Tag Archives: Fulham

Tales From Sixth Place

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 9 April 2012.

It was Easter Bank Holiday Monday 2012 and the Fulham versus Chelsea derby game was due up in the evening. Normally, I would try to do something of note during the day, but I awoke with an annoying headache and sore throat. As Parky had been rough with similar symptoms over the past week, I soon blamed him. Since 1979, my village has hosted an Easter Fair on every Bank Holiday Monday and I intended to spend a little time amongst the attractions. However, as the morning drew on, the weather deteriorated with an increasingly blustery wind and worsening showers. I saw a few visitors heading into the centre of the village; coats buttoned with hats and scarves to the fore. They didn’t seem to be enjoying the bracing wind or rain. However, I decided to brave the elements and strolled down, past children’s fair rides, food stalls, arts and crafts stands, hog roasts, bric-a-brac stalls and trade stands. I made it as far as the village shop and picked up a few items of food for lunch. I soon realised that my cold-like symptoms were getting worse. By the time I had returned home, my jacket was soaked.

Great.

The time soon passed and I reluctantly gathered my things together ahead of the drive to London. I will admit that there was a certain element of drudgery about all of this. I threw some headache tablets down my neck and battled the elements as I headed out to the car. As the centre of the village was closed off to vehicular access, I had to head out to the west rather than the east. What a dreary day. Heading past Faulkland, past the village green with the stocks, then past the Tucker’s Grave Inn (one of the last remaining scrumpy pubs in the area), the weather was truly awful; a lifeless sky and incessant rain.

I reached Parky Towers at just after 3pm. We were both coughing and spluttering in unison as I pulled out of his road. Parky and Jill had visited the village fair last Easter – when the weather was much more enticing – and so I soon chatted about my grim walk through the wet streets a few hours earlier.

“It was pretty pathetic mate. It wasn’t too bad for me I suppose, because I live in the village. But I have to wonder why people would want to travel over especially and traipse about in the rain…”

My voice trailed off. I soon realised what I was saying. I was mocking the people I had seen at the fair, but here we were, the two of us suffering with colds, about to drive 100 miles to watch a game of football.

I recognised the irony and chuckled to myself.

Why was I going to Craven Cottage? I guess the £49 ticket was burning a hole in my pocket…especially since we missed the game just after Christmas last year when we both felt ropey. There was some vague notion of “duty” to the team I suppose, but neither of us has to prove anything in our support of the boys. I suppose, the reason was straightforward; it’s what we do. I guess the question never really needs to be asked, let alone answered.

I pulled into Melksham for a coffee and I immediately felt chirpier. My mate Steve texted me to say that Frome Town (aka the Mighty Dodge) were drawing 0-0 down on the seaside in Weymouth, but the weather was cold and blustery there too. If truth be known, I was pretty dismayed that I was missing Frome’s game against the biggest club in their division.

As we headed east, we listened to the exploits of both Newcastle and Tottenham on the radio. We were both elated to hear of Spurs’ 2-1 loss and we were soon chattering about us finishing up in fourth place at the final whistle at Craven Cottage. On Friday, the gap was a massive five points. Later in the day, we could be level.

Easter weekend is a long time in football

Parky threw a Stiff Records compilation on the CD player as I headed into The Smoke. I especially enjoyed the thunder of “Destination Zulu Land” by King Kurt, a song I hadn’t heard for a good 25 years. As we zipped through the twee side streets of Barnes and Putney, songs from The Pogues, Tracey Ullman and The Belle Stars sent us down memory lane. We left Memory Lane and parked up just a few hundred yards from the River Thames. Good news from Weymouth; Steve texted me to say The Dodge won 3-0.

We strolled into “The Duke’s Head” bang on 6pm and settled down alongside the stalwarts Alan and Gary, plus Mike from NYC and his son Matthew. Within a short period of time, Matt from NYC joined us and then Jesus and his cousin Darlene; she had just flown in to London and the Fulham vs. Chelsea derby game would be her first ever footy game. They have tickets for the F.A. Cup semi-final on Sunday, too, and Jesus has been teaching her a few songs. The less said about those the better…wink. By the time of that game next Sunday, Jesus will have added Paris and Amsterdam to his list of European cities visited during the past three months.

