was travelling north with Andy and the Nuneaton lot. As we drove past Stoke, we heard that they were just a mile or so ahead of us. I first met The Fishy Boy in Pittsburgh in 2004 and a Tuna story from a few years back is long overdue. For the two games in LA in 2007, I decided to save some beer money and take the cheap option on accommodation. I stayed at the Santa Monica youth hostel – inexpensive and central to the main action. After a night on the beer with the usual suspects, I managed to talk Tuna into kipping in my youth hostel dorm rather than schlep all of the way down to a mate of his in Marina Del Ray.

“It’ll be OK, Tunes – there was a spare bunk this morning…no worries, son.”

At around 3am, we stumbled into my room, but – horror – all of the spare bunk beds were now occupied.

“Here’s my blanket, Tunes – just sleep on the floor here, by the bathroom, nobody will know.”

“Alright son – cheers mate.”

Within seconds, we were both asleep, the beer taking its toll. Sorted. However, when I awoke momentarily at a very early stage the next morning, there was no sign of The Fishy Boy. Strange, I thought – but, still suffering from the beer intake, I dozed back to sleep. As I got up for good, my brain was a bit clearer and I began wondering what on earth had happened to Tuna. When I met up with him the next day, I had to enquire why he had left in the middle of the night. I just couldn’t work it out. Tuna replied that after an hour or so, the massive – and I’m talking massive – chap who had been sleeping in the bunk below me had got up and had wanted to use the bathroom. In the darkness, he stumbled into a sleeping Tuna. In a confused state, Tuna slowly awoke, rubbed his eyes, and had been confronted with a totally naked mass of blubber, hovering over him and pointedly asking

“What the HELL are you doing?”

At this stage in the re-enactment, I was sniggering like a schoolboy…and Tuna was shaking with laughter. Tuna had quickly gathered his clothes and scarpered, catching a cab outside the hostel and returning to his mate’s place further south.

“I had to go mate!”

On the final approach in to Liverpool, the grey skies miraculously vanished and the sun shone intensely. We had been playing some Prince Buster and other ska songs, especially for Burger as we had been driving north. “The Liquidator” started up and we joined in with the requisite clapping.

We strode into The Arkles at just after 11am and the place was already full of Chelsea. Parky got the beers in and I had a scout around. There they were – the Nuneaton lot, with Tuna too. A hug for The Fishy Boy – great to see him again. There was another good show from Nuneaton – eight all told. Whitey, wearing a lovely CP jacket, joined us for a few minutes. Parky told some jokes. I updated Tuna with news of a few of the lads from Frome. I noted more and more of those quilted Barbour jackets. Definitely the flavour of the month on the terraces at the moment. Andy and Parky were in nice Berghaus jackets, though – lightweight but warm. Just the job for a cold day at football. The skies were blue as we sauntered out of the boozer and made our way across Stanley Park and down towards Goodison. The white roof of the huge main stand was catching the sun. It was an impressive sight indeed. I texted my mate Francis, a Liverpool fan, and he asked if we would be taking Torres back with us.

The immediate area outside the away turnstiles of the Bullens Road was bathed in bright sunshine. Burger shot off inside to try to find a suitable location for his flag, while Parky and myself waited and spoke to a few faces. Parky then dived inside, no doubt hoping to have one last beer before the start. I took a few photos of the stadium, trying to catch a few quirky angles. I noted a new feature since my last visit in 2008 – a photographic “time line” of old photos and facts wrapping itself around the ground. A nice touch. Everton are the senior team in Liverpool of course – and played up the hill at Anfield in their first few years. For many years, Everton were the dominant force in the city too, with Goodison the grander stadium. Bill Shankly put a stop to all that.

However, while Chelsea won the F.A.Cup in April 1970 – the moment that undoubtedly caused me to pick Chelsea as my team – Everton won the league championship around the same time. How easy would it have been for me to choose The Blues of Liverpool and not London? I guess we will never know. Best not dwell too much on that.

Through the turnstiles and into the cramped under croft – yet more Barbour jackets, fans drinking Chang beer from plastic bottles, singing The Bouncy, the walls awash with blue and white signs. And then out into the sunny stadium. I found my seat in row 12, right next to Mo and her mate from Wrexham – just a short hop for them.

