Tales From The David Luiz Show

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 March 2011.

Saturday had seen beautiful Spring weather in Southern England, mixed in with yet more faltering footsteps from our protagonists at the top of the table. When I awoke on Sunday morning, I was hoping for another pristine day – more clear skies and sunny weather please – and a continuation in our steady upturn in form. As I collected Glenn and Parky, the skies were a little less inviting than the previous day, but the buzz was there alright. We had a brilliant drive up to London, hardly pausing for breath as we discussed all sorts of topics. The chat continued over a Full English in the caff. Good vibes, good friends, good fun.

I left them to it and – yet again – sauntered off down to Stamford Bridge. This is a familiar routine for me these days. As I drive to 90% of all of the games these days, I need other distractions than drinking in a pub for three hours. I limit myself to just a couple of pints; any more would be silly. I met up with Mick The Autograph King and also had a little chat with Ron Harris, Clive Walker and Kerry Dixon. I collected a signed photo of Fernando Torres from Mick, plus I got Chopper to personalise a photo – “To The Philly Blues” – for 612Steve to get framed up and hang behind the bar at the meeting point of the Philly Chapter.

I breezed back down towards the pub, with the skies lightening and the sun slowly coming out. There were fans everywhere. Outside the tube, I brushed past the usual dozen or so touts plying their trade and I silently tut-tutted. Over at the CFCUK stall, Mark Worrall was wearing a Luiz wig. A quick “hello Cathy, hello Dog” and I was then on my way through Vanston Place, past the upmarket restaurants on the left, and then onto the more down-at-heel North End Road.

I joined the boys in The Goose at about 1.30pm and – of course – everyone was out in the ridiculously busy beer garden. Two pints of “Carling, me darling.”

Faces everywhere, conversations taking place, beers being quaffed.

Somebody asked me for my prediction of the day’s game.

“Two-nil, I reckon.”

The news soon came through from the ground that Fernando Torres had been paired with Salomon Kalou and nobody saw that coming. The general view had been another stab at the Drogba / Torres partnership…and I use that term loosely. It certainly hadn’t worked yet, but has to be the way forward this season. I had spoken to Glenn and Parky about Kalou on the way up in the car, in fact. Of course, everyone knows that Kalou isn’t the most liked of our players and I wondered if this was fair. At Chelsea – and I am sure we are not alone – we always seem to have a scapegoat. If it isn’t Kalou, it’s Mikel. However, in his defence, Kalou tries his best and keeps his head down. He never grumbles. Do fans really expect that Chelsea can maintain four top line A list strikers? There will always be room in our squad for bit-players, squad players, players that can be relied upon to come in and know they will play every third game. We know he’s infuriating, we know his choice of final ball often lacks judgement, but he fills a role for us. Out in the beer garden, a few more of my vocal friends were at it already – slagging him off – and the game hadn’t even started.

The pub was rammed and the beer garden too. It’s nothing special – dark brown brick walls surround a patio area with around ten low-lying benches and tables – but the pre-match chats are always nicer out in the fresh air than in the stifling and crowded pub itself. I had a quick chat with Jon and Lee, whom many on CIA know, plus Digger, his baseball cap laden with around 100 badges. This was our first foray out into the beer garden since the Arsenal game in October.

Our hibernation was over. We were out and about and lapping up the early Spring sun. At last, blue skies dominated. We were some of the last to leave the boozer – even though I was looking forward to the game, a little bit of me wanted to just stay there, chatting in our small groups, enjoying our friendships. Having a giggle.

We set off from The Goose at 3.30pm. By 3.45pm, we had all splintered off to line up at our various entrance turnstiles. By 3.55pm, I was inside and the two teams were being read out by Neil Barnett. There was the confirmation of the team – yep, it wasn’t a lie, Kalou in – and Tevez was out for our visitors. City only brought down 1,500 for this game. We always take 3,000 up to Eastlands. For all of their new found wealth, I can never hate Manchester City. They have suffered too much at the hands of their local rivals. Their support has always held up. I’ve always got on really well with their fans to be honest. They don’t take themselves too seriously and seem well grounded. They had a few flags and the largest one was in City sky blue, white and claret –

“MCFC – Warrington – Don’t Look Back In Anger.”

Elsewhere, it seemed like the home flags had multiplied. I spotted that a lot of the supporters clubs flags had moved from the East stand to the West stand. I noted the Motor City Blues flag down towards The Shed. There were others, but my vantage point was too far away for clarification of their origin. Along from me, a small flag was just visible on the MH balcony.

“547 SW6”

Who knows what this refers to? I know: just wonder if anyone else does. It’s a toughie.

I couldn’t miss the huge Pimlico “We’ll Never Be Mastered” flag on The Shed wall, too. It’s strange that we don’t have too many local flags at games these days – in fact I can only think of this one and a Battersea one – but this is confirmation of how our support really comes from the suburbs and beyond these days. Not many of the local populace in Lambeth, Battersea and Putney are Chelsea fans. A similar situation exists for Tottenham and West Ham too. For whatever reason, these more ethnically diverse populations are not match goers.