Alan and Parky exchanged jokes and the Heineken was going down well. A few familiar Chelsea faces were spotted at the bar. Mike and I spoke about the massive game against Tottenham at Wembley, but we both expressed dismay and concern that our 31,500 tickets sold so poorly that during the last window for sales, both season ticket holders and members alike could buy an additional two tickets. This suggests to me that our fan base as a whole is not as “up for it” as it should be. Surely the Spurs’ followers will take up their 31,500 more readily. Worrying signs…

“Another pint, boys?”

I can well remember a conversation that a few of us had on the pavement outside this pub ahead of our game with Fulham in March 2006. This was, of course, during the closing stages of our second championship season under Jose Mourinho; there was a certain amount of pomp in the way that our club was perceived by the media at the time and we were seen as almost unbeatable domestically. Looking back, they were the very best of times. And yet, the five or six of us on that Sunday lunchtime were far from happy; we had noticed chinks in our armour and were not completely happy in the way that we were playing of late. Question marks were raised about manager and players alike. The fact that we lost the game 1-0 added a little gravitas to our typically pessimistic appraisal of the team six years ago.

Why do I mention this? It just proves that football fans, in general, are never happy. We were soon to be crowned English champions for the second successive season, but there was still room for improvement in our collective minds.

We left the boozer at 7.15pm and wrapped ourselves up against the cold before walking over the exposed Putney Bridge, with the bright lights of Craven Cottage shining like beacons to our west. We hurriedly walked through the park which abuts the river and were soon outside the red brick turnstiles of the Putney End. The others entered the away end, but I spent a few moments taking a few photographs of the relatively new Johnny Haynes statue. However, the rain was falling and the light was poor. The photos weren’t great. I didn’t even bother looking for the allegedly hideous Michael Jackson statue. True Fulham fans must hate the presence of it outside the Johnny Haynes stand.

I wouldn’t mind a Raquel Welch statue outside The Shed though; it would be, at least, somewhere to shelter in the rain.

Underneath the away stand, I soon stumbled into Darlene, Parky and Jesus supping “one last pint.” Craven Cottage is a lovely stadium – one of my favourites. Its setting is unique. I love the façade of the main stand. Top marks. However, it does contain the infamous “neutral area” alongside the 3,000 seats officially allotted to away fans in the Putney End. Once inside the seats, I soon realised that my seat – on the aisle – was right on the boundary between the “away” and “neutral” zones. I chatted to Alan about this; if truly neutral, one wonders if it would be appropriate to encounter Liverpool, Leicester City, Leeds United and Lincoln City shirts amongst the neutrals. It is truly a weird concept. I quickly spotted a few Chelsea shirts and scarves in this area, but also some Fulham ones.

Bizarre.

It was noticeable that the 3,000 away fans stood for the entire game and provided some of the most vocal singing of the season so far. In contrast, the 3,500 fans in the neutral zone remained seated throughout and did not utter a single word of song during the evening’s entertainment. The home fans were pretty docile, too. However, I scanned the stadium and there were hardly any empty seats. The teams walked across the pitch.

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I caught a glimpse of some white signs being held up by a section of home fans in the Hammersmith End and I groaned; I suspected that these doubled as the equally infamous “Fulham noise-makers / clappers / thundersticks” (also spotted at Wembley amongst the plebs at England games.)

The future of football? Heave.

I’m not really sure why Fulham have disregarded their black shorts; I have a passing dislike for teams who meddle with their kit design.

The game began and we were soon singing –

“Six days till Tottenham, there’s only six days till Tottenham – six days till Tottenham.”

“We don’t hate you, we don’t hate you, we don’t hate you – ‘cus you’re s***.”

“You can stick your fucking clappers up your arse.”

“Who the fuck are Barcelona, who the fuck are Barcelona, who the fuck are Barcelona? As the Blues go marching on, on, on.”

It was a cold and wet night by the banks of The Thames.The game wasn’t great at all, though we kept singing all of the way through. Ryan Bertrand pleased my eye throughout the game and he has fared well over the past two games. Gary Cahill created a strong barrier alongside John Terry. Ivanovic was his usual self. The problems came in the attacking positions really. We all said that Ramires is best used when he wins the ball centrally and drives on. He is not so effective when he receives the ball wide and then has to create for others. Lampard covered ground but wasn’t the driving force of old. Up top, Torres was quiet, Kalou also.

Clint Dempsey had a few strong chances in the first-half, but Petr Cech kept him at bay. I like the look of the buzzing winger Frei . Damien Duff, as always these days, flattered to deceive.

