Tales From An American Away Day

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

MLS All-Stars vs. Chelsea : 25 July 2012.

It was game day in Philadelphia.

The Chelsea faithful had traveled down by buses, trains and automobiles from New York and were awaiting the third game of the US 2012 Tour. After the rather average performance by the team against Paris St. Germain, we were all hoping for a better showing against the MLS team in the All-Star game in nearby Chester, a small town to the south, which plays host to the Philadelphia Union team. All of us were adamant that the patchy support at Yankee Stadium would be trumped by some loud and loyal singing from the cramped corner segment of PPL Park, too. In this scenario, less would definitely be more. There would be more passionate fans in a tighter area. It just had to be a winner. It was a theme that resounded throughout meetings with fellow fans in Philly.

However, NYC was still on my mind; my troubled mind. Personally, I was still trying to get to grips with what I had witnessed in NYC. I had seen Chelsea play in Yankee Stadium and yet I was somewhat unsure of the whole experience. To be truthful – and I always knew this – I was still missing old Yankee Stadium. Sure, the record books will show that Chelsea played at the shining new edifice in the South Bronx, but deep down I was struggling to rationalise the reasons why I felt it was so odd to be a spectator in the new place.

I guess the facts speak for themselves. Between May 1990 and June 2008, I had seen 23 Yankee games in old Yankee stadium. Those memories will never be erased. The Mattingly home run in my first-ever game, a couple of magnificent wins against Boston, the first ever Yankees vs. Mets series in 1997, a David Cone master class, a Jorge Posada grand slam…Paul O’Neil, Wade Boggs, Bernie Williams, Tino Martinez…Derek Jeter…Mariano Rivera.

I am so grateful that I chose the Yankees as my team because I truly felt at home in the tight passageways beneath the towering upper deck of that historic ballpark on River Avenue. The place will always be with me. I guess it was typical New York; grimy, claustrophic, rowdy, monumental.

The new stadium just doesn’t thrill me in the same way.

So, there was all that floating around inside my addled head. For a day or so, I was also rueing the fact that I never really had the chance to say a proper farewell to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn. The plan was for them to meet us down at Legends after the game, but they got caught behind some horrendous traffic and so decided to head up to Roma’s brother’s house in Massachusetts instead as time was moving on. There would be no hugs for them all. It left me a little sad.

However, after the adrenalin-filled action of NYC, Philadelphia was proving to be much more relaxing. The four of us were certainly enjoying our fantastic apartment right on Benjamin Franklin Parkway. From our balcony, we could see the Rocky Steps to our left and the City Hall to our right. The apartment was so big that we had to text each other to communicate. The bedroom had a different zip code to the kitchen. The rooftop pool was a fantastic extra. Philadelphia was superb.

This was my fifth visit to the City of Brotherly Love and I joked that it was “typical Chelsea” that I keep getting pulled back to the same cities in the US as the team does during European competitions; how many times have we visited Porto, Valencia, Rome and Marseille?

Although I would class NYC as my favourite US city, Philly is rapidly becoming a bit of an obsession. I mentioned to a few Chelsea fans that my great great grandparents lived in the city in the middle of the nineteenth century – after getting shipwrecked off the coast of Newfoundland – before returning back to England. My great grandmother was born in England, but at least one of her siblings was born in America. My personal knowledge of this slice of my past is rather sketchy, but my mother always wanted to visit Philadelphia on the back of this story. So, in 2010, my mother and I spent a very memorable week in the city. It is a week I will never forget. On several occasions, I trembled when I realised that Benjamin and Barbara White may have walked the same steps in the 1850’s.

In 2012, Philly was treating me well.

On the Monday, Captain Jack had taken a half-day off work to show a few of us around his adopted city; it was a marvellous walk through a few blocks of the historic centre, ending up with a cheese steak at the legendary “Jim’s” on South Street. This was followed by an equally wonderful visit to see the Phillies defeat Milwaukee 7-6. The others were feeling tired and headed home when the home team were 6-3 down, but I stayed the course and was rewarded with four runs in the bottom of the ninth. This was my fourth Philly game in the city and although the Yanks are my team, I did let my mind wander a little and wonder if I should really have chosen the red of Philly over the navy of the Bronx in lieu of my own personal history.

Nah, what am I thinking?

Everyone knows that Randolph Axon once lived in a little tenement off Grand Concourse in the Bronx in the first few years of the last century.

“I hadda come back to England see. Da police were on my tail and I hadda run.”

Good old uncle Randolph.

On the Tuesday – a really lazy day – we were lucky enough to meet some of the players as they boarded the coach for a practice session outside the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, overlooking the City Hall.

We were memorably tipped-off about the players’ hotel on the Monday when we were returning to our hotel. A cab slowed down and none other than Andy Wray shouted over to us. His first words were not about Chelsea, though. Typical Andy; he pointed to a nearby restaurant and shouted –

“That place does great food.”

Welcome to Philly!

Our good fortune in meeting the players reminded me so much of my time in Chicago in 2006. I still rate this as my favourite CFC trip to the US, despite our 1-0 defeat and despite it being the only game of the trip. It was, quite simply, a perfect few days in the Windy City. On the very first night, myself, Roma – plus her daughters Vanessa and Jenny – and my mate Chris met virtually all the Chelsea players outside the team hotel, no more than 300 yards from our hotel just off Magnificent Mile.

On this trip, however, I became more integrated with the fans from America. During my two previous trips – 2004 in Pittsburgh, in 2005 in DC and NYC – we mainly kept to ourselves.

In 2006, though, the floodgates opened and I was lucky enough to meet many US-based fans. Since then, my Chelsea life has taken a wonderful – unplanned – route all of its own.

I’m just so grateful.

After spending a few hours in “Tir Na Nog” on the Tuesday evening – nice and easy, meeting a few new Chelsea fans – we retired to the pub which was part of the same building as our apartment. We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxi cab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.

As he approached the bar, I started chanting

“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”

This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –

“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The 5hit From The Lane.
Have Won Fcuk All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.”

We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser.

To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.

As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.

By the way, the look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.

I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers all the time back in England.”

We were still laughing about this incident when we arose from our slumber on the Wednesday. We had no real plans for the day, but I soon received a text from Steve Mantle about walking over to the Rocky Steps with the four official Chelsea banners in order for photographs to be taken.

Now, that sounded like a magnificent idea.

Despite the sun bearing down on us, we assembled at Tir Na Nog and set off.

I had previously run up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 2008 – it is surely the most important thing that anyone must do in Philadelphia – and so I knew what to expect. The steps were perfect for a photograph. I stood at the base and conducted the proceedings. We elicited the assistance of a few willing tourists and I shouted instructions from below.

With everyone in place, I snapped away like a fool, knowing full well that Chelsea would be using some of the photographs in an upcoming magazine or programme. We created a bit of a scene to be honest and I guess it is the nearest I’ll ever get to being part of a flash mob.

We engaged in conversations with a few fellow fans and met a young lad wearing a Frank Lampard shirt who would be taking part in the on-game ceremonies later that day at the game.

In truth, the twenty minutes we spent under the baking sun at the Rocky Steps were one of the highlights of the whole trip.

And, no – I didn’t run to the top of the flights of steps and yell

“Yo Adrian Mutu.”

I changed into my 1989 Chelsea shirt and met up with the Chelsea faithful in Tir Na Nog at just after 5pm. Amongst the mass of blue, I was very pleased to be able to meet Captain Jack’s family; his wife Teri and their three lovely daughters called in to say “hi” and I was able to start the slow but thorough dialogue with Teri which will eventually lead to Captain Jack being allowed across the ocean to see Chelsea play at The Bridge.

In fact, there is a humorous sub story here. Teri once lived in South Kensington for a short amount of time – way back when Chelsea were mere mortals – and has actually stepped foot inside Stamford Bridge.

Come on Teri – let Steve at least even the score.

I then did a very silly thing.

I did a “Zigger Zagger” and scared the three girls to death.

I had a very quick word with Frank Sinclair and I thanked him for his kind comments about my performance on the five-a-side pitch in New York. He seemed to be enjoying himself on the tour. I can pay him no bigger a compliment than this; when we used to call in on Ron Harris in the ‘nineties, Frank was always a player who Ron rated. Frank was maybe not the most skilful, but a player who always tried his hardest. A player of guts and determination.

Good one, Frank.

As I wandered around the pub, bumping into a few old friends – and a few new ones – I noticed some Chelsea fans not joining in with the songs. I secretly tut-tutted to myself and hoped for solidarity later on that evening. It would be no time for shyness or indifference.

At 6pm, we were told to board the fleet of four yellow school buses which had assembled in the little side street outside the pub.

Another surreal experience, another typically American moment, another memory for me to take away with me.

Yellow school buses.

How quintessentially American. How hugely untypically Chelsea.

School buses.

The sight of us piling into the yellow vehicles still brings a smile to my face.

We were allowed to drink beer on the 45 minute journey to PPL Park. As the four buses roared along I-95, and then got caught in commuter traffic, and then raced each other, with fans gesticulating wildly at each other, with the skyscrapers of downtown Philadelphia in the background, it was a wonderful moment.

Why can’t all Chelsea away games be like this, full of excited fans, smiling faces, with none of the surliness shown by sections of our usual support?

The beer was going down well and the songs were roaring. We had two Seattle Sounders fans on our bus and they led the way; others followed. Speedy was in good form and I followed with a few old favourites. There is nothing like a beer to keep your throat well-oiled. I chatted to a few new faces and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

In fact, I didn’t really want the journey to end.

We were eventually dropped off way past the stadium. Beth was far from pleased and I could understand her displeasure. Out in the bright evening sun, I soon chanced upon a few familiar faces that were having a little all-American tailgate. Beers were handed out and we even had a little kick-about. Tim from Philly, Mike from New York, Matthew from New York wearing a vintage NASL Memphis Rogues T-shirt.

At the baseball game on the Monday, I had chosen to wear a Philadelphia Fury shirt in honour of the great Peter Osgood who played for them during the summer of 1978.

The time was moving on. Away in the distance, the stadium looked a picture. Beyond, the Commodore Barry Bridge – again, so typically American – was proving to be just as magnificent.

By this time, my head was buzzing, but I knew I had to get inside the stadium in order to get a share of some the pre-match atmosphere. I was also concerned about getting a fair share of photographs.

I began the long walk to PPL Park, with the sun just starting to set to the west. By now, I had lost contact with everyone and was – ahem – walking alone. At the pub, I had met a Chelsea fan who was wearing a bona fide shirt from 1991 – Commodore – and I met another one just outside the stadium.

I had a little banter with a few Union fans; friendly, in the main.

I did wonder, though, why so many fans were wearing scarves.

In July.

It seems that the US “soccer” fan base has clearly decided that a scarf is the de facto mark of football subculture, whereas – in reality – very few regulars wear scarves at Chelsea.

Discuss.

I bumped into Kev outside. Kev sits no more than eight seats away from me at Chelsea and we have been keeping each other updated with stories and rumours of this 2012 tour for what seems like an eternity.

Now, we were both there in the flesh.

Brilliant.

I was amongst friends in the Chelsea section at PPL Park. We were positioned at the top of the terrace. A few yards to my right were Funchficker and Mrs. Funchficker, Lottinho, The Bobster, Captain Jack and Speedy. Alongside me was Rey, from Los Angeles, and I was so pleased to see him again. Behind – a real surprise – was Mike Dutter and I haven’t seen him for ages. Phil was there with the Iowa Blues. Beyond – the OC Hoolifans, Mike Price at only his second ever Chelsea game, the Boston Boys…everyone together, everyone well-oiled and up for it. In front, Mark Coden – like me, an ever present on all of these recent Chelsea tours to the US.

The game against the MLS All-Stars would be my eleventh such game.

I had taken several photographs of the bridge on my approach to the 19,000 capacity stadium but was rather annoyed that its iconic steelwork was out of sight, just beyond the stand to my left. I had admired the way that the roof of this stand seemed to extend out to the bridge.

