Tag Archives: Fireworks

Tales From A Night Of Fun

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Chelsea vs. Watford : 15 May 2017.

Friday was bloody magnificent, wasn’t it?

And now Chelsea, after winning the sixth title in our history at The Hawthorns, after a week of rising tension, were following this up with a home game against Watford on Monday. The absolute high from the game at West Brom had not really subsided, but there was a certain strangeness in the air as I drove up to West London with Parky and PD. There was a feeling of inevitable anti-climax, but we took that on the chin. That was certain. It was to be expected. In “The Goose” beforehand – rain clouds overhead dampening the mood a little – there was celebratory talk from Friday with those who had travelled, but the overall feeling was of “after the Lord Mayor’s Show.” In truth, of course, we would not wish to be anywhere else on the planet.

We quickly chatted about the potential team line-up, and I only predicted a few changes.

How wrong I was.

Begovic

Zouma – Terry – Ake

Azpilicueta – Kante – Chalobah – Kenedy

Willian – Batshuayi – Hazard

Compared to our first-choice starting eleven, only two players (N’Golo and Eden) were in their own positions. It seemed like a “B” team. But I wasn’t honestly bothered. With the FA Cup Final looming, I was sure that a strong team would be chosen against Sunderland. It was only right that a few fringe players were picked against Watford.

As I turned the corner and approached the West Stand, I grabbed a programme and soon spotted the new grand signage on the West Stand.

“Home of the Champions.”

It felt good.

Our fifth title in thirteen seasons. Some fans don’t know they are born. Of course, I don’t begrudge the younger element of our support anything; that would be churlish. But it did make me think. If I had seen a Chelsea title in my first season of active support at the age of eight, by the time I was twenty-one, I would have seen a total of five. I find this ridiculous, but for many young Chelsea fans in 2017 this is their actual story.

“Just like the Scousers” as my mate Andy had commentated at The Hawthorns on Friday, referencing their pomp in our shared childhood.

Indeed.

I do not wish to get too maudlin, but I have come to accept – and bizarrely, be thankful for – our championship draught from 1955 to 2004. It has made me appreciate the good times even more. And that is fine with me.

Outside and inside, I greeted a few pals with the same words –

“Alright, champ?”

I had commented to PD that I half-expected a fair few empty seats around the stadium – there had been a lot of spares up for grabs on “Facebook” in the morning – but I was very pleased that the place was filling up nicely. At kick-off, hardly any seats in the home areas were not used. However, Watford only had around 2,000 in their end. The gaping hole in their section was shocking. The “Home of the Champions” signage had been added to the balconies of all the stands too. A nice touch. Just before the teams entered the pitch, “CHAMPIONS” banners were draped from the upper tier of The Shed.

“Park Life” gave way to “The Liquidator” and the Watford team – the starting eleven in white to the right, the subs in red to the left – formed a guard of honour. John Terry, almost certainly for the last time, lead the Chelsea team on to the pitch. Flame-throwers in front of the East Stand blasted orange fingers of fire into the evening air. The noise was thunderous.

Down below, I spotted Cathy, who had been hit with ill-health during the game on Friday. She had come straight from a Middlesex hospital. It was reassuring to see her in her usual seat. Her home record – every game since the mid-seventies – was intact.

Very soon into the match, the surreal tone for the ensuing evening was set when the entire crowd roared “Antonio, Antonio, Antonio” and the manager slowly turned a complete circle and clapped all of the four corners of the packed stadium. This often happens, but usually much later. This was within the first two minutes. Just a few seconds after, the Chelsea fans followed this up with a chant aimed at the fellows in second place, a full ten points adrift now.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

We began brightly enough and were on the front foot. It was odd to see so many different players on the pitch at the same time. A header back to Begovic by John Terry was loudly cheered, but we soon got used to him. Unlike his previous substitute appearance, not every touch was cheered.

However, that was soon to change.