For five minutes before the game began, The Bridge was rocking to the sound of “One England Captain.”

On the cover of the programme, a lovely photograph of David Luiz, hair wild, after scoring against United recently. Inside, one game was featured in two separate articles. Firstly, our former striker Colin Lee spoke about his two goals during our 1986 Full Members Cup victory over Manchester City. Then, Rick Glanville dissected several photographs from that game twenty-five years ago. It brought back some memories alright. The Full Members Cup was the “brainchild” of our former chairman Ken Bates who recognised the need to generate extra revenue amongst the teams unable to participate in UEFA competitions after the Heysel ban. This was a strange competition in a strange era for football in England. Hooliganism was rife, crowds were down, the long-ball game dominated. But I loved it. I was at Stoke, at college for a second season – er, year – and attended 22 games in that 1985-1986 campaign.

I remember that we played in a league game at The Dell on the Saturday – I didn’t go – but then played the very next day at Wembley against City. I went out for a few drinks around a couple of pubs close to my digs in Stoke and caught a very late train down to London at about 2am.

Big mistake.

The train was packed with City fans, or should I say their lads. Everyone who was involved in football in the ‘eighties will recognise this term.

Their lads. Their boys. Their chaps.

Their firm, in other words.

If I am not mistaken, while we were beating Southampton, City had played a Manchester derby against United at OT. As I stepped inside the train, the carriages were full to overflowing. There was no room to sit, hardly any room to stand. There were City lads everywhere. I had to stand next to the doors, cheek by jowl with a couple of Mancs. I was soon sussed, but thankfully the lad I was talking to – drunk beyond words, clutching a can of lager, his accent punctuated with classic Manchester words and phrases – didn’t spill the beans. After a while, the rumours came through that a few Chelsea had been spotted towards the rear of the train and had got a pasting. I remained quiet and tried to stay clear of eye contact and didn’t make conversation with passers-by as they roamed the train chatting to other lads.

Eventually, I sidled off to a first class carriage – which, in the classic joke of the era…was empty! – and tried to get some sleep. Outside Wembley Stadium, I bumped into my mate Alan and we posed from particularly cheesy photos outside the Twin Towers. I watched the game with two lads from my college in Stoke who I also bumped into. Despite gates for this cup being really low, over 68,000 attended this game. It was Chelsea’s first game at Wembley since 1972 and our end was packed. I would suggest we had 50,000 there, City just 18,000. We went a goal down, but then stormed into a 5-1 lead with goals from David Speedie (the first Wembley hat-trick since a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1966) and Colin Lee. We were buoyant and in great voice. I had a spot on the terrace in the west end. It was only my third ever visit to the famous old stadium. Then – typical, oh so typical Chelsea – we let City score three times in the last six minutes.

Chelsea 5 Manchester City 4.

Unbeknown to me, Chelsea’s lads had “got it on” with City’s firm (they were called The Mainline) before and after the game, yet this would be the final chapter in the original Headhunters story. On the following Friday morning – just before our game at home to West Ham and the ICF – all of the main Chelsea faces were rudely awoken by various members of the police and things would never be the same again.

Back to 2011.

Manchester City – in that classic kit – began the stronger and had the best of the initial exchanges. After just five minutes, the ball broke to Yaya Toure but his low shot was stopped, low down, by Petr. And then, we slowly got into the game with a few half-chances. Kalou was played in but – stumbling – his effort was smothered by Hart.

While we were watching, Alan and I chatted about a few things and – I am not sure what initiated it – he spoke about another crazy day in that 1985-1986 season. On New Year’s Day 1986, our game at Upton Park was called off. I heard the news when I was about ten stops away on the tube so turned tail and sadly returned home. Alan, however, had found out at the ground and was with around one hundred Chelsea fans who then decided, on the spur of the moment (excuse the pun), to attend the Arsenal vs. Tottenham Hotspur game. They filtered in to the Clock End amongst the away support, keeping it quiet. Just before the teams came out, they burst into song –

“Chelsea – clap, clap, clap – Chelsea – clap, clap, clap.”

Tottenham soon scarpered and the one hundred Chelsea had a police cordon around them for the rest of the game.

Oh, how I wish I had been there.

Proper Chelsea.

On thirty-five minutes, a sublime back-heel from Fernando Torres set up Ramires who crossed for Frank, but the chance was squandered. We had a few more attempts, but our finishing was off. Malouda set up Kalou, who swivelled nicely on the penalty spot, but his shot was hit squarely at Hart. The Kalou- Booers were out in force.

The best moment of the first-half was the sublime ball that new hero Luiz chipped out to Ashley Cole. Central defenders just don’t do that! The weather was now gorgeous – blue skies overhead and strong shadows on the pitch for the first time in 2011.