Then, the theme from “Z Cars” and the players emerged. Lots and lots of empty seats, though. The toffee girl was waiting with the two mascots on the centre circle. Handshakes with the captains.

We quickly serenaded the team with our version of “Hey Jude” (we were in Liverpool after all, eh?) and we then asked for Carlo – and Torres! – to “give us a wave.” We then followed this with a really impressive medley of songs for the majority of our players. Songs for Essien, Malouda, Frank, JT, Ivanovic, Drogba and Anelka. And Fernando Torres – with much laughter – to the tune, of course, of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

“La la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la, la la la la, la la la la…la la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la – Fernando Forres, Chelsea’s Number Nine.”

The Everton fans weren’t laughing out loud, but I bet they were smiling inside. Despite the early kick-off, I had the impression that a fair few Chelsea had been on the ale all morning. There was a nice buzz in the away section and the songs were coming thick and fast. The seats – on wooden floorboards – are tightly packed at Everton and I wondered if this helped.

Then the holy trinity of away songs – morphing as the song gathered momentum…

“You’re so quiet / it’s a 5hit-hole / you’re all w@nkers, Goodison.”

Although, I whispered to Mo – “I love this stadium. Proper old school.”

“Me too”, she agreed.

Michael Essien blasted high and John Terry headed over, but the songs echoed around the Bullens Road. Then, a Jack Rodwell shot was superbly saved in front of us by Petr. The game struggled to come alight. My eyes kept wandering over to various details of the massive two-tiered stand opposite. It provided an impressive backdrop as the game carried on below. I couldn’t but help notice the acres of empty seats, though. The F.A. Cup clearly doesn’t stir the emotions as it once did. The best chance of our half came after a lovely break from Ramires who played in Anelka, but his shot was blasted straight at Tim Howard.

Another song caused yet more mirth from us –

“No noise from the unemployed.”

And, for heaven’s sake, Everton really were deathly quiet. I timed them – they did not utter a single song of encouragement until 34 minutes had passed. Everton have always been quiet, but this broke all records. A Malouda rasper from 30 yards whistled past the post. Then – a period of surreal songs from the away 3,000. An appeal for “handball” by the denizens of the new version of the Park End – a boring single tier structure, so typical of the bland new stands of recent years – was met with much laughter from us. Burger was to tell me that a similar thing happened at Bolton. For the next ten minutes, the game was forgotten as we came up with song after song which replaced the word “Chelsea” with “handball.” We were roaring.

“You are my handball, my only handball; you make me happy when skies are grey…”

“Handball here, handball there, handball every f-ing where…”

“Handball, handball, handball, handball – tra la la la la…”(with associated bouncing.)

“And it’s super handball – super handball fc…”

“La la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la, la la la la, la la la la…la la la la, la la la la, la la la la – la la la la – Handball, Handball – Chelsea’s Number Nine.”

Brilliant stuff. The first-half petered out and I found it hard to remain focussed. All the singing had given me a headache.

During the half-time period, I took yet more photos of one of my favourite stadia. It did dawn on me, though, that in nine previous visits to Goodison, I had yet to see us lose. That could be a lot to do with my liking of Everton’s home stadium. ESPN’s commentary team appeared in the near corner, seated at an impromptu desk, along with the F.A. Cup itself. The summariser Ray Stubbs was sat alongside Kevin Keegan and Robbie Savage. We, of course, reminded Savage what he was – we were in one of those moods.

Everton came out before us after the break and Phil Neville was serenaded too. He gestured – “who, me?” with a smile. Fair play to him. He isn’t reviled as much as his odious brother. Everton started the far stronger in the second period. I noted that, in the shadows, the pitch was still quite frosty. We were labouring in the bright sun. We had no tempo and Anelka was very ponderous. Lamps was quiet. Our midfield played better at The Reebok. JT gave the ball away and Cech did so well to block. From a Baines corner, our nemesis Louis Saha leapt unchallenged and headed in at the Gwladys Street End.

Oh God.

The Everton fans were roused, with the self-deprecating “We only sing when we’re winning.”