The foul on Kalou which lead to the penalty took place, of course, up the other end and so my sighting was not great. Frank struck the ball low and it just evaded Schwarzer’s dive. Phew.

In the first ten minutes of the second period, we enjoyed three or four gilt-edged chances to increase our lead but the chances went begging. I can still see the look of pain on Fernando Torres’ face after his neat lay-off for Meireles resulted in a wild blast over. Slowly, our play deteriorated and Fulham began to bother Petr Cech. A few half-chances peppered our goal. A stunning point-blank save from Petr was met with tumultuous applause from the standing loyalists in the Putney End. From the resulting corner, though, our hearts were broken when Clint Dempsey – yes, him – rose to head home.

In the last cameo of the night, we broke forward but Frank Lampard stumbled after a tackle inside the box. The referee Mark Clattenburg blew the final whistle, leaving a frustrated Lampard sitting on the pitch, bemused.

We scuttled back to the car and were soon away. There was little to bring us any cheer to be honest. Another evening, another game, another night of song. Our chance to leapfrog ahead of Tottenham had been missed – and with it, a timely boost ahead of the cup semi-final. Still, Fulham away is never an easy game these days. We still have a shot at fourth place, but we will see.

We returned to the Stiff Records compilation as I took the reverse route out of south-west London. I drove right past the spot where T-Rex lead singer Marc Bolan met his untimely death in 1977. All those years ago, his mini slammed into a tree-trunk and I noted that it was festooned with pictures and mementos of the iconic singer, whose “Children Of The Revolution” is one of my favourite songs of my very early childhood.

As I headed home, Parky soon fell asleep and I soon realised that my sore throat had returned; looking back this was hardly surprising since I had unthinkingly joined in at every opportunity to bellow support for the boys.

Let’s hope that all 31,500 of us have equally sore throats next Sunday evening.

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Tales From The 41,548*

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Chelsea vs. Fulham : 26 December 2011.

For the first time this season, I was having a day off. That is to say, the driving duties were not mine. At last I could relax and let somebody else worry about the traffic and the timings. Glenn called for me at 8am and we were soon on our way. Parky was collected at 8.30am, resplendent in a new Duck & Cover top, thankfully now recovering from his recent ailments.

The three amigos on the way to football once more.

Another season, another Boxing Day game, another game at The Bridge. Admittedly, we don’t have a game every December 26th (our last Boxing Day game was in 2009 at Birmingham City), but Chelsea invariably get home fixtures on this date.

As I live over 100 miles from SW6, it took until 1992 for me to see Chelsea in a Boxing day game; until then the friction of distance, plus lack of finances, prevailed against me. On that particular day, I drove up to Chelsea for the very first time and parked near the Lots Road gasometers and watched Chelsea scramble a 1-1 draw against Southampton. I remember I took an old-school camcorder up with me for that game and – quite illegally – recorded around ten minutes of match action from the East Upper. I also took a few shots of the old tube station, the souvenir shops on the Fulham Road, the forecourt, The Shed. I’m glad I did; within a few years, the old Stamford Bridge would be no more. That 15 minute film from Stamford Bridge – shrouded in midwinter mist, atmospheric, bleak – is a cherished part of my Chelsea archives. I remember how every time Chelsea (Dennis Wise, Eddie Newton, Frank Sinclair et al) managed to cross the halfway line, there were encouraging cheers and claps from the Chelsea support in the East Stand. I watched this video film a few years ago and it was quite endearing to be honest; refreshing to see – and hear – Chelsea fans supporting the team’s pursuit of goals and glory. These days, the notion of Chelsea fans cheering each time we get past the centre-circle seems absurd.