Above, the sky was slowly turning a deep blue. The moon was strikingly clear above the stand to my right.

The Chelsea fans around me were standing.

And we were clearly in good voice.

The stage was set.

The spectators were urged to take part in a two-part “stunt” but I had neither the time nor the energy for it. I believe the words “Chelsea” were visible on cards held aloft by the fans in the stand to my right, but the moment was lost to be honest.

Secondly, the colours of the American flag were visible.

The entrance of the teams.

Fireworks.

My head was still buzzing and I still needed to concentrate on getting some photographs.

Click, click,click.

The game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.

We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.

Steve-O set the tone early on with a trademark “Zigger Zagger” and the chanting continued throughout the match. This was just what we had hoped; that the closeness of everyone would produce a subsection of PPL Park akin to an away terrace at Blackburn, Everton, West Ham or Tottenham.

I noted one chant which was new to me –

“You Play Soccer. We Play Football.”

I liked that. A little jab at the MLS hierarchy. Keep ‘em on their toes.

All the Chelsea classics were aired; too numerous to mention. I’m sure everyone has their own particular favourites.

Over to you.

Halfway through the first-half, I absolutely loved the roll-call which was started by the usual suspects to my right.

For Mary-Anne and Paul –

“Tennessee, Tennessee, Tennessee.”

For the Funchfickers –

“Ohio, Ohio, Ohio.”

For Lottinho, Dennis and Detroit Bob –

“Michigan, Michigan, Michigan.”

And for little old me –

“Somerset, Somerset, Somerset.”

Lottinho then pointed at Dennis –

“Puerto Rico.”

Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.

The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.

At the break, I rushed down to buy a beer, a hot dog and a match programme. The beer did its job because soon into the second half, I let rip with another “Zigger Zagger.” I was elated to hear the thunderous response to each guttural yelp. However, I knew I was reaching the end of my capabilities when I reached the closing moments.

“Ziiiiiiiiiger” (Oh God – I have to do a big ending here.)

“OI.”

“Zaaaaaaaaager” (Oh God – I’m barely going to be able to make this.)

“OI”

(Here we fcuking go – in for a penny, in for a pound.”

“ZIGGER ZAGGER, ZIGGER ZAGGER” (…only just!)

“OI OI OI.”

A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.

We were not deflated, though. We kept singing till the end.

It was a proud night in Pennsylvania.

If the long walk back to the bus wasn’t tiresome enough, we were then kept waiting for all buses to depart. Canners was on my bus back and I leaned towards him and said –

“Fcuking hell Paul. I saw your Stamford Bridge debut thirty years ago and now, here we are, on a school bus in Philadelphia.”

From the sublime to the ridiculous.

It was a quiet bus ride back to Philly.

Throughout the evening, Roma’s daughter Vanessa had texted me a few times to see what time we would be getting back into town. It seemed that they were halting their long drive back to North Carolina especially to call in to see me in Philadelphia. I gave them instructions of how to reach Tir Na Nog, but I wasn’t sure if they could delay their drive home for long.

I quickly darted back to the apartment to drop off a few things and made my way to the pub.

I was in mid-text to Vanessa when I looked up to see the three of them walking towards me.

Ah, that cheered me up no end.

With typical disregard for authority, Vanessa had simply parked her car right on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, right underneath a sign which plainly said “no parking.”

Now that, my friends, is Proper Chelsea.

They, of course, were horrified to hear that Chelsea had lost.

“Yep, we always lose to the MLS All-Stars. I don’t think we’d better play them again.”

We returned to Tir Na Nog and met up with the usual suspects once more. The mood among my Chelsea mates was defiant. We all agreed that the singing and the atmosphere amongst the “away” fans had been magnificent. I was certainly full of praise, if not full of voice.

I was croaking again.

The time was moving one. It was past 1am. I knew that the night wouldn’t last forever. With real sadness, I said my goodbyes to Roma, Vanessa and Shawn. This was the first time that I had met Shawn and I wanted to have a little moment with him. I crouched down and babbled out something like –

“Shawn – it has been so good to see you. It was great to see you in New York. And it has been even better to see you tonight. You’re a lucky boy. You have a great mother and a great sister. And you’ve seen Chelsea play! Now, until I see you again, I want you to know that we all love you.”

To which he smiled and said –

“I just farted.”

My words had obviously impressed him.

I waved them off as Vanessa drove away into the night.

Back in the apartment, Lottinho, Speedy and I spent a few philosophical moments as we looked out into the city from our balcony. It had been a simply superb time and we had enjoyed ourselves immensely in Philadelphia.

Until we do it again.

“Phriendship And Phootball.”

Tales From The Black And The Blue

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Barcelona : 18 April 2012.

There is a delicious irony in Chelsea’s recent love affair with the Champions League over the past ten years. Way back in 1955, just after our first ever Football League Championship, Chelsea could have been the very first winners of the inaugural European Cup which was played during the 1955-1956 season. However, for whatever reason, the out-of-touch octogenarians in the English F.A. strongly advised the club to forego participation. Instead, Real Madrid won the first ever European Cup (and the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth) in 1956 and Chelsea had to wait until 1999-2000 to participate again. There have been few games which have produced the same “buzz” of anticipation than that first ever game against Milan in September 1999; a pulsating 0-0 draw at The Bridge was a classic.

If only we knew then what we know now; we have since taken to the competition like the proverbial duck to aqueous solution. We reached the quarter-finals in that first season before losing to (guess who?) Barcelona. Since then, we have been one of European football’s top performers in the World’s premier cup competition. Our semi-final against Barcelona this season would be our sixth since 2003-2004. These have been heady days. Spring time at Chelsea has recently involved football on multiple fronts. It’s a beautiful period in our history; breath it in, let it fill up your senses, these days will not last for ever.

…but oh, the memories.

2004 – a defeat by AS Monaco, fresh on the heels of that game at Highbury in the previous round. Claudio Ranieri at his infuriating worst, tinkering to distraction, just to prove a point to the club management who had already hinted he would be leaving the following season.

2005 – a nauseating defeat to Liverpool. The result of Mourinho not “going for it” in the home leg, the result of the Luis Garcia “ghost” goal at Anfield. We were the best team in Europe that season, having discarded FCB in the quarters.

2007 – another hateful defeat to Liverpool, this time on penalties at Anfield after Joe Cole and Daniel Agger goals gave both teams 1-0 home wins. Again, Mourinho failed to attack Liverpool sufficiently. Would we ever get to the final?

2008 – joy unbounded as we drew 1-1 at Anfield and then won 3-2 at a pulsating Stamford Bridge on one of the most emotional nights that English football has ever witnessed. Frank Lampard inspired us and we were on our way to Moscow.

2009 – a resolute performance by Chelsea at Camp Nou and a 0-0 draw. A despicable performance by a certain Norwegian referee at The Bridge. Michael Essien scored his best ever goal, but Iniesta equalised with virtually Barca’s only shot on goal. Pure, unadulterated sadness.

Our record in the Champions League semi-finals is therefore 1-4. Throw in our ridiculously close defeat in the final in 2008 and has ever a team come closer to winning the World’s greatest club competition, yet failing, than Chelsea?

During the day, I pondered our chances for 2012 against the mesmeric talisman Lionel Messi and his Barcelona team mates. Not even our stupendous win against Tottenham on Sunday could dispel many of my very real worries and concerns. My biggest fear was that of humiliation. This has been a strange old season; our team was creaking under Villas-Boas, but has been rejuvenated under Roberto di Matteo. Our form has returned, yet we are still an old team in transition. In my mind, there was a real chance that this would turn out to be one game too far for the battle-scarred veterans. After our fortuitous refereeing decisions against Wigan and Spurs, I was also aware that all of our Lady Luck Tokens had been used for this season. And yet, I can easily recall a conversation that a few friends and I had in The Goose before that 2000 game against Barcelona; we had performed miracles during that CL season and we decided that we were realistically not going to progress further. That Barcelona team, including Figo and the like, was a class act. What did we know? On that incredible night we stormed into a 3-0 lead and produced a breath-taking performance. A late Figo goal took the edge off the night, but it had taught me not to write off Chelsea Football Club.

I hoped for a similar response in 2012. However, I was still uneasy. In an email to some friends, I summed-up our chances on the night as follows –

Barcelona win 50%
Chelsea win 25%
Draw 25%

I added that I thought that we had a 20% chance to progress to the final over both legs.

These were my thoughts before the trip to London.

I pulled out of Chippenham at 4pm. Parky and I were headed east once more. It was a drizzle-filled Wiltshire evening. I wondered if the extra zip to the pitch in London would assist Barcelona’s quick passing.

As I approached Reading, my thoughts on the night’s game were waylaid; my friend Rob, who had been tasked to collect my ticket for the away game in Catalonia, called me on my phone. He was very agitated and told me that the Chelsea box office had no record of my purchase.

“What?”

Surely I applied for my ticket last week?

“Oh fcuk.”

For thirty minutes, I tried to recollect if I had bought the £73.50 ticket. It has been a busy old spell, with many match tickets needing to be purchased; maybe I had, indeed, forgotten to get one? I tried to call the box office, but they were closed. I mulled over my options. I realised that I could pop into the internet café opposite The Goose and apply there. Rob confirmed that the box office would be open for thirty minutes after the evening’s game for collections. I could relax.

Phew.

I parked up at 6.45pm. By 6.55pm, I had purchased my away ticket and Parky had bought me a pint of Peroni in The Goose. I thanked Rob for his efforts and he handed me back the form I had filled out detailing my travel details; I would need that to claim my ticket. I met up with Alex, a work colleague, who had asked me if I had the chance of getting him a ticket as soon as we had beaten Benfica. Alex works for one of the hauliers that my company uses to move our client’s products in Europe; he is from Vienna and has been working in England for a year or so. We had spoken on the ‘phone, but had never met before. He has no team in Austria; Chelsea is his team. He is typical of the new type of supporter our club has attracted of late; not from Ashford, but Austria, not from Cheam, but from California, not from Gravesend, but from Germany. He was clearly ecstatic to be able to see only his second ever Chelsea game. He was off back to Vienna in May. It was great to see him so happy.

I was in a rush to head down to The Bridge as I wanted to get some banners up in good time. I was in so much of a rush that I sped off with Parky’s match ticket still in my bag. He caught up with me, but then disappeared into The Maltsters for “just one more pint.”

Alex and I rushed down to The Bridge; the half-and-half scarves sellers had been busy. I can understand the allure of a friendship scarf for European games; in fact, Parky often gets one for Jill. The St. George flag on the FCB badge always looks great in my mind. Monday is St. George’s Day, of course, and a few Chelsea fans will be celebrating our patron saint’s day deep in the heart of Catalonia.

We reached our seats at 7.35pm just as Neil Barnett announced “the anthem”; the recording of “Blue Is The Colour” by an opera singer. I personally wish they would stick with the original 1972 recording to be honest; this new version is slightly too slow, slightly too forced. Alex and I scrambled up to the back row of the MHU and we pinned my two banners up.

“Vinci Per Noi” dates from the summer of 1996.

“Peter Osgood” dates from March 2006.

The blue and white flags had been handed out once again and were being waved furiously as the last few bars of “Blue Is The Colour” gave way to “The Liquidator.” Then, the two teams strode out onto the wet turf, past the Champions League flag, on to the west side of the pitch.

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

What a rushed pre-match. However, as I took my seat next to Alan and Tom, I took off my jacket and tried to settle down just for a few moments. I worked out who was playing for Chelsea a few moments into the game. The only surprise was Meireles; this just signifies how far Michael Essien is off his game.

Chelsea were in blue, Barcelona were in black.

In the far corner, the 3,000 away fans presented a vivid and varied scene. Not only were the FCB colours of blue and claret represented, but also the Catalonia colours of red and yellow. Lots of replica shirts, lots of scarves, lots of colourful banners draped over the balcony wall.