We continued to dominate possession into the second period but I rued my mate Neil’s comment that “goals will be hard to come by today.” David Luiz then provided me with another moment to remember for a while. He chased down a City attacker, tackled cleanly, hustled for the loose ball and strode away majestically before playing a perfect ball inside. It was as perfect a piece of defending that I have seen for years and years. There is clearly something about David Luis’ instant relationship with us fans that is so reminiscent of Frank Leboeuf’s first few games in 1996. A ball playing, confident central defender. But Luiz offers so much more. He looks the real deal and his play got better and better. A lone Dzeko header was City’s only real attempt on our goal. Cech was rarely bothered.

A cross found the head of Ivanovic, but his strong header was blocked. I eventually realised that our support had waned a fair bit during the second-half and I hadn’t even noticed. After Carlo signalled for Torres, and not our friend Kalou, to come off, the crowd suddenly came to life and roundly booed. At least they didn’t sing “YDKWYD.” An image of Roman, slumping in his seat when he saw Torres walking off, was splashed on to the TV screen in the stadium. However, a double-substitution involving Didi and Nico energised the whole stadium and we took it to City. Then Yuri came on for Kalou and our domination stepped up even more.

Now, we were roaring.

Down below me, the David Luiz master class was ready for another inspirational moment. 15 yards away, he faced a defender and tapped the ball rapidly between his feet.

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right.

Oh boy. What a player.

The City defender didn’t enjoy this and hacked into him. Thankfully, Frank Lampard did not fancy taking the free-kick (his set pieces were yet again slow and inaccurate). Instead, Didier whipped in a fantastic ball and there he was.

Luis. A forward thrust. A header, A mass of hair. The ball going in.

Yeeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssss!

Such drama. With ten minutes to go, we had timed it right. The Bridge erupted.

There was still time for another memorable Luis moment. Inside his own half, he was faced with a City attacker. Leaving the ball completely alone, he moved to his left, stepped and moved again and the City player lurched to his right, off balance. With that, Luis returned to the ball and passed it out to a team mate. I’ll be honest, that ranks up there with the very best Pat Nevin and Ruud Gullit shimmies.

This boy can play.

And then, the stunning denouement. Ramires – he of the surging runs and beautifully timed tackles – spun past three immobile defenders and despatched the ball into the net. The sense of anticipation before the strike was worth the entrance fee alone. The Bridge again erupted and the world was a very fine world once again. In the closing seconds, I remembered how out-of-sorts Ramires was at the corresponding game at Eastlands back in October. He just wasn’t in it. I wondered about his size and his skill level. I need not be worried. Although he scored at Bolton, this was his crowning glory. This was a lovely result and augurs so well for the future. We are changing our personnel at the business end of a testing season, evolving as we go. Once Torres – I simply cannot fault his effort – gets going he will be fine. But the game was all about two other new players.

David Luiz and Ramires. Simply Braziliant.

It had been quite a sideshow.

Tales From The Lower Tier Of The Bullens Road

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2011.

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

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

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

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

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

“Cockneys Die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright son – cheers mate.”

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

“What the HELL are you doing?”

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

“I had to go mate!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too”, she agreed.

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

Another song caused yet more mirth from us –

“No noise from the unemployed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God.

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

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

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

“Kalou! Kalou!” and Mo smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on Saints!”

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

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

Tales From The Home Of The Chelsea Pensioners

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 14 November 2010.

Oh boy.

I collected Parky at about 9.45am and our route took us up on to the M4. We entered the motorway at junction 17 and the next exit was for Swindon West and Wotton Bassett, a town that has become famous over the past two years or so. RAF Lyneham is nearby and this old airfield is the one which is always used for the repatriation of the mortally wounded soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan. Every time that a body is brought back, the town of Wotton Bassett comes to a reverential standstill as the cortege moves slowly through the quiet Wiltshire town.

On this Remembrance Sunday, we looked forward to being able to pay our own quiet respects to the fallen at Stamford Bridge later in the day.

Parky was suffering with a heavy cold and I hoped that I wouldn’t succumb to any bugs that might be flying around. As we passed Reading, I put the radio on so we could listen to the bells of Big Ben which signalled the start of the two minute silence at The Cenotaph.

After a quick breakfast, I popped down to the stadium. I picked up a few copies of the new yearbook, just out, for myself and a few absent friends. I quickly got one of the yearbooks – a spare one – signed by Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti and decided to offer it up as a prize in a competition.

Quiz Question – Please provide an “alternative title” for this report. Please PM me the answer.