1992 was my first ever CFC Boxing Day game, but my first ever trip to Stamford Bridge during the festive season was ten years earlier, during that bleakest of seasons, the 1982-1983 campaign. During that winter, Chelsea were stumbling along in the old second division and gates were hitting new lows. Despite drawing 25,000 for the visit of Leeds United in October, gates had dropped to as low as 7,000 in late 1982. Our neighbours Fulham, paradoxically, were flying high under the management of former player Malcolm MacDonald and with players such as Ray Houghton, Sean O’Driscoll, Gordon Davies and Dean Coney. I travelled up with my parents for the Chelsea vs. Fulham derby on December 28th 1982 and wondered how big the gate would be. If memory serves, the cancellation of a set of fixtures the previous week had resulted in massive crowds on the Boxing Day that year; everyone wanted their fix of football. Well, the Chelsea crowd did not disappoint on that afternoon in December 1982. I watched from The Shed and my parents watched from way up high in the East. The game was a scoreless draw, but the abiding memory is of the huge 29,000 attendance. Our average during that 1982-1983 season was just 12,672 (our lowest ever, from 1905 onwards), so getting a gate of 29,000 reconfirmed what I knew; we were a sleeping giant, we did have the fan base…with a little success, the crowds would return. I remember little of the day, apart from waiting at the bottom of The Shed after the game had ended. Thousands upon thousands of fans strode past as I waited for my parents to join me. I was overawed by the numbers and the wait seemed to take forever. I can see my father now, in his hat and overcoat, trying to keep warm in the cold December air. My mother alongside, with her face cheered for seeing me.

Lovely memories.

So much for Chelsea versus Fulham in 1982. What about Chelsea versus Fulham in 2011?

McBreakfasts were purchased at Melksham and were consumed “on the hoof.” Glenn made great time and we were rolling along nicely. We bumped into a few Cardiff City fans at Reading Services, en route to Watford, and then continued on our pilgrimage east. With the tube strike undoubtedly causing more fans to travel in by car, plus the closure of the A4 at Hammersmith, we had planned a different route in. We drove north on the M25, then came in to London on the A40, past the iconic Hoover Building near Hanger Lane. I quickly spotted Park Royal tube station and it brought back warm memories of my first ever trip to Chelsea in 1974; we had parked nearby, and then caught the tube in from that very station. My father was always fearful of the traffic in central London, bless him.

Past the floodlights of Loftus Road, then the new and architecturally brutal Westfield Mall – right in the heart of QPR land – and then past more familiar sights; Earls Court, Salvo’s restaurant, West Brompton Cemetry…Chelsealand.

We were parked-up at 10.40am and it had been a breeze. The weather was surprisingly mild.

A knot of customers were already waiting for The Goose to open up. As more punters joined the throng, I walked over to meet Nathan (a CIAer from the Bay Area of California) and his parents. He had previously visited HQ for the 3-0 thrashing of Birmingham City in the Double season, but his parents – Laurie and Paul – were first-time Bridge visitors. They had just raided the megastore. There is a sale on at present and I have my sights set on a couple of books which I’ll probably purchase before the Villa game.

Into The Goose and I could enjoy a few beers. I took my jacket off and got the beers in. A few pints of Peroni – currently my favourite by far – went down well. Paul, Laurie and Nathan settled down for a lovely pre-match and we covered tons of sport-related topics in the 90 minutes which was afforded us. Parky and Paul exchanged awful jokes, Laurie proclaimed her hatred of the Yankees and I gave her a hug. Paul and I chatted about the Brooklyn Dodgers while Nathan and I spoke about the upcoming Chelsea tour to the US in the summer. It was a fine time.

The Goose was terribly quiet, though. There was probably only 50% of the usual numbers present. I wondered if The Bridge would be well short of capacity on this particular Boxing Day.

Our American guests, fortified by the beer and the laughter of a Chelsea pre-match, set off for The Bridge. I had thoroughly enjoyed their company – sports mad, the lot of them – and I had said “we’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg.” Parky and I soon followed. I couldn’t help but notice how quiet the streets approaching the stadium were. It felt very odd.

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There wasn’t even much of a line at the turnstiles.

I reached my seat, buzzing from the alcohol intake, as the flags were ending their travels along the two tiers of the Matthew Harding Stand. In front of me were two empty seats. The Bridge appeared full, but after a glance around all four stands, it was clear that hundreds – no thousands – of seats were unoccupied. It wasn’t clear in my mind how Arsenal could call off their game on this day of tube-strike induced chaos, while Chelsea did not. Of course, it all became clear. Chelsea had sold all of the 41,500 tickets; why should they care if thousands couldn’t travel in and attend the actual game.

1-0 to Arsenal.

For the first time since September, Glenn, Alan and I were at The Bridge together.

It felt right.

I won’t dwell too much on the game. I thought that we had enough chances to win, but that much cherished commodity luck was not with us on this particular occasion. That is, of course, not hiding the fact that we did not play well. The first-half was particularly poor, with hardly any urgency in our attacking play.