Let battle commence. Let the nerves be tested. Let us play. Let us pray.

Despite our wishful thoughts about us “taking it” to Barcelona, it soon became apparent that the away team simply took over the game, strangling us with possession, for us to enjoy any real periods of dominance. All eyes were on Lionel Messi, the World’s greatest footballer, who was there in person, no more than twenty yards away from me at times. I was transfixed by this little man – quiet, unobtrusive, walking around the pitch, head low. How could such a benign looking figure have the potential to cause us so much heartache? It all seemed to be about him. I followed his movement in and amongst our players, his movement at times no more than a slow walk. We would have to stifle his every move. Elsewhere, there were familiar faces, all equally-placed to cause anxiety to defenders and fans alike. Xavi, Iniesta, Fabregas.

The Barcelona players pushed the ball around at will and the passes were usually inch perfect. Short passes were common, but even cross-field balls were inch perfect. In contrast, Chelsea chased and harried, closing down space, avoiding rough tackles. I got the impression that we were being slightly too reverential. I longed for a 50-50 challenge – not a dirty foul, no need to draw a booking – but a hard, strong tackle that would let Barca know we were serious. It would also help to involve the crowd. When I play five-a-side, I am not great a great tackler – I am more a nibbler, someone who can get a toe in to rob the opponent of the ball, someone who can read a pass and intercept.

However, when the need arises and I can sense a pure 50-50, there is no greater feeling that hitting the ball and player’s leading foot together with a strong tackle.

Slam.

I longed for Chelsea to do the same.

The first chance of the game fell to the men in black. Andres Iniesta picked out the on-rushing Sanchez, who nimbly beat the offside trap and delicately lobbed the ball over the ghostly figure of Petr Cech.

“Here we go” I thought.

We waited to see where the ball would end up – time stood still, that old cliché – and were mighty relieved to see the ball drop against the bar. Soon after, Messi’s first real involvement took him in to the penalty area with one of his breath-taking runs, the ball seemingly no more than six inches from his toes throughout. A Chelsea challenge could easily have sent another Barcelona player tumbling, but to his enormous credit, the little Argentinian stayed on his feet. He passed to Iniesta but his close-range shot was wonderfully parried by Cech. The rebound seemed to take Fabregas by surprise and we sighed again.

On 19 minutes, a rare Chelsea chance resulted in Juan Mata slashing over the bar.

Soon after, Barcelona were awarded a corner down below me. As Messi slowly walked towards the corner flag and stooped to collect the ball, more than a few Chelsea fans in the MHU clapped his appearance and I was suitably impressed. We don’t usually do this sort of thing in England – apart from inside cricket grounds where opposing “boundaries” are often clapped by opposing fans – and this was a sure sign that the Chelsea public recognised talent when they saw it. Messi – so young, but so great – is already knocking on the door of Pele and Maradona.

As Barcelona’s possession mounted, I really wondered if we could keep up this constant defending for ninety minutes. Barcelona’s away support was relatively quiet; the only three chants I heard were “Bartha, Bartha, Batha”, “Meeeeee-si” and the club anthem which ends “ Bartha, Bar-tha, Baaaaaaaar-tha.”

Drogba was putting in a typical performance; strong in the air and winning defensive headers one minute, rolling around like he was the victim of a sniper’s bullet the next. He was clearly disrupting Barca’s flow, though whether he had been told to do this by club management is a moot point. I suspect not; I suspect it comes natural to him. I had hoped he could channel the frustration he felt after the 2009 “it’s a fcuking disgrace” game in the right way. However, despite his physical strength, he wasn’t a threat offensively and we were getting a little annoyed with his antics during the game.

The sky filled with misty rain as Barca passed the ball at will. The otherwise dependable Mikel lost possession amidst growls of discontent and the mercurial Messi set up Fabregas. His goal bound effort flew past Cech but slowed slightly, allowing the excellent Ashley Cole to back-pedal, re-adjust at the last minute, and hack the ball to safety with his favoured left peg.

Phew.

At 8.30pm, I received this text from Del, a Liverpool fan from work –

“Be nice to see you nick one. Reckon your boys have set up pretty well, great shape and rode your luck a couple of times. Only downside is that useless prick up front – twenty two and a half minutes on the deck, the other twenty two and a half offside.”

Within twenty seconds of receiving this text, Lampard robbed Messi on the half-way line and quickly pushed the ball to the rampaging Ramires. This was our chance and we knew it. I snapped a photo as the little Brazilian switched feet to play in a ball towards the six yard box. That man Didier arrived to sweep the ball in to the net, just missing the despairing dive of Valdes and we were 1-0 up. Despite a rush of blood, I remained calm enough for five seconds to snap the ensuing huddle down near where Parky resides. After, I bellowed a euphoric “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSS!”

And then, at 8.32pm – a text to Del.

“You were saying?”

Oh boy…one shot on goal, one goal, one delirious Stamford Bridge.

At the break, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was on the pitch, and Journey were on the PA.

“Don’t Stop Believing” is a totally incongruous song to be played at a football ground in England; it certainly says nothing at all about our life as UK Chelsea fans. But I can understand why the club chose to play it.

“Don’t Stop Believing” indeed.

The second-half performance by Chelsea will go down in the annals of our club as one of the most resolute and brave performances the spectators at Stamford Bridge has ever seen.

Barcelona began again strongly. Adriano drew a superb save from Cech. Sanchez shot inexplicably wide of Cech’s post. Alves blasted over. Block after block – Cahill, Terry, Mikel – stopped Barcelona’s goal-bound efforts. Despite his detractors, even Meireles was putting in a solid shift. The only player under-performing was Juan Mata, but he is not built for defensive duties and can hardly be blamed for the game passing him by. Barcelona enjoyed several centrally-placed free-kicks, but shots were either blocked (Messi) or ballooned over (Xavi). This was proving to be almost too difficult to watch; it was certainly too tense to enjoy. I was still in my shirt-sleeves. I avoided putting my jacket on as I superstitiously thought it would jinx things.

“We scored with my jacket off, let’s leave it off.”

When I was a kid, watching games with my parents, I had the same superstition with chewing gum. If we were winning, I’d keep the same piece of gum in my mouth. If we were losing, I’d discard it.

Old habits die hard.

The noise levels grew throughout the match as the crowd sensed that the boys needed our help. “Amazing Grace” was re-worked once again and this Proper Chelsea classic provided the backdrop to the second-half master class in defending –

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

The crowd did the boys proud. We didn’t neglect the watching Tottenham fans at home, either –

“We won 5-1,Wembley.”

“Harry For Tottenham.”

I was amazed how quickly I felt the time was going…60 minutes, 65 minutes, 70 minutes. The manager replaced Kalou for Mata – fresh legs. The Barcelona pressure continued. Our only chances in the second period involved a Frank Lampard corner, whipped in, but avoiding the trio of Chelsea players at the far post and a break involving a great pass from Drogba finding Kalou who dinked over Valdes’ bar.

Tick…tick…tick…

Another Messi free-kick with five minutes remaining. He chipped the ball in towards Puyol, who flicked the ball on with the deftest of touches. I was right in line with the flight of the ball as it bounced up towards the goal. It was surely the equaliser. Out of nowhere, Cech scrambled across to turn the ball away for a corner.

Superb. The save of the match.

Bosingwa on for the magnificent Ramires – more fresh legs.

The assistant linesman signaled just three minutes of time to be added on. I looked at my phone and it was 9.33pm.

9.36pm and we’re halfway to paradise.

Time for one last agonising moment as Messi moved the ball out to Pedro. He was well outside the box, at an angle, but his low drive avoided all players in the packed penalty area and struck Cech’s far post with a dull thud. The ball rebounded out to Busquets, who ballooned it high into the Chelsea fans in The Shed Upper.

It was 9.36pm.

The referee blew.

The Bridge roared and Alan, Alex and I smacked each other’s backs. I, for one, could not believe it. I had just witnessed a miracle. Of course, we had ridden our luck, but what a gutsy performance. I lost count of the number of blocks which our defenders used to thwart Barca. I was breathless and almost light-headed as the players clapped the crowd from the centre-circle. There was no overblown triumphalism from the team at the end. They knew we were only half-way there. But we have a foothold in this tie and we will, I am sure, go out to Barcelona with a plausible reason to be optimistic of our chances.

“One Step beyond” got us all bouncing.

I skipped past the Peter Osgood statue – I made the point of touching his leg as I passed – and quickly joined the line of around 100 fans collecting Barcelona away tickets. With great relief, I was handed my ticket. I met up with Steve from the NYBs, who was close to tears with emotion.

“That’s the best noise I’ve ever heard at Chelsea.”

The London night was now dirty and wet with rain, but inside our heads we were drugged-up with Chelsea. We met up with Parky and Jesus in The Goose to let the traffic subside. Rob and Les from nearby Melksham were enjoying “one last pint” and these two scallywags will be on the same 6.55am flight from Bristol as me on Tuesday.

What a beautiful night in Catalonia that could be.

Tales From An April Evening

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Benfica : 4 April 2012.

Chelsea went into the return leg with Benfica nursing a 1-0 lead from the first game the previous week. The advantage was clearly with us. However, during the day, I commented to a few friends that I was strangely subdued about the game in the evening. We were clearly in a great position to advance to the semi-final, but maybe it was the daunting task of facing the Barcelona colossus which was weighing heavy on my mind. I was also uneasy with us being in a relatively good position. We are usually faced with greater struggles on the path of that elusive first-ever Champions League trophy. I commented that it would certainly be a very odd evening if, for example, we glided into an early lead and then added another security goal in the second-half. As a Chelsea fan used to hardships and heartbreaks, that sort of scenario would be most surprising. I even had a title for my match report worked out; “Tales From UnChelsea.”

Well, I needn’t have worried. If ever there was a “typical Chelsea” performance, this was it.

I collected Parky from The Pheasant car park just before 4pm, just as a passing rainstorm had deposited a few drops of rain. He quickly scrambled inside, we shook hands – “here we go again, son” – and we departed. Parky was clearly under the weather; he had a bad cold and was suffering. There was even a slight risk of him not attending.

We chatted relentlessly on the drive east and the trip to HQ followed a typical pattern. We made good time until the approach into London, but then the traffic slowed. I eventually pulled in at 6.45pm. It had taken us almost three hours to travel 95 miles.

Inside The Goose, things were relatively quiet, but my closest Chelsea mates were gathered together. Time for a single pint. Jesus arrived late but we had just enough time for a small chat. I set off ahead of the rest as I wanted to get in to pin up the “VPN” banner. As I passed Fulham Broadway at 7.30pm, there was a lovely match day buzz taking place, with paces quickening, voices chattering. There were a few stray Benfica fans darting in and out of the moving mass of Chelsea supporters, but nowhere near the number of Napoli supporters in the previous round.

The façade of the West Stand was adorned with two large Champions League banners and, down below in a central position, the statue of Peter Osgood was standing out clearly.

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

There was no line at the MHU turnstiles; remember the capacity of this stand is cut by around 4,000 for Champions League knock-out games. I sidled past a young couple and overheard the girl say in a broad London accent –

“Oh, I hate these scanners. I had trouble with them when I went to The Arsenal.”

I turned around just as her bloke gave her an old-fashioned look. I rolled my eyes and commented –

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

I got to my seat at 7.40pm and I scrambled up to the back wall of the upper tier to pin up “Vinci.” Steve gave me a hand and then went down to assist Daz with the unleashing of the flag. I reached my seat just as the teams appeared onto the pitch. We were all given free flags again and for a few fleeting moments, Stamford Bridge was a picture. Benfica’s fans were bristling with noise and colour in the opposite corner. I noted how bright the Benfica shirts were; almost a pink hue to their shirts. Benfica brought more flags than most other European teams to The Bridge. There was a Union Jack and a flag of St. Georges; clearly the London branch of their supporters club was out in force. I took a few photos; Champions League Nights are so photogenic, what with the teams walking past the fluttering CL flag and then the formal line-up, the stands rippling with colour. The balconies were festooned with Chelsea flags and banners; we had clearly made a special effort. The game was live on national television and we needed to make an impression. The match kicked off and I quickly scanned the line-up; I presumed we were keeping the 4-2-3-1 formation. Brana fit, Lamps in, Kalou in, Torres alone up front.