We took a while, but eventually our spirits stirred. The appearance of Kalou as substitute brought about the usual selection of moans – from Mo and her mate, amongst others. Carlo does indeed to reach for Salomon as option number one these days. But still, all of us say he plays better when he comes off the bench. After a great save, a lovely sweeping move using a bursting Essien and Anelka, out wide, resulted in the ball being played into Kalou in the inside-right channel. He steadied himself – I snapped – and threw the defender off balance, then calmly clipped the ball into the goal. A perfect finish indeed.

Get in. We screamed and I turned to my left.

“Kalou! Kalou!” and Mo smiled.

Everton then seemed to have umpteen corners, but virtually all ended up in the safe hands of our great goalkeeper. Petr had a virtually blameless game and he is now back to his best. Then, the ball broke to our little dynamo Ramires and he struck a low drive at the base of the near post with Howard well beaten. A quiet Lampard was substituted. Then, the last action of the entire game – Ivanovic lost the ball, only for Beckford to slam a volley right at Petr Cech, who parried the venomous shot over.

I would have settled for a draw before the game and it was a fair result. The game came to life a little after the break, but it was far from a classic. Few players shone, apart from the magnificent Cech and the resurgent Essien. Oh well. We live to fight again.

It took a while to leave the car park on Stanley Park, but while we were waiting, Tuna was spotted and he had time to come over for a brief “goodbye.” His brief synopsis?

“What a dire game. I would have had more fun if I had gone ferreting.”

We listened to Five Live as we drove through Cheshire and Staffordshire. The Torquay vs. Crawley Town game was first up. On a day when the main story involving Chelsea was away from the actual game, Crawley even had an attacker called Torres. We dropped off Burger in Stafford at 5pm – he has a busy work schedule ahead, so we’re not so sure when he will be able to meet up for another game. We then listened to the Southampton vs. United game.

“Come on Saints!”

The drive south was very tiring indeed and I had to stop for a Red Bull and then again for a double espresso. At Strensham, we chatted for a while to two Bristol Rovers fans, on the way back from a pitiful 6-1 drubbing at previously bottom of the table Walsall. Oh boy. We briefly mentioned a game that three out of the four of us had seen almost 31 years ago – and the Bristol Rovers fan certainly had a glint in his eye when he spoke of that famous 3-0 Rovers win over Chelsea at Eastville back in the old second division. I let him have that little moment of glory – he needed cheering up.

I eventually reached home at 8pm, quite shattered. It had indeed been a long day. I am avoiding another long trip north on Tuesday, so my next game will be on Sunday against Liverpool. We will wait and see if a certain Spanish player fills that number nine void in our line up. It could be quite a game.

Tales From Miseryside

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 7 November 2010.

My sporting weekend began on Friday evening when San Francisco Bob, Lord Parky and I visited a local pub to see Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke, who were in the middle of a spate of appearances all over the United Kingdom. We had a great time. I have heard most of Ron’s stories from his playing days before, but it was refreshing to listen to Charlie’s tales from Scotland, England and America. I especially enjoyed Charlie’s reminiscences of playing amongst Docherty’s Diamonds. Tommy Doc was quite a character and I think there was a certain kinship between player and manager since they both came from hard-nosed working class areas in Scotland; Cooke, a Protestant, from Greenock on the banks of the Clyde and Docherty, a Catholic, from the bleakest of inner city areas of all, The Gorbals. We were whooping with laughter at the stories about Peter Osgood, Tommy Smith, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Charlton.

On the Saturday, Bob and I watched local Zamaretto League team Frome Town play Clevedon Town. My two friends from school days Steve and Francis were at the game too and it made a nice change. Steve was a big Bristol City fan as a youth and it is ironic that his eldest son Harry is now banging in the goals for one of Bristol Rovers’ academy teams. Frome came from 0-1 down to nab an unlikely 2-1 win with a goal in the very last minute. However, my elation was short-lived when Bob told me that Manchester United had also scored a last minute winner. Bloody Hell.

On the Sunday, it was Chelsea’s turn to play.