We had created a few half-chances, and then Willian pumped in a corner from our right. King Kurt rose to head the ball goal wards, and the ball was slammed past Gomes. As the goal scorer reeled away, I soon realised that it was John Terry. Perfect. Oh bloody perfect. He ran towards the fans, jumped up – right in front of Parky, the lucky sod – and was engulfed by his fellow players. A lovely moment. A goal on his last start for Chelsea? Probably.

Chelsea 1 Watford 0.

I looked towards Alan, and waited for him to turn towards me and utter his usual post-goal exclamation. I waited. And waited. And waited. He was watching the match. I glanced over to my left just as Watford forced a very rapid equaliser. I only saw the ball cross the line.

Alan and myself had words.

“I’m blaming you for that.”

We laughed.

As the game progressed, we remained dominant. As if in some sort of subtle homage to our captain, the impressive Nathaniel Chalobah chest-passed a ball to a team mate. He loves a chest-pass, does John Terry. With a similar touch to that which set up our first goal at Wembley against Spurs, Michy Batshuayi was able to flick a ball on with a quite beautiful touch. It had the feel of an exhibition match, with tricks and flicks never far away. Willian was especially full of energy. Hazard went close. On thirty-five minutes, a move from our left forced a save from Watford ‘keeper and captain Gomes. It fell to Dave, who slammed the ball hard and low into the net.

Get in.

Chelsea 2 Watford 1.

More wild celebrations over in Parkyville. Flags waving, the crowd roaring. Super stuff.

It had been a fine half of football. It was amazing to see N’Golo eat up space with such desire and win ball after ball. Kenedy – “I didn’t know Bart Simpson was playing” quipped Alan – was looking to get forward at every opportunity. Dave, unfettered now in a wide position, had enjoyed a fine half too. Kurt Zouma, usually so stiff, seemed a lot more relaxed. All was good.

Kerry Dixon was on the pitch at half-time. However, he did not take part in the usual walkabout on the pitch.

Both Alan and myself, at the same time, spoke : “He’s getting back to the bar.”

Soon into the second-half, a short corner eventually broke to Nathan Ake, who played the ball on to Batshuayi. It was an easy chance.

“He always scores against Watford.”

Chelsea 3 Watford 1.

Unbelievably, and to our annoyance, Watford scored again. Janmaat danced through – waltzing past many blue shirts – and curled one past Begovic. It was a fine goal.

Despite this setback, the mood inside the stadium was still light. The MHL began to get the other stands involved.

“West Stand give us a song” – they did.

“Shed End give us a song” – they did.

“Watford give us a song” – they didn’t.

More songs for Antonio, for JT, for Willian. Batshuayi was involved, getting a couple of shots on target. Two shots from Dave too. But then our play became a little disjointed. Watford, aided by some dubious refereeing decisions, were able to move the ball through our tiring midfield. Watford had replaced Niang with Okaka – “who?” from Alan and yours truly – and we were left eating our words when a cross was pumped into our box, the ball fell between Terry and Zouma, and the substitute slammed home, with Chelsea unable to clear. And the previously mute Watford fans sang loud and danced like fools.

“Bollocks.”

Behrami slashed a drive just past the post. Janmaat blasted over.

“Come on Chels, fackinell”

This was turning in to a very odd game. Three-all. Sigh. I was reminded of our 2005/06 title procession, when heading in to Christmas we hardly conceded any goals. I can well remember how we then proceeded to win 3-2 versus Fulham on Boxing Day. At the time it seemed like a ridiculous goal fest. Of course, our defence has been more porous of late, but this still seemed odd.

We had conceded three goals. At home. Against Watford. Oh boy.

This was hardly our worst effort in a championship season of course. In 1954/55, we lost 5-6 to Manchester United. Sorry, I won’t mention it ever again.

Not to worry, as he has done so often this season, Conte pulled some tactical strings. On came Ola Aina for Kenedy. On came Cesc Fabregas for Chalobah. On came Pedro for Michy, who received a lovely reception. Deep down, I was confident that we would spring a late goal. We pressed and pressed. Substitute Cesc forced Gomes to save from a dipping free-kick. The same player then went close at an angle inside the six-yard box. The pressure mounted. With just two minutes remaining, the excellent Willian rolled the ball square to Fabregas, who bobbled a shot low past Gomes.