We began the match attacking “my” end, the Matthew Harding Stand, and it again felt strange. Benfica began strongly. However, a lovely volley from a lurking David Luiz was smashed in from an angle, but a Benfica defender blocked it. We hoped that further attacks would be soon cascading down on the Benfica goal. Just after, Juan Mata was clearly offside before he shot home and I really couldn’t believe how many fans in close proximity had cheered the goal. I quickly checked on the linesman, raising his flag, when I saw Mata break . Who are these people?

On twenty minutes, Ashley Cole raced on to a lofted ball, deep in the Benfica box, and was sent sprawling. Ashley threw up his arms in protest, but I wasn’t convinced from my angle. It looked like a confluence of bodies to me. My friend Alan had already taken an immediate dislike to the Slovenian referee, but we were both smiling when we saw him purposefully point to the penalty spot. As always, I thought back to the “four penalties that weren’t” against Barcelona and had a little chuckle to myself.

Amidst protests from the Benfica players, there was a long delay. The ‘keeper made a point of not retreating to his line and had a little staring duel with Frank Lampard, the anointed penalty taker. Frank dispatched the ball and the net rippled once more. He very rarely lets us down on Champions League nights from that penalty spot, does he?

David Luiz attempted a typically elaborate turn just inside his own half, but an extra touch lost him the ball amidst groans and jeers from the watching thousands. I pictured the scene in living rooms throughout the UK, from Penzance to Peterhead, from Bexleyheath to Barrow, with millions of armchair viewers berating our Brazilian centre-half.

On the half hour, a well-worked Benfica free-kick resulted in a John Terry clearance off the line. We take this sort of behaviour for granted at times – our captain’s positional sense has always been one of his very strongest skills – but it is always wonderful to see his blue shirt appear at the right place at the right time again and again. We breathed a massive sigh of relief as Brana hacked away the loose ball.

Benfica were in the ascendency, no doubts. I was too busy taking a photograph to see the “studs-up” challenge by Pereira on Mikel. The crowd were soon letting the referee know it was his second yellow and off he went. So much for the “UEFA Hate Chelsea” conspiracy-theorists, we had been given a penalty and Benfica were now down to ten men. Amongst all this, the noise wasn’t great; we could sense that Benfica were still capable of scoring. However, in the closing seconds of the first-half, Ramires sent over a tempting cross which avoided the ‘keeper, but also missed the run of Torres by a few feet. It was only one of a few chances we had crafted in that first forty-five minutes.

At half-time, Alan and I chatted about the half. We had been out-shot by Benfica and had ridden our luck. We spoke about an incident which had taken place mid-way through the half. Juan Mata had been strongly-tackled and the ball ran out for a throw-in, but Mata had been sent sprawling down below us. The crowd roared for a free-kick and Mata stared hard at the referee. It seemed to me that the referee didn’t really think it was a foul, but bowed to crowd pressure and the earnest reaction of Mata, who is not a diver, and gave us the free-kick. It was an insightful piece of play which taught me how difficult it must be to ref at such a high intensity game. Rather them than me.

At the break, Neil Barnett posed a conundrum. The half-time guest was a player, a centre-back, from the early-sixties who had since gone on to manage Benfica. I was stumped. I knew that Allan Harris had been with Terry Venables at Barcelona, but didn’t know he had been involved with Benfica.

It was John Mortimore, who briefly appeared on the pitch for a rousing reception.

Neil Barnett 1 Chris Axon 0.

The second-half began with a superb save from Petr Cech after Cardozo’s effort was heading towards a top corner. The artistry and athleticism from our great ‘keeper in that one moment was just amazing to watch at close quarters. Aimar was narrowly wide just after.

At the other end, the previously quiet Kalou sent a low ball across which was met by an unrushing Ramires. From my vantage point, some 100 yards away, all I saw was a blue shirt and the ball then somehow bouncing away from the goal. My immediate thought was –

“Oh God, that wasn’t Torres was it?”

A Benfica player speculatively struck a lob from way out which didn’t trouble the Chelsea goal. At the other end, Fernando Torres nimbly turned and worked the ball so he could caress the ball in to the left-hand side of the goal. We held our breath, but the shot was deflected for a corner. Just after, a nice little move involving Mata playing a “one two” with another Chelsea player but the shot was saved.

John Terry was substituted by Gary Cahill. Like for like.

Benfica still enjoyed a lot of the ball and had a flurry of chances. Sturdy challenges and well-timed blocked from the Chelsea rear guard stopped an equaliser. Kalou missed a great chance. We grew tense.

The Benfica fans were not the loudest European visitors, but I noted a chant midway through the second-half which struck a chord. I couldn’t, of course, decipher the chant completely, but the words “Michel Platini” rang out clear. I filled in the dots…I guessed that it was something like “Michel Platini – You Got Your Wish” or “Michel Platini – You Only Like Big Teams.” It seems that Platini is disliked by fans all over Europe. It made me smile when I realised that Benfica felt aggrieved too. Platini ranks as one of the very best European players of all time; he was certainly a magical touch player at Juventus, wearing that number 10 shirt, helping to define the role of a “Number Ten” player in fact. However, despite his strengths as a player, he is clearly disliked these days; I still laugh when I think of my Juventus mate Tullio now calling him a “son of a bitch” in his UEFA role.

I commented to Alan that I could rarely remember the time dragging like this one. Sixty minutes played…seventy minutes played…we were a man up, but it certainly seemed that Benfica were playing with a spare man. The clock ticked slowly on…Meireles on for Mata.

On 84 minutes, that man Cech stretched again to prevent Djalo scoring, but the resultant corner ended with a goal. The ball was swung in and Garcia ran unmarked to leap unhindered from a central position. It was a truly shocking goal to concede. The Bridge grew nervier still. Going out was now a distinct possibility and we all felt our emotions being intensified. I leaned forward and concentrated further.

“Come On Boys.”

At last there was noise. The Bridge responded with great bellows of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea.”

Didier Drogba replaced Fernando Torres. If only he had been on the pitch to head away that corner as so often is his role. There was a very nervy moment when Benfica broke through the offside trap on 87 minutes – it looked offside to me – but a weak shot didn’t trouble Petr Cech.

Deep inside stoppage time, the ball was cleared towards Raul Meireles. I watched his dramatic run from deep through the lens of my camera…I took two snaps as his strong run continued and as he unleashed a goal bound strike, I snapped again. I hardly saw the ball slam into the net, but I certainly heard the roar.

Get In!

I saw Meireles run towards Parky Corner and the Chelsea players joined him. Around us, we were roaring.

We were safe.

That run must rank alongside the cherished John Spencer run and goal against Austria Memphis in the autumn of 1994. It was truly a phenomenal strike. It reminded me, in its timing and execution, of the famous Geoff Hurst goal in 1996 too.

“It Is Now.”

There was a lovely feeling as I bounced down the Fulham Road. We darted into The Goose to celebrate with Jesus, from Mexico, and Rob, from Wiltshire. The air of contentment was tempered slightly by the fact that we were now due to face our old Catalan foes FCB once more. Parky was still feeling ropey but finished off his pint as Rob and his mates chatted about flights to Barcelona. Jesus’ face was a picture; he’s a lucky lad. He’ll be there in Barcelona.

We meet Tottenham on the Sunday and we play Barcelona on the Wednesday. My immediate view would be for us to prioritise the Spurs game. We have a 50% chance of beating Spurs. I’d say we have a 20% chance of beating Barca. In a nutshell, I can stomach losing to Barca, but I cannot – and will not – contemplate losing at Wembley to Tottenham. If di Matteo is mulling over his team selection options for Wembley, my advice to him would be to play his strongest eleven against Spurs. With any luck, Spurs will struggle and we’ll easily dismiss them. Then, on the Wednesday, play whoever is fit and up for it…don’t plan for two games Robbie; plan for Tottenham, then see what state of fitness and mind we are in for the Champions League game.

But then again, who am I? I’m not the manager.

We made great time on the return home to a sleeping West of England. Although Parky was still very groggy, we chatted about our crazy season. Never in my wildest dreams, back in August, did I think we would reach the Champions League semi-finals this year. For our games with Barca, we need a repeat of our performances against Valencia and Napoli. If anything, our faltering performance against Benfica should at least remind us all that we must not be complacent.

It’s a tough ask, isn’t it? I’m just glad we are at home first and I hope we can scramble together a foot-hold in the tie. If we were to play away first, maybe the tie would be all over too soon.

We return to the seemingly mundane league over the Easter Weekend with two games in three days at venues just two miles apart. I have a feeling that our collective minds will be elsewhere, but six points will do very nicely.

Let’s go.

Tales From The New Order

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 21 March 2012.

It’s quite amazing how two football clubs from the same city, with stadia only miles apart, can engender completely different feelings from fans of other clubs. On the one hand, Manchester United, the club of the non-attending glory hunter, the club of crass commercialisation boasting the largest support base in the world with fans from everywhere and beyond. If United didn’t exist, you’d have to invent them. And on the other hand, Manchester City, the under-achieving club with a much more localised support base and an almost fatalistic desire to fail again and again, but now lurching from a history of laughable failure to a possible future of gleaming success. The only common bond is geography and a mutual hatred of each other.

Amongst other things, City call United fans “Munichs” because of the fact that City were the biggest of the two clubs until the tragedy of 1958 turned a nation’s gaze towards the scarlets of Old Trafford. United fans call City fans “Bitters” because of the alleged – and in City’s eyes unproven – perception that City fans are bitter and twisted with jealousy about United’s successes.

So, there is a gorgeous sub-plot to the title race this season and, despite the fact that City are “doing a Chelsea” and assembling a talented squad at break-neck speed, there is no doubt about which of the two Manchester behemoths I want to see suceed.

Once a blue…

Into this local rivalry comes Chelsea Football Club, eager to continue the fine run of form under the temporary tutelage of Robbie di Matteo. Four wins out of four, bubbly and buoyant. A month ago, I was dreading the visit to Eastlands and the home game with Tottenham. Not anymore. I had booked a half day holiday for Wednesday 21st March and I left work at 1pm. It had been a messy morning and I was glad to be on my way. I headed south for ten miles to collect The Laird of Porknockie and we were on our way. Porky’s partner Jill had provided the food and drink; as I turned north at Bradford-on-Avon and up past Bath, I knocked back the first Red Bull of the trip.

Parky was full of chat and the weather was bloody gorgeous. Despite heavy traffic, I ate up the miles. On the packed M6 motorway, we spotted two instances of bad driving which were only spotted late by other road-users. Luckily, drastic swerving averted any danger, but it brought home to me how dangerous our roads can be. At Stafford services, we thankfully had a little respite and merriment from the afternoon’s travails.

We pulled in for a McDonalds coffee just as three coach loads of Arsenal fans arrived, en route to Everton.

And there they were in all of their nerdy and sweaty glory; 150 of North London’s finest, the majority of whom were bedecked in the shiny nylon of the latest Nike replica shirt and assorted accessories. As we entered the main hall, we could hardly believe our eyes. An Arsenal fan of around 50 years of age was wearing the meshed-together shirt, shorts and socks of the Arsenal home and away kits, spliced down the middle, with one red trainer and one yellow trainer for good measure; a Harlequin in contrasting colours. I lamented to Parky that I wished that I had my camera. However, take my word for it, he looked a complete plum. It seemed that Stafford Services was momentarily taken over by a train spotter’s convention. Parky and I were bursting into a fit of giggles and laughter. In my eyes, this was proof again that there seems to be a different dress code for us and Arsenal on away trips. Chelsea have always tended to dress up for away games – or dress down, depending on the viewpoint – with very few away day regulars boasting anything from the Chelsea Megastore catalogue. Chelsea only really wear replica shirts en masse at Wembley and only then, really, in moderation. We’ve always tended to go the casual route; toned down now of course, but you’re still more likely to see a Lacoste polo and a Barbour jacket in the Chelsea away pen than you are with Arsenal.