The first real chance of the day fell to Clint Dempsey and his Barnes Wallace of a shot caused Cech to scramble to his right and turn past the post. Fulham had three thousand fans, but one flag; a Japanese flag. They don’t do flags, Fulham, do they? It goes without saying, the away fans made more noise consistently throughout the game than the Chelsea fans.

Mata played in Fernando Torres and the maligned Spaniard did well to bounce the ball off his chest to enable a swivel of the hips and a shot on target. Unfortunately, as is the way with Nando, the ball was struck straight at Stockdale in the Shed goal. Our approach play was laboured and The Bridge fell silent.Two wayward efforts from Torres left Tom with his head in his hands. A cross from wide rattled straight across Petr Cech’s area and we were lucky Fulham were only playing with one up.

A corner on 38 minutes typified our poor play; Mata sent in a corner towards the penalty spot, but it was headed clear by one of three defenders, with not a Chelsea player within five yards of the ball. I had signalled to San Francisco Pete, way up at the back of the MHU, to join me for a pint at the break. While lining up in line, we watched as Studge laced a shot wide.

It was good to see Pete again and we had the usual moan, huddled under the upper tier in the area by the refreshment stand. Chelsea has chosen to decorate this area with a set of large photographs of past Chelsea players and I approve of this. It adds character to an otherwise functional part of the stadium. While we supped away at our pints of Singha, photographs of Dickie Spence, Dennis Wise, Peter Bonetti, Ruud Gullit and others looked on. It is just the sort of detail which is so sadly lacking at the bland Wembley Stadium, which depresses me more each time I visit.

Unfortunately, Pete and I missed two important things due to our half-time chat. We missed the appearance of former striker Jimmy Greaves, who was on the pitch at the break. I wonder if he is aware that, rather ironically, there is a bar in the Matthew Harding called “Jimmy’s”, named after him. As a sad victim of alcoholism and now a teetotaller, I’m sure he would find the funny side of that.

We also missed the goal. We were chatting about some nonsense, just finishing our pints, when we heard a roar.

“Oh well.”

We smiled and toasted Chelsea.

I soon had an incoming call from Alan in the stadium, but twenty yards from me.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

I don’t miss many goals at Chelsea matches – I’ve probably only missed five or six Chelsea goals in over 800 games.

I re-joined the boys at my seat in the MH wraparound and hoped for further goals. It was pretty lacklustre stuff to be honest. We seemed to have all of the possession. And then a defensive blunder and Dempsey struck from close in. It was a weak goal to let in and we all groaned.

AVB replaced the insignificant Frank Lampard with Florent Malouda and our form improved slightly. Fulham were happy to defend and we regained the upper hand. Alan came out with a Christmas cracker of his own –

“Come on Chelsea. This is as one-sided as Heather Mills.”

As the time passed, our chances piled up. The best move thus far involving Malouda and Terry found Sturridge who forced a fingertip save from Stockwell. From the corner, our bad luck continued as an opportunist back heel from Malouda, two yards out, was blocked.

Didier was given a chance to play, replacing Sturridge with twenty minutes to go. Torres was shunted wide and became marginalised. Alan and I had said that we wanted to see Torres on the shoulder of the last man while he was in Chelsea Blue, centrally, ready to pounce. We didn’t care to see him chasing back and turning up in all sorts of deep lying positions. We wanted to see him played to his strength. I’d like to know if AVB tells him to chase balls back in his own half. I’m not a great tactician, but I’d prefer to see Nando as goal poacher and goal poacher only during his time in SW6.

The two highlights for me were two majestically crafted lobs from David Luiz, both with just the correct amount of fade and spin to allow the ball to die as it hit the turf, allowing team mates to gather with the minimum of effort.

Truly great passes. Almost scooped up with Luiz’ right foot. Perfect.

A Drogba shot from the second one of these was hit straight at Stockwell. A curling effort from Meireles agonisingly missed the far post. Malouda set up Meireles with a header which flew over. The last chance, a Drogba effort from a free-kick, did not bother the Fulham ‘keeper.

It was one of those days.

There was a short bout of booing at the final whistle. On exiting the stadium, the Chelsea supporters around me were full of complaints about Andre Villas-Boas, Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba, Fernando Torres, Winston Bogarde, Slavisa Jokanovic, Keith Dublin, Graham Wilkins, Peter Houseman, Keith Weller and Fatty Foulke. I found it a shame that these same fans couldn’t find time to cheer the boys on during the game.