Chelsea 4 Watford 3.

“Get in.”

What a crazy game.

In the final moments, Prodl was sent off for a second yellow. There was no way back for the visitors.

Phew. The final whistle blew.

Above, fireworks flew up in to the night sky from above the East and West Stands. Blue and silver tinsel streamers fell from the roofs.

“Blue Is The Colour” boomed.

Some fans disappeared into the night, and we should have set off for a quick getaway too, but we saw the players line up to race over to those still in The Shed. PD and myself decided to stay on too. We watched as the players – and Antonio – slowly walked towards us in the Matthew Harding. This was a surprise. Had someone not realised that our final home game was on Sunday? With flames, fireworks and tinsel in evidence for this penultimate game, I honestly wondered what we had in store for the trophy presentation itself.

Anything less than a fly-past by the Red Arrows with billowing jets of blue and white and I will be writing a letter of complaint, Roman.

Antonio was, unwittingly perhaps, the star of the show again, leading the cheers and lapping up the warm adoration from the stands. But my eyes were on John Terry too. What emotions were racing through his mind? The goal must have warmed him. What a satisfying moment. I had always hoped that he would score a net-stretching scorcher from outside the box, but virtually all of his goals have been close range headers and prods from inside the six-yard box. One of his finest goals was a volley – I forget the opposition – at the Shed End when he changed shape mid-air to flick the ball home. Not to worry. This night was his, even though I was to learn that he was at fault for the first equaliser.

Antonio grabbed an inflatable Premier League trophy from a fan behind the goal, and gleefully smiled the widest of smiles. His legendary status grows.

The three of us met up at “Chubby’s Grill” and continued the season-long tradition of “cheeseburger with onions please love.” It had been a fun night to be honest. I won’t dwell on a few deficiencies; it is not the time for silly analysis after such a game.

I began the drive home. It would be the last midweek flit of the season. I was glad that there would be no more. And then I realised that I should not complain. If anything, it made me appreciate the long hours that fans across the country put in week in and week out in support of their chosen teams. Fair play to all of them. The ones who follow mid-table teams, locked in to another season of obscurity, and the ones who support those teams in relegation dogfights are especially worthy of praise. These are the real stars of the football world. This season – as champions – was a relative breeze for me and my trusted Chuckle Bus.

Nevertheless, I would eventually reach home at 1am. I would not, as always, be able to go straight to sleep. I would eventually nod off at 1.45am. Four hours of sleep would leave me exhausted the following day at work.

As I once commented to a work colleague, who admitted that he could never do what I do in support of my team :

“I bloody love it, mate.”

As do many others.

See you all on Sunday.

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Tales From An Evening Of Fireworks And Flags

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 13 February 2016.

It had been a bitterly cold afternoon in SW6. My pre-match had run along pretty typical lines; sorting tickets for future games, meeting up with mates, flitting between Stamford Bridge and the pub. Match day at Chelsea, although so familiar to me, always throws up a nice few surprises. On this occasion, there was a few brief words with Colin Pates and John Bumstead, stalwarts from my youth. I briefly mentioned that I had seen that the two of them had popped in to “The Chelsea Pensioner” after a recent home game, and it was evident that they had clearly enjoyed themselves. Colin, once our captain, laughed as he said “it was 1984 all over again.”

Ah, 1984.

1984 was one of the great Chelsea years, and it straddled two classic seasons. On a day when our old foes Newcastle United were visiting the Fulham Road once again, I didn’t need much persuasion for my mind to travel back to the home game in 1983/1984 against the Geordies when a dribble from Pat Nevin still sends shivers down my spine, and the away game, when five thousand away fans descended on St. James’ Park.