As we supped at our coffees and pulled back onto the M6, we left the Arsenal scarfers to themselves, playing “I Spy” and pressing their noses against the window, looking at the “big trucks.”

The traffic was heavy between Stafford and the Manchester exit. I headed along the familiar approach roads south of the city and then ploughed straight through to the centre. I zipped past Didsbury and Whalley Range and soon found ourselves in Moss Side, the infamous former heartland of City’s support. The old ground at Maine Road was just a few hundred yards to the east. I remember stumbling upon a superb photograph of the old Moss Side, looking north to the city centre, before the slum clearances of the post war years. Hundreds and hundreds of terraced houses leading up to Hulme and the city centre.

All those people all those lives, where are they now?

The traffic stalled as I slowly headed through the grid-patterned streets around Piccadilly. Jesus had arrived on a train from The Smoke and we had planned to meet him for a beer. As I turned into a side street, the fading sun struck against the red brick of an old Victorian building, making the whole block come to life. The sky blue overhead and the glowing red of the brick. It was a gorgeous sight. I’ve always thought that the historic centre of Rain Town is an architectural delight.

I parked up at about 5.45pm, almost five hours since I left rural Wiltshire. We soon found Jesus (insert punch line here) on the corner of Newton Street and we dipped into a local boozer for a few quick beers. Parky was unleashed on fresh meat and poor Jesus had to stand there and withstand a barrage of “witty” Parky jokes. We were soon suffering from Porkinson’s Disease; death by a thousand quips. I spoke to a couple of local City lads. Their hearts were torn over the Tevez situation. We shared a few laughs and I wished them well for the rest of the season.

Oh boy, the two pints of San Miguel went down well.

It was approaching 7pm and I had to tear Parky and Jesus away from their pints. As I drove the two miles to Eastlands, New Order were playing on the CD player in the car and we quickly gave Jesus a crash course in all things Manchester; New Order, the 2000 Commonwealth Games, City and United. The England / New Order song from Italia ’90 was playing and everything was good with the world. Parky explained to Jesus about John Barnes’ rapping as I steered my car past the canals and warehouses of Ancoats, with the sky blue lights of the Etihad on the near horizon.

“You’ve got to hold and give.
But do it at the right time.
You can be slow or fast.
But you must get to the line.

They’ll always hit you and hurt you.
Defend and attack.
There’s only one way to beat them.
Get round the back.

Catch me if you can.
‘Cause I’m the England man.
And what you’re looking at.
Is the master plan.

We ain’t no hooligans.
This ain’t a football song.
Three lions on my chest.
I know we can’t go wrong.

We’re playing for England.
We’re playing the song.
We’re singing for England.
Arrivederci it’s one on one.”

Jesus was lapping up the local colour and we were all buzzing. I joked with Parky that the Arsenal fans had arrived at Goodison Park and were being advised by the coach driver to find a partner to hold hands with on the walk to the stadium.

“No Kevin. Leave your Mars bar on the coach. You know you’ll be sick if you take it with you to the game. You know how excited you get.”

We paid £5 at a local car wash for secure parking and then headed off to the stadium by foot. Several CIAers will remember the piece if public art called “The B Of The Bang” from a visit in Spring 2008, but they will be dismayed to know that the striking sculpture is no more; it was found to be unsafe and had to be dismantled. In its place are a bizarre selection of multi-coloured shapes, but I did not have the time to ask what they referenced.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B_of_the_Bang

A few photos outside. Parky was in the lower tier, Jesus and I were up top. Both in the city centre, in the pub and outside the stadium, I did not hear a single City fan with a foreign voice. In fact, the only voices I heard were broadly Mancunian. I was inside with a few minutes to spare.

Oh.

I was very dismayed to see many empty seats all of the way around me. Damn. That won’t look good on the TV. Alan mentioned that around 500 were unsold. I’d imagine that the pushing back of the game from the Monday to the Wednesday deterred many Chelsea fans from travelling, but it still gnawed at me that this was a disappointing show. Elsewhere, the stadium was almost full to capacity. It didn’t take long for the citizens of Rain Town to spot the empty seats –

“Sell all your tickets, you couldn’t sell all your tickets.”

Sure, we had gaps in our 3,000 allocation.

But Manchester City have never brought more than 1,500 down to Chelsea in the past 15 years.

It was time to think about the game. It had hardly been mentioned all day. I was more than happy that Fernando Torres was starting. No JT, but happy with David and Gary. Let’s go.

To be honest, City were all over us in the first twenty minutes and I soon realised that the match was starting to resemble the match at our place on Monday 12th December. We simply couldn’t live with City’s strenghth, pace and movement. Yaya Toure was everywhere. He is some sight when he has the ball at his feet.

The North American Sporting Reference : –

I soon spotted a Chelsea fan in the front row of the lower tier wearing a New York Yankees shirt with “Mantle 7” on the rear. He appeared to be carrying on the fine traditions of The Mick by gesturing to the nearby City fans with both hands. A fine piece of switch hitting mate; well done.

The bantering was up and running –

“Channel Five And You Fcuked It Up.”

“You’re Just The Third Team In London.”

“You’re Not Fit For Channel Five.”

“Champions League – You’re Having A Laugh” (bizarrely sung by both sets of fans at the same time, but with valid reasons for doing so, too…)

“One Team In Europe.”

Tuna came and joined Alan, Gary and myself in row H. I didn’t recognise too many familiar faces, though. Despite City’s dominance, the home fans were relatively quiet. All around the balconies were the City banners.

“City Are Back. City Are Back. Hello. Hello.”

“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out. Joe Mercer And Malcolm Allison.”

“We’re Not Really Here.”

“Making History. The Mancunian Way.”

“And On The Sixth Day God Created Manchester City.”

Gary was at his vehement best, uttering fury and swear words in equal measure. He warranted a PG certificate of his own. I was laughing one minute, blushing the next.

Nasri hit the bar. A terrible pass from Lampard set Mario Balotelli on his way and we all expected a goal.

Miraculously, the Italian enigma tamely shot at goal and Petr Cech ably palmed it around the post for a corner. It was all City in the first half an hour but we had weathered the storm. This was my seventh visit to City’s new pad and I knew it would be a tough game. The first six games had resulted in three Chelsea wins, but three City wins, too. We were looking to avoid a third straight defeat. I remember only too well the missed Frank Lampard penalty in 2009-2010 and the Carlos Tevez strike in 2010-2011. We had offered little upfront though, despite the determined play of Torres. If only the others were as industrious. Despite Bosingwa taking over from an injured Ivanovic, the defenders were solid. I just wished for more invention from the offensive six.

And yet…and yet…let’s not fool ourselves, City and United are the best two teams we have come up against this season. We were in Manchester on a Wednesday night. Let’s take the 0-0 draw now.

And half-time, I met up with Jesus. He was chatting with two lads he had met in Naples. One of them, a chap from Scunthorpe, I had met in Kuala Lumpur in July. Nearby was a Facebook acquaintance, Oscar, from Sweden, who I spoke to for the first time. He is at university in London for three months and loving every minute of it.

Mexico, Kuala Lumpur, Naples, Stockholm. Manchester.

There we are; the Chelsea Family in a nutshell.

Jesus joined our row in the second-half. I love the way he has adopted a Mockney accent during his chanting in support of the boys :

“COME ON CHOWLSEA.”

I remember Peter Cech tipping a ball onto the bar and I wondered if it would only be a matter of time before we conceded. Well, to our amazement and delight, none other than Gary Cahill scored after a corner wasn’t cleared. I was right behind his strike and how beautiful it looked; that deflection left Joe Hart completely stranded and helpless.

I whooped with delight and watched as he reeled away to completely the wrong corner of the ground once again. He needs to buy a Sat Nav that boy. He was giving it large to the City fans and I wondered if he had scores to settle or something. Try as I might I just couldn’t quite get my camera focussed for his celebrations; I was being jostled and tugged, then fell over the steps. Never mind.

Alan, with hands behind him, a la Liam Gallagher ; “They’ll have to come at us nooooooooow.”

Chris, ditto ; “Cum on my little diamondsssssssss.”

Torres was substituted by Didier Drogba. The repugnant Tevez came in to a muted reception. Our attacking thrusts tended to die out. I won’t dwell on the two goals which killed us. The Essien handball was so frustrating; hands raised will always result in a penalty. Aguero calmly dispatched it. At last the home fans came to life. With five minutes remaining, we were hanging on. A reverse pass from you-know-who inside the box found Nasri and the ball was tucked inside the far post.

The place really erupted now and I couldn’t stop myself looking over to the flailing limbs and ecstatic faces of the City fans to my right in the lower tier. To be honest, it was quite a sight. That split second of pure adrenalin when the body spasms into ecstasy. The biggest compliment I can pay those City fans is that the whole lower tier looked like an away end. They were going mental.

At the final whistle, the night’s misery was compounded when we heard the City PA play “One Step Beyond” and I just thought that was below the belt. Maybe it was ironic payback for December. I’d like to know of City play that after every home game or if they were saving it for us. City have now won every single one of their fifteen home games this season. That’s quite a record. Since our win at Old Trafford in 2010, we have now lost five games in a row in Manchester.

As if a late defeat wasn’t enough, we then heard that Spurs had equalised at home to Stoke in the very last minute. Very long faces.

“See you Saturday.”

Outside, the locals were full of song as Parky and I walked back to the car. More Manc faces, more Manc voices. The only foreign voices I had heard all night were those of Jesus and Oscar.

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There are new tram lines being built in many of the streets around Eastlands at the moment and there was some slow-moving traffic as a result of this. We slowly headed east past an unending array of fish and chip shops, pubs and pizza parlours. We stopped for an Unhappy Meal at the Droylesden McDonalds and eventually joined the rest of the Chelsea traffic heading south. Parky was soon asleep, but I was listening to more songs from New Order as the M6 traffic grinded to a halt. The motorway was closed at Stoke and we were delayed further. It was turning into a nightmare trip. The only good news was that Liverpool had lost at Loftus Road. Big deal, eh?

Eventually, after another McCoffee stop at Strensham, I dropped Parky off at 3am and I was home by 3.30am, some five and a half hours after getting into my car in Manchester.

It had been a long night.

Tales From Team Torres

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 18 March 2012.

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

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

I tut-tutted to myself and departed.

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

Parky talking, Chris driving.

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

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

I’m still not sure.

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

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

Lacoste Watch

Parky – purple
Chris – chocolate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you say we have out-grown Stamford Bridge?

Think again.

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

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

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

“Where’s that fcuking flag gone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

David Luiz replaced Brana.

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

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

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

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

5-2.

Get in.

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

Tales From The Banks Of The Chao Phraya River

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Thai Premier League All Stars vs. Chelsea : 24 July 2011.

Day One : The Madness.

From Kuala Lumpur to Bangkok …my flight landed at around 1.15pm on Friday 22nd. July. No time to dwell too much on the muted team performance the previous night in the cauldron of the Bukit Jalil stadium. Another city to explore and, on Sunday, another Chelsea match. But first, some fun.