There you go – the usual moan from me about the lack of noise from our home support.

Merry Christmas.

We returned back to Glenn’s van and were soon on our way. There was the briefest of post-mortems as Glenn wended his way back through the streets of West London, out past Ealing and Acton, past the urban sprawl of the inter-war years, out of London and back towards home.

My mate Steve texted me with updates from the Frome Town vs. Weymouth game as the afternoon became evening. Two missed Weymouth penalties, a Frome sending off, no goals, but a disappointing crowd of 533 in arguably Frome’s biggest ever home league game. Maybe there had been an unexpected tube strike on the Buckland Dinham and Trudoxhill underground lines.

From the Chelsea FC website –

Best Moment of the Match.

“The announcement that 41,548 resourceful fans had managed to fill Stamford Bridge despite travel problems on the tubes, trains and west London roads.”

The five thousand empty seats tell a different story.

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Tales From The West Lower

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21 September 2011 : Chelsea vs. Fulham.

This was a strange old evening in the borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. For the first time ever, all three of the borough’s three professional teams are in the top flight of English football. This is quite an achievement. In fact, I wonder if there have ever been three clubs so closely situated in any European top flight league football before. However, league games would have to wait. This was a Carling Cup game against our neighbours from the banks of the River Thames.

It was the usual pre-match routine, involving a quick blast up the M4 from Chippenham to London. Another two hour trip. I was parked-up at 5.40pm and we were soon in The Goose, chatting at the bar with a few mates. For the first thirty minutes, perhaps inspired by the recent Millwall vs. West Ham United derby, talk was of various encounters with Millwall, that notorious beast of a club from the shadowy lands of Rotherhithe and Bermondsey. Although none of my close Chelsea mates have ever got involved in the darker side of football sub-culture, the rumours of various battles and “meets” of various hooligan groups always manage to keep us talking for ages. My only memory of a Chelsea versus Millwall game was from February 1977 and a 1-1 draw at The Bridge which was over-shadowed by grim battles in The Shed and the North Stand.

Our meetings with Millwall are very rare – and I was in North America when both sides met in the league for the last time, way back in 1989-1990. I was chatting to a lad called Duncan – never met him before – and he recalled a funny story from the November 1989 game against them at The Bridge. He was in the benches and giving the Millwall hordes plenty of abuse. The game happened to coincide with his eighteenth birthday and imagine his horror when, above the 5,000 Millwall, a message from his parents flashed up on the scoreboard.

“To Duncan XXXXXX – Happy Birthday From Mum & Dad.”

One of those cringe-making moments for the poor lad. He hoped that none of his Millwall acquaintances happened to glance back and spot this most personal of messages.

Anyway, enough of the Millwall and West Ham rivalry, this was all about Chelsea and Fulham. As far as inter-London rivalries go, this simply doesn’t compare. It’s the oldest story in the book that Fulham hate us, but we couldn’t care less about them. Our main rivals in London are Tottenham, Arsenal and West Ham; Fulham are not really on the radar. I am pretty sure most Chelsea fans dislike QPR more than Fulham. The fact that we are totally ambivalent to Fulham just infuriates them further.

I wasn’t sure if we would reach a healthy gate for this game. I had heard on the football grapevine that Fulham had only sold between 3,000 and 4,000 of the 6,000 Shed seats allocated them. After the 33,000 against Leverkusen, I thought we’d do well to beat that figure. The Goose seemed pretty busy, though. And the tickets were ₤25 rather than ₤40, so the cheaper price would hopefully entice a few more.

A few more friends joined us but one mate was missing. Alan was away with his girlfriend Sue in Venice for a few days. It felt strange with him not being there. He hasn’t missed a home game for ages. It got me thinking about how things change over the years and how our match-day mates come and go. Thirty years ago, I used to travel to Chelsea alone. Twenty years ago I would bump into Alan and Gary – occasionally Glenn and Daryl. Ten years ago the numbers were massive; around twelve of us meeting up for most home games. Recently, things have changed as finances have got tighter and as peoples’ priorities shift. These days, we are down to about nine regulars at all home games; Alan, Gary, Rob, Daryl, Parky, Simon, Andy, Milo and myself. I guess the comings-and-goings of my match-day colleagues at Chelsea mirrors the change I have witnessed on CIA recently…plenty of new blood, but also – mysteriously – we seem to have lost quite a few stalwarts who never seem to post at all these days. I guess this is natural wastage in football form. We’ll lose some, we’ll win some. For a change, I had swapped tickets with Parky and would be watching in the unfamiliar surrounds of the West Lower. Alan, Glenn and I have had season tickets since 1997 and I presumed that this would be the first time since then – over 400 games – that none of us have occupied seats 369 to 371 in row D of the MHU. The team news came through on Gary’s ‘phone…a mixture of youth and experience and quite a bench.