“Tales From…”

It was a miserable, rainy day in deepest SW6 and I rushed back to The Goose where the clans were gathering from near and far. With Manchester United dropping yet more away points at Villa Park, our game against Steve Bruce’s Sunderland represented a great chance for us to move further ahead of Alex Ferguson’s team. The signs were good. Our last six home league games against the Black Cats all ended in Chelsea wins, with a goal tally of 23-2. Sunderland is one of those clubs in England who, for whatever reason, do not seem to have national appeal, unlike their hated neighbours Newcastle United. I can think of the same scenario with Sheffield Wednesday and Leeds United, two more clubs of similar size, but with vastly differing supporter profiles. For some reason, there has always been a certain cachet about supporting some teams…and Sunderland, like Sheffield Wednesday, doesn’t have it. If you meet a Sunderland fan, it’s likely they come from Wear side. There aren’t legions of Mackems in Dorset, Norfolk, Kent or Worcestershire. Chelsea on the other hand…

The most famous, or infamous to be truthful, Chelsea vs. Sunderland game in my living memory is the Milk Cup semi-final second leg in March 1985. This was the biggest game of that famous season, our first one back in the top flight since 1979. As luck would have it, this was the year that I went to college in Stoke-On-Trent. It was perfect timing for me I have to say. In 1982-1983, I was at school and attended four games. In 1983-1984, I was on the dole and re-taking A Levels but still attended eleven games. In 1984-1985, with a student grant burning a hole in my wallet, plus money saved from a summer job, I went to twenty-two Chelsea games. I was particularly proud of attending 15 out of 21 home league games, most by train from Stoke. It was a breakthrough season really and I loved being able to afford to watch Chelsea every couple of weeks. However, due to a variety of factors, I only watched weekend games and therefore missed all of the early games in the Milk Cup ( League Cup ) run which gathered momentum throughout that season. The highlight of this run ( no – it wasn’t the Pat Nevin penalty miss against Manchester City ), were the three games against Sheffield Wednesday in the quarters. We eventually defeated them and Sunderland were our opponents in the semi-finals. We lost the away leg at Roker Park 2-0 but were confident of turning things round at The Bridge. There had been a particularly bitter winter to endure and the game was postponed once, and then eventually rescheduled for Monday 4th. March 1985.

I’m not sure if I should have attended any lectures that afternoon, but I caught the lunchtime train south, looking forward to not only my first ever Chelsea League Cup game, but also – tantalisingly – my first ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe these days, but this game wasn’t all ticket and so I headed straight down to Stamford Bridge. I can easily remember the sense of anticipation outside the old Bovril Gate, now the little alley which runs up to the megastore, as Chelsea fans queued in the late afternoon light. It seemed doubly odd to be at Stamford Bridge at such a weird time…4.30pm on a Monday afternoon. I seem to remember that the members were told to line up at the Bovril Gate, while the general public massed at the old Shed turnstiles. I was in the old stadium as early as 5.30pm and soon took my place on The Benches. The kick-off was at 7.30.pm. You had to be in early to get a good spot. There is no doubt that I watched the game with Alan, my match day companion to this day. We always sat on the back row of The Benches right on the halfway line.

I remember the north stand being occupied by about 6,000 Sunderland fans and maybe about 3,000 Chelsea fans, kept separate via fenced pens. Three pens for Sunderland, one for Chelsea. Undoubtedly, the Chelsea fans in that section would have been “up for it.” Back in the ‘seventies, I always had the impression that The Shed used to be occupied by mouthy kids, whereas the inhabitants of the infamous Chelsea North Stand were older, wiser, wilder and not to be messed with. They were the ones who regularly attacked the away followers after all. In fact, by 1985, the general consensus was that our top boys used to congregate in the East Lower seats ( the notorious Gate 13 ) and the northern reaches of the West Stand seats…again, to be close to the away fans.

The game began and we scored after only six minutes with my hero Pat Nevin setting up fellow Scot David Speedie to volley home. Cue wild celebrations all over the packed stands and terraces. There was a massive 38,440 in the old place that night and the noise cascaded around me as we begged for a second. However, Sunderland scored via a breakaway goal via former Chelsea winger Clive Walker and our world collapsed. We were now 3-1 down on aggregate. Then, a calamitous defensive error allowed Walker to score again. This is when the trouble began. Seats were thrown from the East Lower and the wooden benches from our side were broken up and thrown onto the running track in front of us. A pitch invasion was attempted. This is the era of us being “a right bunch of b – stards when we lose” was very true. Inside, I was in turmoil. I hated seeing us lose our biggest game for ages, but also hated seeing the loons causing mayhem everywhere I looked. The police tried to quell the situation and they were – along with hundreds of press photographers – swarming all over the place. At one stage, I’m sure there was a police horse on the pitch as play continued. Most amazingly of all, when Sunderland scored a third goal, there was a policeman inside our six yard box ( playing the scorer onside if I remember correctly! ) and the scenes on the pitch were truly catastrophic for the name of Chelsea Football Club. Worse was to come when a Chelsea fan, John Leftly, raced on to the pitch from the West Stand and confronted Clive Walker. A punch may even have been thrown. Our reputation was in tatters. Pat Nevin lobbed a second at The Shed End, but nobody cared at that stage. I made my way to the exit, sad and disconsolate. In the final moment, Speedie was sent-off. It was one of those nights. I walked back to South Kensington tube, mainly to avoid West Ham’s ICF, who were playing Wimbledon, since I knew the Chelsea hoolies would be looking to ambush them at Fulham Broadway. I eventually got back to Stoke at about 2am. The Battle Of Stamford Bridge was behind me and our next major semi-final would be some nine years away. There was a paper headline the next day which said “Hell hath no fury like Chelsea in defeat.” For the next couple of games in fact, the FA ordered that the benches be shut and, by the time I attended a game against Tottenham in April, the wooden benches had disappeared forever. We would, from then until 1997, be sitting on solid cold concrete.