Just recently, I spotted some action from that away game, in March 1984, on “You Tube” and it managed to get me all excited and wistful at the same time. This piece of grainy film, just over a minute in length, brought back some lovely memories. I had no recollection of ever seeing this clip before. It’s wonderful. It includes a fleeting shot of Colin Pates, it includes a wonderful Pat Nevin to Kerry Dixon to David Speedie passage of play which lead to our goal, it includes a magnificent shot of the Pringle-clad Chelsea hordes going mental, it includes a classic back heel from Kevin Keegan setting up Terry McDermott’s equaliser, and it includes a beautiful Peter Beardsley shimmy. What memories from almost thirty-two years ago.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8yqG0IfPYI&app=desktop

In the pub, there was time for a little examination of our current woes. Both Daryl and I concluded that the club, not for the first time in the reign of Abramovich, has no direction. We seem to be a rudderless ship, adrift. We spoke of Allegri and Conte, but of no three or five year plan. We wondered what the future would bring. Mike, from New York, was with us, and the three of us were able to chat briefly about the last time we had been together, in New York, watching the Mets, in the warmth of a June evening.

On the walk back down to Stamford Bridge, I was lamenting my choice of jacket. I had chosen a rain jacket, but there was no rain. I should have opted for something warmer. I was bloody freezing. On a day when I was driving, I had chosen not to drink once again. My pre-match tipples were coffees and “Coke.” How typical that on a day that Singha were providing a free bottle of lager for every fan, I had chosen to stay dry.

I was inside in good time. I was aware that there would be fireworks before the game, so I wanted to be positioned to take a few photographs. I’m not honestly sure what I felt about all this. I normally roll my eyes at this sort of nonsense. It would be the first time that Chelsea would be setting fireworks off before a game, though in the depths of my memory, I recalled a game from 1995 where something similar was planned. For the return leg of our ECWC tie against Bruges, the now defunct Chelsea Independent Supporters Association had asked if they could let off some fireworks from the remains of The Shed, in the days when there was just that temporary stand at the southern end of the stadium, as the players entered the pitch. From memory, the Health & Safety Executive had said “no.” That was a shame, but the atmosphere from that cracking game still ranks as one of the best-ever at Stamford Bridge in my forty-two years of attending matches, despite the crowd being limited to just 28,000.

Neil Barnett announced the team. With Kurt Zouma injured and out, sadly, for months, Gary Cahill was recalled to start alongside John Terry. Fabregas was chosen to start in a deeper role, allowing Willian, Hazard and Pedro to support Diego Costa.

The stadium lights dimmed, and the fireworks flew above both the East and West Stands. In just over five seconds, it had finished. It was hardly November 5th or July 4th.

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The smoke from the fireworks lingered for a while and this added to the sense of coldness and greyness.

Over in the far corner, one and a half thousand Geordies – one flag – were singing the praises of their team. The traditional black and white shirts have been altered to include splodges of light blue this season; heaven knows why.

A fantastic move set us on our way after just four minutes. Willian, on the half-way line, burst away from his marker and raced up field. With Bournemouth Steve and myself urging him to shoot, he continued deep in to the Newcastle half before expertly playing in Diego Costa, who touched the ball past the advancing Newcastle ‘keeper. It was a fine goal.

“Get in.”

Diego raced over to the corner flag, and I snapped away. Such is my vantage point that on many occasions, the flags being brandished in front of the west stand almost appear to wrap themselves around the huddle of players.

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Soon after, we were recreating that scene. A terrible pass from a Newcastle defender was pick-pocketed by Pedro, who advanced on goal alone. His steadied left foot shot was firmly planted inside the waiting goal. More celebrations, more cheers, more flags.

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Newcastle had, to be fair, a few corners to their name, so it was not all one-way traffic, but our attacks were rapier-like and clinical.

Soon after, Diego Costa chased a long ball and my first thoughts were that Coloccini would easily beat our masked raider to the ball. Instead, the floppy haired defender appeared to be treading in quicksand. Diego ably won the race, beat his man, and then played in the onrushing Willian with a ball that dissected the two defenders. His shot was slammed in at the near post. Rather than complete a hat-trick of players wrapped in swirling flags, Willian decided to celebrate in front of the away fans. He went to toon.