I set off early for the game and was buoyed by the numbers of spectators heading east down the North End Road. As I approached the Broadway, barbeque smoke wafted around from an open air grill outside the Gourmet Burger café – a new venture, aiming to capture some trade off the passers by.

The first Fulham shirt I saw was of a young lad heading up the Fulham Road just as I turned left to buy a programme outside the West stand. It’s always a battle of wits to avoid an annoying bag search at the turnstiles. On this occasion, I avoided eye-contact and skipped past two stewards, leaving my camera and zoom lens unbothered. I had only ever seen two other games from the West Lower (Coventry City in 2000 and Dirty Leeds in 2004) and it felt odd to be in a part of the stadium with which I was unfamiliar. Underneath the seats of the lower tier, the concourse was dark but quite spacious. I headed straight for the entrance into the stand itself, up the steps and out into the evening light.

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For the second time in a week, my immediate thoughts were “another poor gate.” At 7.30pm, there were only a thousand away fans centrally nestled in The Shed and there were thousands of empty seats in all home areas.

“Oh great.”

My seat was in row 6, all of the way down towards the Fulham fans in The Shed. I looked around and saw hundreds of unfamiliar faces. I heard a few foreign accents. I took a few photos of The Bridge from this new angle. I sat myself down – not much legroom – and prepared myself for a mind-numbingly quiet evening. It’s another cliché that the West Lower is one of more reserved parts of The Bridge. By the time of the kick-off at 7.45pm, the 3,500 away fans had all arrived and were singing their hearts out. The rest of the place took some time to fill up, but I was very pleasantly surprised to see few empty seats.

The first-half allowed me to take a good look at the wide players on our right with Daniel Sturridge heavily involved. A couple of Kalou chances went begging. A Fulham break involving their number nine Orlando Sa was ably foiled by Petr Cech, who was a rather surprise choice in the sticks. The Fulham fans were getting behind their team, singing a whole host of songs, some of which I had never heard before. In comparison, the West Stand was silent and the MHU barely murmured. We got the ball in the Fulham goal on 38 minutes, but it was flagged for offside. From my angle, I’m not so sure if the goal bound shot required that extra touch, nor if it was that stab which had been penalised. Unfortunately, Studge was injured just before the break, with Frank Lampard the strange substitution. I was watching from a low angle and I found it difficult to ascertain if the 4-3-3 formation had changed to accommodate Lampard. However, he settled down in a deep-lying position for the rest of the game, fitting into the midfield berth which was occupied by Josh soon into the second-half.

At the break, I had a wander around the spacious area at the front of the West Stand. I was not aware of this, but I noted that Elvis and “Ledge” (friends of a few CIAers) take turns in flying the large blue Chelsea flag on the half-way line. Neil Barnett walked Ron Harris around the pitch at half-time. He had already riled the away fans by welcoming them to The Bridge as “our friends from Fulham” at the start of the game. As the two of them walked down towards The Shed, Neil Barnett tormented them further –

“and he’s laid out more Fulham forwards than there are Fulham fans here this evening.”

I didn’t know what to make of this. I suppose he thinks he’s doing a good job, but at times I find Neil Barnett’s comments to be just embarrassing. I know of no other announcer who so winds up opposing fans. Away from his role as agent provocateur on match days, Neil is a nice enough bloke, but I really do wonder how he gets away with some of his comments.

Just my thoughts.

In the match programme, there was a touching obituary for Kevin Barney, the chap who I mentioned in one of my other reports this season.

Ross Turnbull appeared in place of Cech at the break and was soon earning his bacon. A Fulham break, a clumsy tackle from Alex and our boy from Brazil got his marching orders. With no assistance from TV replays, I couldn’t tell if it warranted a penalty. Not to worry, Ross Turnbull threw himself to his right and parried the shot high and away.

However, we were now down to ten men and it was going to be a tough one.