I collected Bob from his hotel in Frome Market Place and drove over to Westbury. From there, my friend Mark – with his daughter Kerry – took over the reins. By 10.30am, Lord Parky was aboard and we were on our way to Merseyside. I was feeling slightly jaded from a whirlwind pub crawl of my local town with Bob on the Saturday evening. Parky was his usual ebullient self, though, and we hadn’t reached Bath before he asked –

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

So, at last, a game in the North West without me at the wheel. I sat back and relaxed as Mark made good time. I first met Mark on that fateful day in April 1984 when we beat Dirty Leeds 5-0 and won promotion to the top flight. We reminisced about that day plus a few others from around that time. Parky and Mark’s mate Les phoned and asked about tickets for the Birmingham away game. This elicited a funny story from Lord Parky. Many years ago, Les used to work as a butcher in the Trowbridge firm of “Bowyers.” On one Saturday morning, Les did a morning shift and didn’t have time to get changed from his white butcher’s overalls. He drove Parky and a few other Trowbridge ruffians up to Chelsea in his car and parked up close to the ground. As a master butcher, he always kept his set of expensive knives in the car boot. As he hurriedly parked his car, his all-white tunic attracted the attention of a passing policeman, who was further taken aback when he glimpsed Les’ set of sparkling knives in the car boot.

“What’s going on here? What are you doing?” the copper asked of Les as the butcher’s robes were being discarded.

“Sorry, what do you mean? I’m getting out of my work clothes” replied Les, sensing the chance of some laughter.

“Why, what do you do?” the policeman asked.

Les looked him in the eyes and replied “I kill pigs.”

We drove past Tewkesbury and the Malvern Hills were shrouded in low-lying clouds to the west. Parky opened up a can of “Fosters” and almost covered himself in beer spray. After a couple of corrective gulps, he wiped his mouth with his hand and enquired –

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

I posed my favourite question about which football stadia can be seen within five minutes of each other in the Birmingham area and Kerry answered correctly. Incidentally, guess who Kerry is named after? Too easy, eh? Alan and Gary were on their way north on the Chelsea train and Burger and Julie were Liverpool-bound too. We shot past my former stomping ground of Stoke-On-Trent and Parky opened another lager.

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

Bob was taking it all in, with his excitement rising as each exit on the M6 was passed. This was to be Bob and Kerry’s first visit to the fields of Anfield Road, while Mark’s last visit was in 2002. I think Parky’s last visit was back in the ‘eighties. We flew over the Thirlwall Viaduct and then off at exit 23. Mark now had Liverpool in his sights and the chat got quicker and more intense.

We parked about a mile from Anfield and the weather was sunny, yet with quite a cold wind. As we crossed the road, a gaggle of Scousers were eyeing us up and asked the fabled question –

“Watch your car mate?”

To be truthful, Mark didn’t have a clue what they had said since it sounded more like “Washyercamate?”, that nasal Scouse accent to the fore. We ignored them and walked on by.

We walked through the Stanley Park cemetery, then out onto Utting Avenue. A chap dressed in an army uniform was playing “The Fields Of Athenry” on the bagpipes as we headed up the hill and another soldier had a bucket collecting for Remembrance Day. Our jackets were protecting us from the cold. We skipped past The Arkles as it looked too busy. Instead, we made our way to The Flat Iron. Pints were purchased and we made our way into the lounge bar just as “Going Underground” by The Jam started on the pub juke-box. How appropriate I thought. Going underground, going behind enemy lines, going undercover. We stayed there for about an hour, a little gaggle of Chelsea in one corner, surrounded by Scousers all around us. A lad called Andy joined us and it turned out that Andy has the fortune of sitting next to Parky in the Shed Lower. Small world, eh? We were then joined by Julie and Burger, then Cathy and Dog. I was still struggling with the remnants of my hangover, so regrettably didn’t join in further rounds. My mate Francis, a Liverpool fan, texted me to say that Essien wasn’t playing.

Oh dear.

Kelly was on way up from the city centre, along with his sister and wife. I met Kelly in Texas last summer and this was his first Chelsea game on English soil, albeit in that very strange part of England called Merseyside. Maybe there needs to be an asterisk there somewhere. At about 3.15pm, we decided to head off to circumnavigate the ground and take in the sights

As we headed towards the back of The Kop on Walton Breck Road, we passed five or six Scousers sitting on a low red brick wall. They were sporting tight dark jeans with old school Puma and Adidas trainers, like throwbacks to that golden era of Scallydom in the late ‘seventies. We soon found ourselves right underneath the red brick and grey roof supports of The Kop. Touts were looking for business, street traders were grafting away and there was the usual mix of sounds and smells of matchdays…those impenetrable thick Scouse accents, the shouts of fans, the smell of chips, the noise, the tribal routines and the anticipation.