I quickly made my way through customs at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport – sleek, slick and functional – and I soon met up with my mate Adie, who had just arrived on a domestic flight from his home city of Chiang Mai. Adie was in the same year as me at Frome College from 1978 to 1983 and was one of the stars of the school team. Adie played with distinction as a covering centre-back in a back four and had lovely positional awareness, close control and tackling ability. I played on the right wing in the 1978-1979 season, but soon fell out of the first team the following year. Adie went on to play many games for the school first eleven, but my football career fell away as my support for Chelsea grew and grew. Adie went out to Thailand in 1996 as a VSO worker, met his wife Waraya (who was his Thai language teacher) in Bangkok and moved north to Chiang Mai a few years ago. Adie visited Frome last year just as our championship season was concluding and attempted to sway me into visiting his new home in the near future. Well, as we all know, our tour of Asia was announced a while back and so I quickly decided to go ahead and book flights to encompass football and friends. Rather than follow the team on to Hong Kong, I wanted to visit Adie and Waraya in Chiang Mai instead.

There was slight drizzle outside as we quickly hopped into a – wow – pink taxi cab. In the 45 minute drive to our hotel in downtown Bangkok, we soon updated each other with news from both our lives. Over to our right, I spotted the curves of the Rajamangala Stadium where the game against the Thai League All-Stars would be played on Sunday. I quickly realised that Bangkok was on a different scale to that of Kuala Lumpur. KL had its share of skyscrapers, for sure, but they were in that condensed area of the Golden Triangle. Bangkok’s skyscrapers were all around. Adie pointed out the tallest one as we sped west. We curled round, off the elevated freeway, then down into the craziness of the city itself.

Our hotel – the Ibis Riverside – was nestled in a curve of the Chao Phraya River as it flowed south through the western part of central Bangkok. We checked in and I pulled the curtains in our room back.

“Oh wow.”

The view that greeted me allowed me another one of those “moments.”

Below me was the fast-flowing river, visible over tropical tree tops, and there were several small boats navigating their courses. On the eastern bank, there were several high-rises to complete the scene. It was a real jaw-dropper. It was another sight which will be saved forever in my memory bank of images. I could have stayed there, nose pressed against the window, for hours, or at least until Nando scored again. Adie was the person to thank – or rather his wife Waraya, who had booked the room on the back of her previous stay at the hotel as a VSO employee.

At 4pm, we headed out, the whole night in Bangkok ahead of us.

Here we go.

We managed to locate a small ferry boat to take us across the river. While we were lining up at the ferry pier – which was typically surrounded by a fast food and drink stall – Adie pointed down to the ground, just to my right.

It was a pig, sleeping in the afternoon sun.

“Bloody hell, mate. A pig!”

We made our way across the river on a little flat boat and the fare was just 7 baht, or just 15p. I snapped away like a fool, capturing every riverboat we passed. I didn’t want to miss anything. We had heard that Chelsea were to stay at the Shangri La Hotel – just across the river from us – and so our first port of call was in this hotel. Two beers, some nuts, plus more chat about our personal lives. Adie had visited Frome back in April, but there is always gossip to share. No sightings of any CFC personnel, so we decided to move on. We were headed into town on the monorail. However, just as we were queuing up for our tickets at the Saphan Taksin stop, Adie quickly advised me to stop talking and to stand still. The Thai national anthem is played over tannoys at every public space at 8am and 6pm and so we stood still for thirty seconds, along with everyone else on that platform.

Another “moment” for sure.

Three stops away, we alighted at Sala Daeng and I was ready to breath in whatever Bangkok had to throw at me. For thirty minutes or so, we wandered the close streets of Patpong 1, 2 and 3, right in the epicentre of the fabled Bangkok show bar area. Street stalls, open air cafes, fake DVDs, fake designer gear, locals eating noodles and rice, fake football shirts, noise, colour and a little sleaze, with a few chaps hustling us to enter the various show bars which opened up onto the streets. I peered inside and wondered “shall I, shan’t I?” I bought a “Clockwork Orange” T-shirt for just 200 baht from a busy stall under the monorail. I spoke to Adie about one of Juve’s firms being called “Arancia Meccanica” and the real world, the football world and my world overlapped once again.
And still the street hustlers wanted us to pay a visit to the local delights…

“One Night In Bangkok” indeed.

Adie fancied some food and so from about 7pm to 9pm, we sheltered in the relative calm of an Irish pub – “O’Reilly’s” – and had three pints of Singha…they are Chelsea’s beer sponsors after all. We ordered some food – chicken in satay sauce and some spring rolls – and had a great time. We spoke about our school days and our time in the same school and cricket teams. A few other topics were aired, but we kept coming back to football, the game that ties so many of my mates together. We spoke about Asia’s particular love of English footy, way ahead of any other league, way ahead of Serie A, La Liga and the Bundesliga. Adie kept asking me why English football was so loved and I did my best to respond. I guess I used the words “history, passion, humour, noise and tribalism.” Dotted around the bar were several western male tourists “of a certain age” sitting with local Thai boys. The pub was busy and I half-expected a familiar Chelsea face to appear…maybe Saturday night. Sitting in a bar in a foreign land, I was reminded of one of my favourite jokes, which I shared with Ade : –

“An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman were shipwrecked and found themselves on a deserted island. Within a few weeks, the Irishman had found a way to ferment the local fruit to make alcohol and had opened a pub. The Scotsman had got into a fight with the Irishman and had been banned from the pub. And the Englishman was waiting to be introduced.”

Next up was the appearance of The Better Band, a local Beatles tribute band, and they played many Beatles’ songs. In their wigs and suits circa 1964, they did a good job to be fair. Paul McCartney even sang with a slight Scouse accent, which I guess is no mean feat. I spoke to Ade about the reports that I have been writing for CIA and we tossed a few ideas about what the Bangkok edition should be called. Adie suggested “Tales From The Big Mango” in lieu of the city’s modern nickname. It would certainly be better than “Tales From The City Of Angels, The Great City, The Residence Of The Emerald Buddha, The Impregnable City (Of Ayutthaya) Of God Indra, The Grand Capital Of The World Endowed With Nine Precious Gems, The Happy City, Abounding In An Enormous Royal Palace That Resembles The Heavenly Abode Where Reigns The Reincarnated God, A City Given By Indra And Built By Vishnukarn”. Bangkok has the longest place name in the world, allegedly. Feeling on top form, we then continued our walkabout and we ended up outside, and then inside, “The Finlandia” show bar. Twenty minutes later – and after just one beer, costing a couple of quid – we were back in the crowded streets and our lives were richer with another Bangkok moment.

For the record – ‘cus I know you all want to know – there were no table tennis balls but just 30 pretty bored Thai girls a-dancing on stage.

It had to be done, though. Tick that box, so to speak.

Next up, some more food and Adie sat us down at a cheap and cheerful café, with me just kicking back, enjoying some banter and aiming plenty of puns at poor Adie. We had a few local delicacies, including a crab which had been fragranced with a selection of Thai spices. I haven’t eaten too many crabs in my life and I was getting more and more frustrated as I toiled away, attempting to get as much flesh out of the little sucker as possible. At least the Singha beer was going down well. As I finished the meal, I spotted a local Thai gentleman in a Liverpool shirt and so I quickly showed him video film on my phone from the 3-1 game at Anfield in 2008. He growled and so I blew him a kiss and his little group of friends roared with laughter.

We crossed the roared and flagged down a tuk tuk, that funky three-wheeled vehicle which is such an iconic part of Asian life, and gave the driver instructions on how to reach our next attraction. I had pinpointed the open air bar on the 63rd. floor of the State Tower as a “must-see” attraction on this first night. Well, the tuk tuk drive was magnificent, a real adrenalin rush, with the exhaust roaring behind us and the traffic whizzing past. Waves to fellow tuk-tukkers, smiles to cab drivers.

“One Night In Bangkok.”

As we stepped out onto the roof terrace, my mind went ga-ga. What a sight – a clear dark night, starlit, with the illuminations of a million city lights stretched out to the horizon. Car lights, street lights, hotel rooms, reds, yellows, whites. We stepped into the crowded circular Sky Bar, itself illuminated, and tentatively ordered a couple of expensive beers. The barman was an Italian and so I decided to introduce myself –

“Sono tifo di Chelsea.”

He then told me that Didier Drogba and a few other Chelsea players had been up at the bar two hours earlier. If anything, that validated us being there, two mere mortals from Frome. We took it all in. Deep breathes. Photos of the vibrant Bangkok night down below. We sipped at the beers, wanting them to last forever. It really was a magnificent end to my first night in the Thai Capital. Pigs, river boats, Thai Beatles, Pat Pong’s vices, beer and Thai food, the city below from the Sky Bar above.

Chelsea in town.

There was still time for one more surprise.

“Chris Axon – what the fcuk are you doing here?”

I quickly turned around and a work colleague bounded across the bar to greet me with an outstretched hand.

“Batty – what the fcuk!”

Batty has worked with me at Herman Miller for eight years and, unbeknown to me, had just arrived in town the night before with his girlfriend Jo. He had spent a few minutes on the other side of the circular bar working out “is that Chris Axon???” The penny suddenly dropped…”must be him – Chelsea are in town.” Well, what a small world…what a cliché, but how true. We spent the next thirty minutes rubbing our eyes, sharing a few stories and wallowing in the absurdities of this crazy world. He had just visited Hong Kong and was only in Bangkok for three days. That our paths should cross in a bar 63 stories up in the Bangkok sky is surely a magnificent impossibility.

But, no – nothing is impossible in Chelsea World.

We called another tuk tuk – though it’s all a little blurred – and we raced back to the Ibis, our backsides only a foot or so from the ground, across the bridge over the Chao Phraya River and we collapsed into our beds at about 2am.

Day Two : The Tourist.

Adie was clearly not used to such an alcohol intake and was rather delicate first thing. I felt fine and, after a lovely buffet breakfast, we were out and about at just after 10am. The day was spent fizzing up and down the Chao Phraya River, visiting a few of Bangkok’s must-see sights. Of course, it had to happen; we bumped into Batty, not once, but twice on the Saturday…once on the ferry boat as we headed up to the Grand Palace and once inside the temple which housed the famous Emerald Budha.

“See you in about two hours, then.”

The Grand Palace was magnificent. It was another jaw-dropper. I was surrounded by gold-leaved temples and chedis, or pagodas, and while I snapped away, Adie secretly took a few photos of me. Adie loves his photography, like me, and taught me a few tricks about the art while I was with him. Being surrounded by all of that gold, especially on such a hot day, was almost hypnotic. For a few moments, I experienced what it must be like to be Roman Abramovic. We had to take off our shoes and caps to enter the revered temple of the Jade Buddha and for a few reflective moments, I sat in silence.

We then aimed for the temple which housed the Reclining Buddha or Wat Pho. This was another mesmeric sight. This Buddha is around 50m in length and is again gilded in gold. The toes are festooned in mother or pearl. It’s quite magnificent. With all of this gold around, I dubbed my visit to Bangkok a “gilt trip” and Adie groaned once more.

Death by a thousand puns.

Outside, more street markets; DVDs, Budha mementoes, second-hand toys, second-hand books, sex aids, plastic flowers, fresh fruit, pineapples and bananas, wooden phalluses, dried fish, coconuts, fake T-shirts, fake handbags, tat of every description, West Ham season tickets.

We caught the ferry boat back to the pier by the Shangri La Hotel and I decided to see if any players were hanging around. I waited in the reception area for a good hour or so. I spoke with an ex-pat, who had travelled down to Bangkok from Northern Thailand. He told me that he had paid the equivalent of £35 to attend the so called “High Tea With Chelsea FC” at the hotel on the Friday. He was far from impressed as he was one of around 250 fans and only the manager and four players attended, away on the top table. It was a bit of a farce, according to him. Bruce Buck and his wife arrived and I slowly walked over and greeted him with a memory from last season –

“The last time I saw you was at Frankley Services on the M5 after Stoke away.”

He looked a bit guarded and his response surprised me –

“Did you abuse me?”

I laughed it off and said “no, not at all.” We chatted a little and I asked his wife to take a photo…I had my trusty Yankees cap pinned to my belt and he noted it and patted his chest, saying “ah, close to my heart.”