Back to 2010 and I found Parky and the others in our usual corner of the pub. There was the usual myriad of conversations flying around. Mike from NYC was over once again and he hot-footed it from the Fans Forum meeting. I chatted to a few people, but wasn’t paying too much attention to the Everton vs. Arsenal game on the TV. My mate Andy had gone to the Rangers vs. Aberdeen game the previous day and was happy to report that the noise levels at Ibrox were constantly high throughout the game. He commented that his faith in football was restored – at Ibrox it had remained a working class game, followed by passionate fans. I wondered, by comparison, how the Chelsea vs. Sunderland game would pan out. Kelly, fresh from his whirlwind tour of London, Liverpool, York and Paris, arrived at about 2.45pm and joined me for a few conversations about a few choice topics. He was with his wife and sister again and they had been out for a meal with Neil Barnett the previous night. I think he said it was a Lesbian restaurant, but it might have been a Lebanese one. I mentioned to Kelly our formidable record against Sunderland – you know, 23 goals for, just 2 against – and then added

“Well, that just means we’ll lose 2-0.”

Down at the ground, we heard that JT wasn’t playing and I noted the centre-back pairing of Ivanovic and Ferreira and was worried. I also wasn’t sure about the same midfield as at Anfield. I looked over at the away quadrant and guessed at only about 400 fans at the very most. Two Chelsea pensioners and two guardsmen in bearskins accompanied the teams onto the pitch. The two minute silence brought a lump to the throat. There were three white remembrance banners this year.

We will remember them.

For the first half an hour, we dominated the possession and seemed to be in control. However, ex-Chelsea winger Bolo Zenden seemed to be up for it. A lovely chipped ball was played by Mikel into the path of Anelka, but Sunderland ‘keeper Craig Gordon palmed the ball away before flattening Anelka. No penalty. A shimmering run by Zhirkov deep into the Sunderland box was not matched by a great finish. He unfortunately blasted wide. Didier had a couple of central runs at the defence, only to be fouled twice. Nothing came of the ensuing free-kicks. At this stage, the atmosphere was dead. It was as bad as I can remember it, especially for a crowd of over 40,000. Yet again, Ramires was unable to get into the game and it concerned us all.

In the last fifteen minutes of the first-half, we went to pieces. Ivanovic was so lucky not to be red-carded for pulling back Welbeck. It was the United-loanee who forced a great sprawling save from Cech on 35 minutes and this was the first effort on goal in a crazy period. Welbeck was clean through soon after, but Cech thwarted him again. Our defence suddenly seemed to be very porous and it was all Sunderland. After a double save from Cech, the ball wasn’t cleared. Onuoha dribbled straight at the heart of our once impregnable defence and appeared to miskick his finish. We groaned as it crawled over the line.

Blimey – where did all that come from? If it wasn’t for Petr Cech, we would’ve been 3-0 down. No question. However, despite our weakened team, I was confident that the manager would make the requisite team changes at the break. One goal and we’d get back into it. No worries. Just before the restart, Neil Barnet was finishing off his half-time work with a comment which went something along the lines of –

“And a mention to Kelly Babin from America, who I got very drunk with last night.”

He didn’t mention any lesbians, though.

We began with a little more spirit in the first few moments of the second-half with Malouda looking the one to take it to the visitors. However, Sunderland broke away and cut through our square defence on 52 minutes and we were two down. The scorer was Gyan, one of the few stars of that hideously boring World Cup in South Africa. Oh hell. Bizarrely, Ancelotti kept faith with Ramires, but subbed Malouda with Kalou. Far be it for me to second-guess a manager who has twice won the Champions League, but – Carlo, come on, mate!

At last, the docile Chelsea support got into the game with a throaty and lusty “Carefree” and I hoped, in that romantic nature of mine, that we could roar the team on to a memorable fight back. To be honest, we created few chances, despite the youngsters Mc Eachren and Kakuta entering the fray. If anything, Sunderland could have increased their lead.

Hundreds of spectators were leaving even before the catastrophe of Sunderland’s third. Poor old Ashley did well to summon enough strength to get back to cover his left flank, but then unbelievingly played the ball right into the path of Welbeck.