Seventeen minutes had passed and we were three-nil up.

Phew.

Immediately I thought back to past games. Newcastle United have been on the receiving end of some horrific score lines over the years at Stamford Bridge. Everyone from my generation focusses on the 4-0 in 1979/1980, the 6-0 in 1980/1981 and the 4-0 in 1983/1984. But from seasons 2002/2003 to 2005/2006 we recorded scores of 3-0, 5-0, 4-0 and 3-0.

I daydreamed of further goals.

To be fair to the travelling away fans, they never stopped singing.

“Newcas-ul, Newcas-ul, Newcas-ul.”

“Is this a library?”

“Three-nil and yez still don’t sing.”

Newcastle were all at sea defensively and Diego Costa came close, and Pedro finished meekly when more likely to score. Only Andros Townsend and Jonjo Shelvey appeared to have any desire and skill within the Newcastle ranks.

Sadly, we were concerned when John Terry was substituted before half-time. We hoped that it was a precautionary measure ahead of Tuesday’s trip to Paris, rather than a real threat. Ivanovic shuffled over to partner Cahill, with Dave playing at right back and the new boy Baba at left back.

Willian went close with a trade-mark free kick, but Elliot scrambled down to save well.

Although it was clear that we were up against a pretty poor team, there was a buoyant mood at the break. Our play was crisp and incisive, with Willian, Pedro and Diego Costa pressing high. Full marks to all. I hoped for further fun in the second-half.

Newcastle United began the stronger in the opening period of the second-half, but a lightning break gave us our fourth goal on the hour. Fabregas was in acres of space. A perfectly weighted high ball dropped sweetly for Pedro, just avoiding the ineffectual challenge of the last man, and he calmly right-footed it past the ‘keeper.

4-0.

Shades of 1980, 1984 and 2004.

Betrand Traore replaced Diego Costa, who received a magnificent reception in acknowledgment of his fine performance. The memory of Costa getting booed by a section of the crowd is a distant memory.

The Newcastle fans kept singing. There was even a small but noticeable round of clapping from the home support acknowledging it. I like the Geordies. A fine footballing race.

Shelvey, clearly frustrated, lashed out and was booked, but he was able to still play a few beautifully architectured balls out to team mates. He has a nice touch despite his thuggish appearance.

Baba seemed to be a little more relaxed, a little more at ease in his own skin. But, of course, it is amazing what a little confidence can do to a team. If only we had enjoyed a few early goals in our opening league game of 2015/2016, perhaps we would be experiencing a quite different season.

A fine low cross from Dave found Traore at the near post, and he swept it in, before racing over to the far corner to celebrate with a leap in front of the fans.

Hazard, slowly getting back to his best, came close, but his effort bobbled wide.

Sadly, Andros Townsend – widely booed for his Tottenham past – messed up the score line with a well taken goal on ninety minutes. Seeing Newcastle score really annoyed me.

I thought to myself…”when they get beaten heavily at Chelsea, they never bloody score.”

5-1 seemed odd. Strange. Out of place.

5-0 would have worked so much better.

It was an enjoyable game, though. It would be churlish of me to hark on about the inadequacies of our opponents. We had played well. I fear for Newcastle United though. I hope they stay up. We go back a long way, the Geordies and little old me. Plus, “Newcastle away” is one of the very best trips still left for us to enjoy.

This was my thirty-ninth game of the season. I have only missed the away game in Kiev. Already this season, there have been eight plane trips, cars, cable cars, trains, tube trains and coaches. It has been a blast. However, I soon decided not to travel to Paris after we were drawn again with PSG, and so I will miss my second game of the season on Tuesday.

My next one will be the Manchester City FA Cup game on Sunday.

Until then, for anyone travelling to Parc des Princes, please stay safe.

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