Soon after, a minibus dropped Josh, Alex and Graeme Le Saux off and I had the smallest of chats with Berge as he raced through the foyer. I knew that the Chelsea squad were off to the stadium at around 5pm for some public training. I spotted Cathy and a few others arrive, back from a hot day visiting the sights. They had plans to visit the training session, but I was giving it a swerve. I lounged around and spotted a few CFC personnel – names unknown – and wondered what their roles were in the grand scheme of things. What were their names? What were their roles? Their motivations? Their qualifications? Their impressions of Andre Villas-Boas? Were they enjoying the trip? Were they missing their loved ones? It made me think. I asked one of them about the team’s departure time for the training session and the fact that he was an American surprised me. Not sure why, though.

I got the nod that the team would be boarding the coach from a tucked-away service bay to the side. For about 45 minutes, with rain clouds threatening, I hung around in the hope of getting some good photographs of the players as they boarded the coach. In the end, the photos were disappointing and I questioned my sanity on more than one occasion. I felt, ridiculously, like a school kid at a pop concert and was tempted to head back to the Ibis. I stuck it out though – and was rewarded when I spun around to get a good shot of JT giving me the thumbs up from his seat. I also made him chuckle when I said “Beth from America says hi!”

On the ferry back across the Chao Phraya, the rain cascaded down and I hoped that Cathy et al had decided to forego the training session.

Saturday night was quieter than Friday – I swam in the hotel pool, while the rain came down and there was occasional sheet lightning which lit up the sky. The boats on the river were still floating past and it was another lovely moment. The rain lashing down on my skin, the swimming pool warm, the smile on my face constant. The rain increased in intensity and it was gorgeous.

“I’m going to swim underwater, Adie – I’m getting wet here.”

Day Three – The Game.

Of all my time supporting Chelsea Football Club, attending games and watching my heroes, the pre-match of Sunday 24th. July 2011 was unlike no other. We were up nice and early and began the morning with a pre-breakfast swim at around 7am. After a hearty breakfast – nice to know that pork sausages, fried eggs, fried potatoes and baked beans have found their way to Thailand – we set off for a walk around the Chinatown area of downtown BK. Across the river once more, then up a few miles on the ferry boat. From about 10.30pm to around 2pm, we slowly walked through street after street, bazaar after bazaar, delicately avoiding oncoming traffic and pedestrians alike.

I knew that I was in for a treat when Adie lead me down a slight passageway which got narrower and narrower until we turned a corner and ended up almost entering somebody’s house. There was a blurring of space – “Adie, is this a shop, a private kitchen, or a shared area between several families?” – and it felt like I had entered another world.

In fact, of course, this is just what I had done.

Every spare inch of alleyway was devoted to commercial pursuits. Here comes another list of products, but this could go on forever; food of every description, including raw and cooked fish, exotic fruits of every shape, colour and size, textiles, mobile phones, walking sticks, electric drills, fishing rods, bags, fake DVDs, radios, car engine parts, batteries, toys, shoes, fake designer gear, nuts, vegetables, magazines, old toy cars, bags of fried fish stomachs, hats, caps, jewelry, furniture, mirrors, incense sticks, electronic goods, dried flowers, football shirts, car stickers, anything, everything.

And every few yards, locals were sat on the floor, crouching over little stoves cooking their meals. Bowls and bowls of rice, meat, noodles, fish, vegetables, fruit and a thousand variations. There was a blurring again of what I saw before me; is this a stall selling food, or just simply a worker cooking up their own food?

Adie had taught me a new way to photograph, slowing to a standstill, spotting a subject and shooting from the hip. I took several photos like this and the results were OK. I remember the intense look of concentration of one very small Chinese gentleman who was delicately folding pieces of gold to make intricate origami displays. The look of a bored young girl texting a friend while sat behind textiles and ribbons. A woman devouring some food. A chap sat at a café, smiling with a passer-by.

With every step, a hundred different sights. With every breath, a different aroma.

I said to Adie – “and in four hours time, we’ll watch some millionaires play football.”

We stopped off at a couple of street-side cafes and guzzled some drinks in the heat of the day; an iced cappuccino, a lime cordial, a lychee yogurt smoothie.

And the streets got narrower and narrower. At times it was impossible to move as the people slowed to gaze at the goods on sale. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia, but at times I just wanted to break free and find some clear space.

Eventually we broke free of Chinatown and headed north, over a canal and towards the Golden Mountain, which was another golden temple on the highest piece of land in central Bangkok. We quickly ascended the steps, took a few photographs and spotted a few skyscraper landmarks. Time was moving on and we needed to head over to the game. We caught a cab – thank heavens for air-conditioning – and soon witnessed another taxi ploughing into a poor woman and her cart of fresh fruit, sending them sprawling onto the road.

On the thirty minute cab ride out west, we sped past a massive advertisement for Singha beer, which used the tagline “Spirit Of Champions” with four Chelsea players’ faces and the CFC badge. It was a remarkable sight, thousands of miles from West London. As we approached the stadium, the traffic slowed, Chelsea shirts were beginning to be spotted and the expectation levels began to rise with each minute.

We were dropped off outside the main – and as far as we could ascertain, the only – entrance to the stadium. The heat was now getting more intense, but my Yankee cap was doing a fine job. After a little confusion about choosing the correct line at the busy ticket booth, I quickly picked up our three tickets. I spotted Aggie from the Cyprus Blues and had a little chat. Thankfully, Cathy, Jim and Jayne soon arrived and I could relax. We decided to head inside and get out of the sun. Cathy and I posed with my “Vinci Per Noi” flag once again. The atmosphere outside was of excitement, but it was quieter than Kuala Lumpur. There were a few tents nearby containing various products, including a Chelsea FC stall, a Coke stall and a local radio tent, with a loud DJ creating a din. The game was dubbed the Coke Super Cup and there was a twenty foot tall Coke “running man” statue outside the stadium. Quite a few locals appeared to be selling tickets and I wondered if the gate might fall way short of a full house. Adie had seen Leeds, Arsenal, Manchester United, Barca, Real and Brazil over the years at the stadium…I hoped and prayed that we would fill it.

Thankfully, we had great seats under the cover of the sweeping roof of the west stand. Middle tier, right on the halfway line. These tickets were 2,000 baht or around #45. There was a cooling breeze and we were fine. Opposite, on the east terrace, thousands of Chelsea fans were sweltering in the late afternoon sun and I noted hundreds of multi-coloured umbrellas sheltering the poor souls. It was time to play spot the Chelsea flag. The lads from Weymouth were sat a few rows in front of us and I am sure their flag was close by. Opposite, we spotted the two Bletchley Blues flags, a Walton On Thames flag, a Pattaya Blues flag, an Indonesia Blues flag, a Singapore Blues flag, a Melbourne flag and a Rising Sun flag. It was a good show. VPN was missing – I couldn’t be bothered with the hassle.

The Chelsea players came onto the pitch and went through their choreographed pre-match routines.

The Snappy Dresser –

Chris – pink.

Again, thousands of CFC flags had been draped over some seats and these were waved with gusto. The stadium took a while to fill up. Still the sun beat down.

There were fireworks during the pre-game show and then a Thai couple appeared high above the north terrace on a platform. They were suspended from two cables and slowly made their way to the running track, as if floating on air. Let’s see something similar at Chelsea next season, with maybe Cathy and Dog floating down from the West Stand roof with five minutes to go before kick-off.

The teams appeared down below us and the crowd roared. Difficult to gauge the attendance, but – like KL – the crowd kept arriving deep into the game.

Great to see Petr back between the sticks for the first time this season.

The game began but it was a poor opening thirty minutes or so, with the Thai team showing more spirit and know-how than the Malaysian team a few days earlier. Soon into the game, all was quiet in our section and I shouted out –

“Come On Chelsea!”

…and, much to my amusement, this was met with a few “oohs” and “aahs” and even a few claps from the locals around me. Cathy and I spoke about doing some ZZs later.

Cech did well to get down and block a Thai shot on 31 minutes. That man Torres, still looking leggy and distant, skewed wide on 37 minutes and we all groaned. At times, the atmosphere was very quiet. Then, the ball broke to Frank Lampard and he adroitly despatched the ball low into the goal from over 25 yards out. It was a typical Fat Frank Goal and the crowd roared their approval.

Cathy disappeared at half-time and didn’t re-appear until later in the second-half. I suspect that she was off on the hunt for some Strongbow. Adie asked me how I thought the top six would finish up in 2011-2012 and he was quite shocked when I predicted that the title would go to Manchester United. My top six were: Manchester United, then Chelsea, Manchester City, Liverpool, Arsenal and Tottenham.

I caught both of the next two goals on film. Jose Bosingwa’s cross-cum-shot evaded the despairing, and comical, efforts of the Thai ‘keeper and bounced in off the far post. Soon after, a burst through the middle of the park by Ivanovic and a lovely ball through by Young Josh. He kept his cool and dispatched the ball with aplomb and the entire World and his Dog made cynical comments along the lines of “good job it wasn’t Torres.”

One of the highlights of the game for me was a crunching tackle by John Terry on a Thai player and I suspect that the said player is still having recurring nightmares about it. Josh looked busy and impressed. The star of the show was Hilario, on for Petr at the break, who made a succession of fine saves around the hour mark. Top marks. Ivanovic charged around all over the place and didn’t seem to be affected by the heat, though I am sure it was very humid and draining. Rather them than me.

The place was still quiet, though.

My “Come On Chelsea, Come On Chelsea, Come On Chelsea” chant didn’t stir the locals and so I left it at that. A couple in front of Adie and I were annoying the hell out of me. They virtually ignored the game and instead kept taking photographs – and sickly ones at that – of each other. It was just as well that Cathy wasn’t around to witness such a pathetic sight. Just after Cathy returned to her seat, Florent Malouda lashed high into the net and it was 4-0 to Chelsea.

Job done.

JT looked rather embarrassed to collect another cup, but all thoughts were quickly forgotten as a glittering array of fireworks lit up the Bangkok night. It was a spectacular end to the night’s entertainment and provided a fitting end to my two Chelsea games in Asia. This was a much better performance than the game in KL and the team looked more at ease. I hoped that the man with the clipboard was starting to make an impact.

Adie and I let the crowds subside and were some of the last to leave the stadium.

I collected twenty plastic cups from the terraces which were all logo’d up with “Coca Cola Super Cup Thailand 2011” and had the images of Didier, Frank, JT and Nando on them. They will go to a few close friends.

Outside, the crowds were still to disperse. There was a noisy atmosphere out in the streets, with buses and cabs racing past us as we walked a few miles west to get away from the congested area. Adie also pointed out motorbike taxis, but that would have to be a Bangkok experience for next time. Lots of smiles with fellow Chelsea fans as Adie and I marched on, walking at pace away from the stadium. It felt, actually, just like a walk away from a game in Europe. Maybe Rome or Barcelona. Lots of shouts, lots of noise, lots of colour. I had to keep reminding myself that – no – this was Bangkok.

I said to Adie “at least there’s no chance of getting whacked out here.”

I also commented that although Bangkok was a wilder city than Kuala Lumpur, the atmosphere was not half as good.

At around 9am, sirens wailed behind us and the Chelsea team coach – also logo’d up in the colours of Coca Cola – raced by. I punched the air as the coach drive by and realised what a lucky soul I had been. The next time I would see the boys play would be in Stoke, but that seemed a lifetime away.

We dipped into a 7-Eleven for a bottle of ice-cold green tea and then luckily nabbed a cab back to our hotel. Time was running out for a Thai buffet, so instead, I devoured a burger and fries, along with two bottles of Singha. Not until now do I realise that these were the only beers that I had to drink the entire day. And what a day. That wonderful day in Chinatown and Chelseatown.

That wonderful day in Bangkok.