I have to be honest; Sunderland could have won 5-0. It was our worst home league defeat since a 0-3 reverse against Manchester United in 2002.

I absolutely hated to see all of those empty blue seats in the last five minutes. That ain’t Chelsea.

Oh well – unlike 1985, at least there wasn’t a full blown pitch invasion.

As I walked away from Stamford Bridge, a few thoughts entered my mind. Why are those two Chelsea fans behind me smiling and laughing? When will the texts start? How the hell did we let in three in one home game? Is the mitigating circumstance of being without JT, Lamps, Ess and Alex a valid excuse for this lacklustre show? Will I get rid of my spare ticket for Birmingham next week? Will Kelly be returning soon? Is the CIA website in meltdown? Where is that Lesbian restaurant?

Kelly texted me – “3 games, 1 goal, thousands of pounds – loved every moment.”

Back at the car, the texts were coming through. There was one from Del, a Liverpool fan, who commented that, all of a sudden, we weren’t so Butch. As we drove out of the darkened West London streets, Parky and I got a few things off our chest about our poor performance, but were soon looking forward to the game at St. Andrews next Saturday, where there will be 4,000 noisy Chelsea fans encamped behind the goal. It is likely that there will be another weakened Chelsea team on the pitch and we will be facing tough and workmanlike opposition.

There will be no hiding place. We’ll need to be together. Let’s go.

Tales From Brum

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 14 October 2010.

With no Chelsea game for a fortnight, I should have been ultra-excited about the game at Villa Park. However, for some reason, I seemed to be quite subdued about the whole day ahead. To be honest, Birmingham has never been my favourite city and an away game at Villa has long ceased to excite me too much. As the week drew on, it became evident that more and more Chelsea first-teamers would not make the trip up the M40 due to injury and this weighed on my mind too. Aston Villa are a Jekyl and Hyde team at the moment and there was a chance that they would prove tougher opponents than we might have hoped.

I collected Parky at midday and we were soon on our way as we headed north through the early Autumn countryside of Gloucestershire. The leaves are slowly turning and in a few weeks the colours will be at their peak. An away game at Villa is pretty easy – a quick trip up the M5 and we’re there. We chatted about the plans for the next clutch of Chelsea games, but focussed on plans for the Xmas game at Arsenal. With an 8pm kick-off and all of us on holiday, it could be a messy one…we talked about going up by train, enabling me to have a few cheeky beers. The Killers gave way to The Stranglers on the CD player around Worcester as the blue skies started to cloud over. We were soon at Birmingham. Ahead of us, we spotted the truncated arch of a rainbow and I noted that its lowest section was hovering over the floodlights of The Hawthorns away to my right. West Brom were of course soon to kick-off at Old Trafford and my mind, always keen to seek out sporting metaphors, was going into overdrive.

“Let’s hope The Baggies find a pot of gold today, Parky.”

I drove right past The Hawthorns and additionally remembered that the East Stand at the old stadium used to be called The Rainbow Stand until its demolition in around 2000. The traffic started to clog up a little as we curved south and east through Perry Bar. Time was moving on and I wanted to get parked-up. Alan, Daryl, Gary and Rob ( on a rare excursion out of London ) were drinking in the town centre and I knew Burger and Julie were drinking in the centre too.

We were parked-up at about 3.15pm…time for a few brews in the nearby “Crown & Cushion.” Of course, it was almost a year ago to the day that we last visited Villa Park. That turned out to be a tough game and a tough result on that occasion. This would be my twelfth game at Villa Park.

Over the past week, I have spent quite a few hours tabulating all of the Chelsea games I have had the pleasure to see in person. I have always had a hand-written record , but I eventually got around to putting all the games onto a spread sheet. I haven’t attempted team line-ups yet and the thought of detailing all those players’ names makes me go a little giddy. Maybe I need to out-source that particularly time-consuming task. Visits to Villa Park are near the top of the list of my most-visited away venues –

Liverpool-16
Manchester United-13
Arsenal-12
Aston Villa-12
Portsmouth-10
Tottenham Hotspur-10
Blackburn Rovers-9
Everton-9
Manchester City-9

Villa Park, like so many English stadia, has undergone many changes over the past twenty years. The North Stand was once the newest structure when it was built over the site of more predictable terracing in around 1979, but it is now the oldest stand. There is even talk of re-building the North Stand yet again. Villa Park always used to host F.A. Cup semi-finals and was the quite absurd venue for our semi-final against neighbours Fulham in 2002. The game was originally scheduled for Highbury but Fulham moaned about the 21,000 / 17,000 split of tickets. So, despite the two grounds being just one mile apart, the Football Association forced us to play at 6pm on a Sunday night in Birmingham. The gate at Villa Park was over 4,000 below capacity and it was the Fulham section that was not full. I would estimate that only 16,000 Fulham fans bothered to travel. You could not make it up if you tried. And Fulham have the audacity to sing “WWYWYWS?” to us at every game. Quite unbelievable. They weren’t even there when they were good.