The Bill Shankly statue was centre-stage. As Burger and Bob took a few photographs, I was reminded of a story which I heard Peter Osgood tell many years ago. He himself heard this story from the Liverpool hard man Tommy Smith and it centres on Bill Shankly, that tough and wily manager who first put Liverpool on the map. On a visit to Anfield in the mid-sixties, an un-named away team went 1-0 down in the first-half and endured a horrendous day, having to resort to desperate measures to keep Liverpool from scoring again and again. Wave after wave of Liverpool attacks were repelled, the woodwork was hit countless times and Liverpool should have been 5-0 up. Then, in virtually the last kick of the game, the away team miraculously broke up field and a ball was played into the waiting centre-forward. Liverpool had a ‘keeper called Tommy Lawrence at the time – he was bizarrely nicknamed The Flying Pig – and as the striker shot, the ball flew right through Lawrence’s legs and into the goal. The ref soon blew up and Lawrence was mortified. He was the last off the pitch, not wanting to face his team mates, nor – worse – the acid tongued Shankly. The changing room was silent and Lawrence took his seat. Not a word was said. Eventually, Shankly appeared and stood in the middle. No player dare look up. They should have killed the visitors off. After what seemed like ages, Lawrence looked up and spoke –

“Look boss, it’s my fault. I should have saved that shot. I should have kept my legs together.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Shankly barked in that tough Glasgow burr “No son…it was your mother who should have kept her legs together.”

Some character, Shanks.

We then edged around towards the away stand and walked through the Shankly Gates, erected soon after the passing of Bill Shankly in 1981. The gates were forged in my home town of Frome, strangely enough. We momentarily stood by the Hillsborough Memorial and I noted quite a few Scousers touching the black granite with 96 names etched in gold. I bought a copy of “CFCUK” and there was an obituary by Beth for her beloved friend Simon Turner. We heard another rumour that Drogba was on the bench.

Oh dear.

A few “hello mates” to the usual suspects as I made my way to my seat, right behind the Annie Road goal. Such a familiar view these days – this would be my seventeenth visit to Anfield, probably more than a lot of Liverpool fans. Bob and Kelly were sat just five rows behind us. Unfortunately, the pre-match rumours were true. Not only no Frank Lampard, but no Michael Essien and no Didier Drogba. The midfield three looked particularly second rate. A big game for Nico upfront. In the match programme, I loved seeing five or six black and white photographs from a Chelsea vs. Liverpool game from March 1978. I saw the game with my parents in the East Lower and we beat the reigning European champions 3-1 after going a goal down. Fantastic memories. Our goals were scored by the stalwarts from the America Tour of 2009, those likely lads Steve Finnieston and Tommy Langley. Tommy rates his first goal from that game as his best ever Chelsea strike.

Gerry and The Pacemakers did their usual turn and thousands of red and white scarves were held aloft. It seems hard to believe these days, but back in the ‘seventies and early ‘eighties, “YNWA” was not restricted to the terraces of Anfield. Back in those days, a lot of clubs used to mimic The Koppites. The Shed often used to sing “YNWA” and blue and white scarves were held overhead. Strange, but true.

We kicked-off and kept possession for 63 seconds. I think this was our best spell of that first-half. Joking aside, we were bloody awful. Liverpool chased us down at every opportunity and we had no time on the ball. Of course, Torres pounced on about ten minutes to outwit a tangled John Terry and neatly finish with a clipped flick to the far post. Seeing the net bulge made me feel ill. The home support roared and Torres reeled away. A sickening feeling. I just stared at the celebrating home fans and it hurt. Soon after, an Ashley Cole cross found Salomon Kalou who forced a great save from Pepe Reina. However, apart from a couple of long shots, I can’t remember any other Chelsea chances in that arid first period. I thought Mikel was solid, but Zhirkov and Ramires were sadly deficient. They were neither defending well, nor breaking forward in support of the stranded Anelka. I hadn’t seen a more insipid Chelsea midfield for quite a while. The one high spot of the half was watching Alex go up a gear to effortlessly beat Torres in a beautiful sprint for a loose ball. He was like a middle-distance runner turning it on during the last 100 metres of a race. Then of course, a slip by Ashley and the ball was splayed wide to Torres. I immediately sensed danger. Ivanovic should have forced him outside, but gave him too much room. Torres advanced, dropped a shoulder and craftily curled the ball past a stranded Cech and into the goal. The net bulged again and the Scousers roared even loader. Oh God. It pains me to say that the two Torres goals were of exceptional quality.