John Terry entered the fray and I was able to take a good look at him, from close range, from a new angle. I noticed how he chased and harried, stretched himself and covered ground, closed people down, bellowed instructions and how he cajoled and encouraged his team mates. From my usual viewpoint, all of this is not so clear. At times, I was only ten yards from him.

A few chances for both sides, but from my angle, I was struggling to make sense of the shape of the play.

If I am honest, I wasn’t enjoying the game. The Fulham fans were making too much noise and I was getting rather frustrated with the lack of support from the Chelsea fans around me. In the West lower, many couples weren’t even talking to each other, let alone getting behind the team via songs of encouragement. Despite the songs of derision cascading down on us from the away fans, I couldn’t bring myself to truly despise them, unlike the supporters of other teams. I tried to put myself in their shoes. It reminded me of life as a Chelsea fan in my youth, railing against the bigger teams, forever the underdog. Forever the underachiever.

Two magnificent saves within a minute from Ross Turnbull around the 75 minute provided us with an immediate re-assessment of his worth to us. He was having a great game. At the other end, Mark Schwarzer was thwarting our attempts to breach his goal line. A goal-line clearance, a mad scramble, but still no goal.

At no time did it seem like we were playing with a man short.

Romelu Lukaku saw a lot of the ball, but I was amazed at the amount of times he found himself out wide, crossing the ball in, rather than being in the middle himself. The way he held off defenders reminded me of Mark Hughes. Romeu had a steady home debut.

Just before full time a Malouda cross found David Luiz, but his swivel and shot was smashed straight at Schwarzer. Luiz held his head manically as he sprinted back to his defensive position. Ironically, it took until the very last breath of the 90 minutes for the West lower to join up with the Matthew Harding and bellow a hearty “Come On Chelsea.”

The referee blew his whistle to end the 90 minutes and I inwardly groaned. I had been in purgatory for the whole game – surrounded by predominantly silent fans – and I was only able to yell out a few shouts of support on a few occasions throughout the duration. And now we had a further 30 minutes…maybe more.

Chances were exchanged in the extra thirty minutes and at least the Chelsea support grew louder. A nice break from deep involving Frank and a strong run and cross by Lukaku were our highlights. Fulham wasted a few goal-scoring chances. The one abiding memory of the extra-period was of David Luiz, racing around all four corners of the pitch, tackling, dribbling, sprinting, turning. Quite a performance, but still only one miss-timed tackle away from a sending off.

Penalties.

Here we go again.

I was texting Alan in Venice and said –

“You know how this will end, right?”

Frank misfired with our first penalty and the Fulham fans to the right were bouncing. I saw a young blonde girl hug her boyfriend and I almost thought “ah, bless ‘em.” In the back of my mind, however, I was very aware of the amount of times that teams often go behind in shoot-outs, but eventually win.

Moscow is a perfect example.

Everton in the F.A. Cup last season.

Well – we did it. Fulham missed one and Luiz, JT, Kalou and Malouda all scored.

It all came down to Penalty Number Ten. My camera was at the ready.

The Fulham player struck it high and it rebounded down onto the line…and out.

Around me, for the first time in two hours or more, the West stand roared. I was just relieved that it was over and that we were through. No massive yelp of joy. Just happy we had got the job done against the extra man.

Well done Chelsea.

I was still mesmerized by the antics of a few of the Fulham fans to my right. As we roared, they fell silent. Plenty of their fans were flicking “Vs” at us, plus a few more unsavoury gestures. Tons of abuse rained down on us but I still felt it hard to get too bothered. However, one middle-aged Fulham fan went the extra yard. He pointed to a few Chelsea fans near me and began swearing at them, then gesturing. Then – oh no – he reached for his belt, turned his back at us and pulled his jeans down, and struck the pose of a mooning Homer Simpson.

His children would be so proud.

We walked back to the car and it felt odd to realise that a lot of the away fans lived within walking distance of The Bridge, whereas I had a 110 mile journey ahead of me. Surprisingly, Parky had said that he thought that the Chelsea fans had made a fair bit of noise. I had to be honest and disagreed. The Bridge must have weird acoustics. Not for the first time were there differences of opinions on which end was the noisier.

Elsewhere on Planet Football, my old school mate Francis had spent his evening at the Frome Town vs. Hallen F.A. Cup replay and he texted me the following at 10.30pm –

“Won on pens. Poor game though.”

And I thought to myself – “blimey…same here.”

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