I bought a book last year called “Images Of Football” which contains hundreds of fascinating black and white photographs from the pages of the Daily Mail through the years. One crowd scene is from a Villa vs. Birmingham City derby game at Villa Park in 1930. It is a mesmerizing photograph and I have spent some time just looking at all of the various characters staring out at me. The photographer simply positioned himself a few yards away from the fence at the base of the terrace and took a shot of around 500 spectators. There are no women. There are only 9 young boys, clustered in a group at the front. At least two are blowing raspberries at the camera. At least ten have severe dental problems. Virtually all are wearing caps or hats. One chap is waving a beer bottle and many are smoking. I can only just imagine the comments, jokes and laughter uttered by those 500 strong natives of Birmingham which would have been overheard during that afternoon all those years ago.

“All those people, all those lives, where are they now?” as a native of Manchester once said.

We sank a few pints of Red Stripe on draught in the pub and I sat back as Parky told some tales from The Fighting Years including some familiar stories of scuffles with Cardiff and Southampton fans. People might feel queasy hearing such gruesome tales these days, but often these stories stem from the need for self-preservation rather than an over-riding thirst for violence in itself. I guess you had to be there to understand it all. Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to remain largely unscathed during the era where hooliganism was rife. Sky Sports News was on a few TVs and we heard a loud shout at about 4.15pm. We were soon to learn that West Brom had equalised at Old Trafford, after being 0-2 down. That pot of gold was shining brightly. At the final whistle at Old Trafford, Parky and me had a chuckle then left for the ground. There was slight drizzle as we marched past the terraced houses towards Villa Park. This stretch of road always takes me back to 1996, when we lost 1-2 to United another F.A. Cup semi-final…the walk back to the car was amongst gloating United fans and this easily gets into one of my top ten most miserable Chelsea experiences.

Outside the Doug Ellis Stand, Dave Johnstone was hawking the most recent copy of “CFCUK.”

“Only a pound – hurry up.”

A few familiar faces were in the line for the turnstiles ahead of me and, as Dave spotted them, he gave them a kiss.

“Dave – can I pay £3 for a fanzine as long as you don’t kiss me?”

Alan and Gary were already in their seats in the upper tier as I joined them with a few minutes to go. Gael Kakuta was in, upfront with Anelka and Malouda. Within the first five minutes, we had survived two attacks on our goal. Stuart Downing burst forward down the right wing and we groaned as he easily found Stephen Ireland who was completely unmarked. Thankfully his shot zipped past the far post. Soon after, we lost possession far too easily and John Carew forced an excellent finger-tip save from Petr Cech, way down low to his left. We hadn’t begun the game too well.

Amidst the grumbles in the away support, we found enough spirit to reignite a chant from the Wembley semi-final –

“Seven-One, My Lord, Seven-One,
Seven-One, My Lord, Seven-One,
Seven-One, My Lord, Seven-One,
Oh Lord – Seven-One.”

Our support seemed to be up for it and the “John Terry Has Won The Double” chant got many an airing throughout the game. Gary was next to me and his venom was mainly directed at Ashley Young and John Carew. It’s usually Kalou, so Carew came natural to him.

I was only three seats from the segregated space between us and the home fans. For the first 15 minutes, a line of West Midland police constables were stood next to us, blocking our view and seemingly taking great pleasure in it. Obviously, we moaned and moaned –

“Sit daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.”

To our great pleasure, their sergeant arrived and amidst laughter from us, eventually got them to meekly sit, their helmets peeking over the wooden barrier. It was one of the sights of the season.

“One-nil to the Chelsea.”

It was a poor first half to be honest. We hardly troubled the Villa goal. Kakuta was quiet and we seemed to be rather lack-lustre in the attacking third. Mikel was solid, but few were shining. With the autumn sun quickly disappearing behind the Trinity Road stand opposite, it was rather a sombre mood at half-time.

Thankfully, it was a different story in the second period as Chelsea attacked the North Stand down below us. Kakuta was replaced by Zhirkov at the break and the Russian got stuck in, causing the Villa right flank some problems. To accommodate him, Malouda flipped over to the right wing and I was able to get a closer look of his new braids. In the first-half, this had initially resembled a sleeker version of an eighties-style mullet, but I was now able to see it in all its magnificent glory. In fact, Malouda was one of our best performers, retaining the ball well, despite an often poor first touch. However, Essien’s passes were tending to go astray. Despite more and more of the ball – Villa rarely attacked – our chances were minimal. I commented to Gary – “this is a nil-nil mate.” We again missed Frank bursting forth from his midfield position. Hurry back, mate.