Long faces at half time. I said to Gary “I can’t see us getting back into this, mate. In fact, I can see us conceding more.” I wanted a big team talk from Carlo at half-time. He’d have to change things. Bringing on Drogba was a no-brainer.

The second-half was, of course, much better. However, could we really have played any worse? We enjoyed a lot more of the ball. On 59 minutes, Ramires rose and headed over from a Cole cross and this stirred the away support. We had been standing all game and we never stopped cheering the lads on. As we got more and more into the game, the Scousers quietened down. This was a lot better and we urged the team forward. I was thoroughly enthralled in the game – though it never felt like we would get the goals back. However, I was kicking every ball, heading every cross, sliding in with every tackle.

The Scousers sang of “No History” and “Rent Boys.”

“At least it’s a job!” retorted Alan.

One thing annoyed me. Drogba was tackled but was not given a free-kick. With rising anger, I watched him slowly get up – with a Chelsea attack developing around him – and slowly walk twenty yards towards the penalty area, oblivious to the play to his left. At one stage, the ball was played to him and he was facing the wrong way. Groin strain or no groin strain, this sort of behaviour is not wanted at Chelsea Football Club. However, I suddenly realised that Liverpool had hardly touched the ball during the previous fifteen minutes.

“Come On Chelsea.”

A great show of strength from Drogba – at last! – and a ball was slammed into Malouda, but his shot was saved at point blank range by Reina. We groaned like never before. Despite good wing play from substitute Bosingwa and the lively Ashley Cole, we didn’t carve out many real chances. John Terry often raced forward to support the attack, but Liverpool defended resolutely. Carlo made some changes and Sturridge had a couple of half chances. I couldn’t believe that Ramires wasn’t substituted, though. The game passed him by completely. I was really pleased that hardly anybody amongst the 3,000 Chelsea loyalists left before the end of the game. We stayed with it. We all knew how important this game was. Anelka hit the bar from close in with five minutes to go and the ball spun back into the lucky Reina’s arms. We just knew it wasn’t to be our day.

Where was The Flying Pig when we needed him?

We marched back to the car and we were soon headed south. Within a few minutes of getting onto the M6, Parky inevitably asked –

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

We had the predictable post-mortem…why didn’t Didier start, why were Yuri and Ramires so poor, how did we give Liverpool so much space? I felt tired and, for once, I was able to get some sleep…a rare luxury for me on Chelsea match day journeys. By the time we had stopped at Stafford for some refreshments, the mood had lightened a little. I commented to Mark that we ought to put this into perspective. We were depressed after an awful first-half, but there are thousands of football fans who travel the congested roads of England and Wales in support of their teams and, for many, there is no end to the agony, no end to the run of defeats, no cash, no future, no light at the end of the tunnel. Only the friendships of fellow fans to get them through the murky gloom.

Back in the car, Parky opened up another can.

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

Mark made good time and Parky kept us all in good spirits with joke after joke. It was great to be laughing again. I’m not saying that the Liverpool debacle was swept under the carpet, but I was pleased that we were reacting to defeat with typical gallows humour. Proper Chelsea. We chatted non-stop for a while about all sorts…Tiswas, Sally James, The Liver Birds, favourite sandwiches, Lily the Pink, beans on toast, Donald McGill seaside postcards and yet more Parky jokes. Some good, some bad. After one particularly poor example, nobody laughed and there was a pregnant pause…

“Are we there yet, Mark?” I asked.

Parky was shoved out of the car at 10pm…”see you on Wednesday, mate.” Goodbyes to Mark and Kerry at Westbury and a goodbye to The Bobster in Frome. It had been a bad day at the office, but we have two winnable home games coming up.

Let’s regroup and go again.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

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