Postscript :-

After Bangkok, I had a relaxing time in Chiang Mai and one moment brought a smile to my face. On the last day, I was busy visiting a last few sights and was just about to leave a temple when a local lady in her ‘sixties approached me. I think she was aiming to get me sign up for a local tour. She asked me where I was from and as soon as I said “England” she was keen to ask me another question.

“Ah – which football team do you support?”

It made me laugh…one world, one game, one team anyone?

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Saturday

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 9 February 2011.

Parky and I rolled in to The Goose just after 10.30am. Reg had opened up early at 10am and the place was already busy.

“A pint of Fosters and a pint of Carling please love.”

Over in the corner, Alan, Rob and Daryl were already mid-way through their first pints. Handshakes and greetings. My last game was the Liverpool defeat and, although less than a fortnight had since passed, it had seemed a lifetime ago. A few other good friends were nearby and it was good to be back in the groove. However, to be truthful, I hadn’t thought too much about this cup replay. I have been particularly busy at work this past week, plus I have had a few other things keeping my mind occupied.

We spent ninety minutes in the pub and the talk was varied. Alan and Rob are following the lads in Denmark and leave on Monday. I’m still waiting for my European away debut this season – things just haven’t panned out for me on that front yet, but I’m hoping we get into the last eight for a trip to foreign climes to materialise. The nearest that Parky and myself are getting to a European trip at the moment is the upcoming jaunt to Blackpool. We spoke briefly about ticket prices. The £57.50 I have to pay for my Copenhagen home ticket came as a massive shock, but at no stage did I think about not going. It’s pathetic really – Chelsea has us by the short and curlies and it hurts. This is nothing on the Champions League Final ticket prices, though, which were announced during the week; the cheapest general sale ticket comes in at a monstrous £176. For the participating teams, prices begin at a mere £80, though I am unsure if this includes an obscene £26 booking fee as per the general sale tickets. I had a chat with my mate Andy, who had been up to Ibrox again last weekend. In Scotland, prices are not so heavy and the game remains a working class pastime. He reminded me that former Chelsea team mates Jody Morris and Michael Duberry are currently plying their trade north of the border for St. Johnstone. I have always enjoyed watching football in Scotland – for many reasons really. I’ve witnessed games at eight grounds in Scotland, including five matches at Rangers, three at Dundee United and two apiece at Celtic and Hearts. It’s just enjoyable to catch a game in a different country – and I enjoy the working-class grit of the Scottish game.

Outside, there was misty rain as we walked down to the stadium.

Everton had sold 6,000 tickets for this game and we were all amazed at these numbers. At the 1-1 game at Goodison Park, the Chelsea choir had asked –

“Will you come to Stamford Bridge?”

Clearly, the answer was a resounding “yes.”

As we walked past Walham Green, Simon, Daryl and myself confirmed that Everton have never really brought large numbers down to Chelsea. Forefront in our mind was the game on a gorgeous sunny Saturday in the autumn of 1985 when Everton – the reigning champions remember – only brought down about a thousand away fans in a gate of 27,634. On the approach to the turnstiles, I bought a programme and there was a picture of Frank Lampard on the front, his trademark red belt clearly visible.

With perfect timing yet again, I got to my seat just a couple of minutes before the teams appeared. Chelsea in the lovely blue, Everton in their dirty cream. At The Shed End, the 6,000 Evertonians were ready and waiting in the two tiers. For the entire game, the 2,000 in the lower tier stood and the 4,000 above sat. It was a solid block of black, dark grey and navy jackets, with relatively few club colours on show. Only four flags though. Everton clearly don’t “do” flags, unlike their city rivals.

I find it fascinating how certain clubs have developed different approaches to flags and banners. For the F.A. Cup Finals in the ‘seventies, banners were always of “witty slogans” using plays on words. Into the eighties, Union Jacks appeared at England games and then at club games (though usually at away games – to brighten up dreary terraces with fences). At the 1982 World Cup in Spain, I remember that most of the Scotland flags appeared with individual bar names – a new approach. Liverpool led the way with banners on The Kop from the early ‘seventies and theirs usually tend to involve white text on red; usually a statement about their glorious past (insert comment here). Manchester United’s banners now tend to involve red, white and black horizontal bars. Chelsea has moved on in recent years; five years ago it was all St. George flags, with blue text, but our banners are now more varied. I like a lot of our banners and my favourite has to be the simple “Born Is The King.” Personally, I would like a little more humour and self-deprecating irony to be honest – a Chelsea trademark of the grim periods in our past. I’ve produced three hand-crafted banners over the past fifteen years ( “Ruud Boys”, “Vinci Per Noi” and the Peter Osgood one) and would like to get some more done. I have a few ideas knocking around. Watch this space.

However, I don’t approve of the “official” flags which are waved with gusto by the youngsters in front of the West Stand. That’s all just too corporate and too contrived for me.

I was surprised to see that Essien was not in the starting eleven, though I could understand why; his form has not been great. Anelka was on the bench too; Kalou in.

We created enough chances during the game to win easily, but a mixture of woeful finishing and dogged resistance from the Evertonian rear-guard resulted in a frustrating afternoon.

After a few early exchanges, the first real chance came on 21 minutes. A Chelsea free-kick was thumped in from deep and the ball avoided all attempts by the defenders to clear. The ball bounced right on the six yard line, with Tim Howard unwilling to meet it. The ball bounced up onto the right post, with Howard unable to get a hand on the ball and push it to safety. Ivanovic was waiting at the far post, but the ball rebounded into the path of the waiting John Terry. However, JT was clearly off balance and his left-footed effort ballooned over. I seem to remember a similar miss from The Captain against Hull City in Scolari’s last game in 2009.

Everton were pressing our midfield and we were struggling to get a rhythm going. Ramires broke into the box, but was booked for diving after a “coming together” with Tim Howard. Of course, we were miles away and couldn’t really see what had happened, but why would he go down when he was trying to push the ball past the ‘keeper and shoot at goal? The referee Phil Dowd, never a favourite, was roundly booed. We had further chances from Florent Malouda, Didier Drogba and Frank Lampard during that first-half, but the shots were blocked, saved or failed to hit the target. Ramires was playing well and one break from deep got me purring. However, it was a generally disjointed first forty-five minutes. On many instances throughout the match, Alan, Zac and I spoke of the Arsenal vs. Barcelona game on Wednesday. Barca’s performance in the first hour was as near to footballing perfection as you’ll get; relentless pressing, clean tackling, formidable team awareness, sublime close control, slick passing, tremendous movement off the ball, with Lionel Messi the master and chief. I can’t wait for the second leg at Camp Nou.

Midway through the first-half, I noticed three new flags which had appeared on the highest of the East Stand balconies –

Chelsea Hungary

Mighty Blues Belgium

Philly Blues

I quickly texted 612Steve to tell him the good news about his adopted home city’s banner being on show at The Bridge. There are now around twelve American banners on show at HQ. I wonder what American visitors who drop in to The Bridge on a holiday visit and who are not fans of the club wonder about these flags. It must be a shock for residents of Boston, Orange County or Texas, to name but three, to see flags from those areas proudly displayed in deepest London SW6. No other club in Europe has so many American flags on display at their home stadium.

I’m wondering if Chelsea can now inform the Dallas Cowboys that we are now America’s Team.

You can tell them, Beth.

Michael Essien came on for the ineffective Mikel at the break. We played better as the second-half began and a Didier Drogba free-kick was nervously smothered by Tim Howard.

Ah – Tim Howard. Once it was announced that Manchester United had signed the Tourette’s-suffering Howard, I knew it wouldn’t be too long before my mate Alan would come up with a witty nickname for him. After his move to Goodison, with more games and more exposure, Alan soon decided on an apt moniker. He delved back into his childhood and picked a character from “The Whacky Races.” For the past four years, whenever Tim Howard plays us, Alan refers to him as Klunk.

“Whizz-buuuuuuur-badoing-whirrrrrrr-woop-crash-peeeep.”

On fifty-five minutes, a Drogba free-kick was headed over by Frank. Ten minutes later, another Lampard effort was saved by Klunk, and then the resultant corner produced a shot from Branislav Ivanovic which was bundled off the line. It was turning out to be one of those days. At the end of a rare Everton break, full-back Seamus Coleman headed straight at Cech. To be honest, for all of Everton’s running and pressing, they rarely threatened.

However, the Everton support got louder and more involved as the game wore on. One song stood out –

“We shall not be moved.
We shall not, we shall not be moved – we shall not, we shall not be moved.
We are the team that’s gonna win the F.A. Cup, we shall not be moved.”

This song is usually only sung when teams are ahead in a Wembley-bound cup tie, so I found it odd that Everton were singing it with such vigour with the scores just level. Maybe they knew something that we didn’t.

On eighty-two minutes, a lovely passage of play found Lampard a few yards out but his decision to chip Klunk was met with derision as it flew over. We had a few late chances but the Everton goal lived a charmed life. We then had a huge scare as a ball was whipped in to our box. However, as Fellaini prodded home, I immediately saw the bright yellow flag raised by the linesman in front of the West Stand. What a pleasure it is to be a nanosecond ahead of 6,000 away fans as they jump around in joyous exultation. It was offside. Phew.

With the scores level, into extra-time we went. Anelka came on for the patchy Malouda and brightened the play up a little. Frank Lampard, profligate again, screwed the ball a yard wide with a weak left-footed shot.

Then, at last – a breakthrough. On 101 minutes, Anelka, the fresh man, chased a ball in to corner and did so well to beat off the challenge of his two defenders. His lovely cross was chested down by Didier Drogba into the path of Frank Lampard. I was in direct line with the ball’s trajectory and as he swung his boot, I could easily see that the ball would go unhindered into the net. I turned and began my triumphant jump up the steps – I didn’t even see the ball go in. I lept and punched the air and The Bridge was rocking. I rejoined Alan and, in our best Scouse accents…

“Dey’ll ‘ave to come arruz now.”
“C’hum on my little diamondsssssss.”

Thoughts of Reading at home on the first day of March were taking shape. Then, a silly and clumsy challenge by our Serbian and a very scary free-kick on the edge of our box. The Matthew Harding tried to raise our confidence with a quick chant, but I was too nervous to join in.

As Leighton Baines clipped the ball up after a very short approach, I uttered two words under my breath –

“Oh fcuk.”

First I thought it was going in, and then I thought it was drifting wide. It hit the back of the net and the 6,000 away supporters went crazy.

Penalties. Just the word makes every Englishman squirm.

West Germany 1990. Germany 1996. Argentina 1998. Portugal 2004. Portugal 2006.

Chelsea? I won’t even bother listing them – I’ll be here all day.

“The Liquidator” and then “Blue Is The Colour” were played in an attempt to raise the spirits. I took a photo of the two teams lined up on the half-way line as Frank Lampard strode forward for the first one. I didn’t fancy taking photographs of the penalties, though…too nervous. I wondered if John Terry would be involved.

Frank Lampard – high and in. Not much applause, just relief.

Leighton Baines – a save from Cech and a mighty roar.

Didier Drogba – low and in. Phew.

Phil Jagielka – in.

Nicolas Anelka – a nonchalant chip and an easy save for Klunk.

Mikel Arteta – in.

Michael Essien – in the middle and in. Phew.

John Heitinga – in.

Ashley Cole – looking nervous on his approach and well over. Fans got up and started to leave even before the last Everton player had the ball in his hands.

Phil Neville – in.

Our historic attempt to win three F.A. Cups in a row was over and it hurt. How often do we see teams go a goal behind in penalty shoot-outs and come back to eventually win? It happens all the time. Dare I mention Moscow? Sorry.

The rest of the lads were planning a post-game meet in “The Jolly Malster” as they attempted to get as much out of a Chelsea game as is practicably possible, like somebody squeezing hard on a tube of toothpaste to get the last portion out. However, Parky and I just wanted to beat the traffic and head home. He was soon asleep and I was full of melancholy.

Three trophies lost and just the one remains. Oh boy.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Flags

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Tales From The Banks Of The Chao Phraya River

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Saturday