At the end of one Chelsea attack, the ball was headed away for a corner by a Villa defender and I caught this particular moment on film. To our annoyance, the referee gave a goal-kick. I had a quick look at the photo I had just snapped, zoomed-in and noted that I had captured the exact moment that the ball had hit the Villa player’s forehead. With this – and this happened so quickly, nobody may have spotted it – I leant back and threw my camera at the match referee Lee Mason. He quickly picked the camera up, looked at the image, but still pointed for a goal-kick.

Once a referee, always a referee, eh? Who says technology will erase human error?

On 75 minutes, we had a double substitution. After what seems like an eternity, we welcomed Jose Bosingwa back to the team. Jose took over from the steady Paolo Ferreira at right back and we wondered if he would soon be flying up the wing like a man possessed. Josh McEachren replaced the tiring Ramires.

Soon after, Malouda whipped in a great corner and Ivanovic rose to thunder a brilliant header against the upright. This was the first chance of a frantic final ten minutes. At the other end, in front of a surprisingly docile Holte End, Ashley Young’s free kick was edged onto the far post by Clark with Cech beaten. In the final minute, a lovely Cole cross found the on-rushing Anelka eight yards out. However, his down-and-up header bounced onto the bar and the 3,000 Chelsea loyalists held their heads in their hands.

Then – a nightmare. McEachren had shown some deft touches, but easily lost the ball in his own half to Reo-Coker. This looked a certain goal to me and I almost turned away, not wishing to witness such a horrific denouement. Unbelievably, the Villa midfielder advanced but scuffed his shot wide of Cech’s near post.

I could hardly believe it.

So, a 0-0 draw and “as you were” at the top. It wasn’t a great Chelsea show, but I wasn’t too dismayed. We hadn’t, after all, drawn 2-2 at home to West Bromwich Albion. As I descended the stairs, I spotted the BBC commentator Jonathan Pearce and so I had a quick word. He’s a Bristol City fan and so I enquired if his team had won at Cardiff. They had been 2-0 up, but had imploded to a 3-2 defeat. Bristol City are mired at the bottom of The Championship and, as I received my only punch in 36 years of Chelsea games at Ashton Gate back in 1984, I am not shedding any tears at their demise.

As we approached the car, one lone Villa fan was shouting out to a gaggle of Chelsea fans, inviting them to partake in an old-school altercation.

“Come on Chelsea. Let’s go. Let’s have a little row.”

Thankfully, Parky kept his mouth shut and we walked on as things petered out.

Back in the car, we had an impromptu picnic involving Chelsea Buns, Cheddars and Mars Bars and I was soon edging back past The Hawthorns and then south on the M5. I reached home at about 10pm. We were the second-from-last game to be shown on “Match Of The Day” and I could understand why.

I’m not going to Moscow on Tuesday – few are – and so the next game to be entered on the spread sheet will be our encounter with Wolves next Saturday. Hopefully we’ll get a few more first- teamers back into the team and there will be some more goals entered in the “goals for” column.

Tales From Our Second Home

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 10 April 2010.

At work on Friday, I received a few emails and texts from a few mates, everyone anticipating the build-up and the game at Wembley. If had been a tough old week at work and nobody was looking forward to the day more than myself. With a full day of beer ahead, Parky and myself booked ourselves onto a train so that I didn’t have to worry about the drink / driving problem. I was relishing it all – I was buzzing on Saturday morning.

Clear blue skies, lovely weather – even at 8am.

We caught the 8.29am train from Bradford-On-Avon to Bath, then the 9.13am from Bath to Paddington. I very rarely catch the train these days, but it brought back some memories of those 1981-1984 games when I would catch trains from Frome and Westbury up to London. To be fair, it’s a lovely journey, passing through some nice countryside along the way. We expected the train to be full of Chelsea, but we were the only ones. We spotted two Villa in the next carriage. At Chippenham, we noted about ten young lads get on the train – all clobbered up, wearing football gear – but we couldn’t work out who they were supporting. We hadn’t seen them at Chelsea. We wondered if they were Swindon lads. It brought back memories of train trips down to London Euston from my college town of Stoke, when there were clearly football fans on the train, but nobody gave anything away…save for the odd half-inch pin badge, much beloved by all at the time.

Heading in to Reading, we passed along the side of the River Thames and it was a lovely scene, full of rowers, barges and riverboats. We spotted a football ground, enclosed and well appointed…it was the ground of Reading Town, a team I had never heard of. At the train’s busy station, more Chelsea joined us. Reading has always been a Chelsea stronghold.

Heading into Paddington, the spindly floodlights of QPR were spotted. I was remembering all of the sights from those trips on this line from my youth. I had a word with those ten casuals and it turned out that they were off with Swindon Town to Colchester United. They were good lads and were keen to hear of our views on the atmosphere at The Bridge these days, plus our general take on a few topics. They all came from Calne, a few miles from where I work, and clearly loved their footy – and their labels. Parky and myself saw a bit of ourselves in them.We wished them well.

Steve Azar, met us at Paddington and we were soon tucking in to a large breakfast at The Tyburn pub on Marble Arch. A few of the boys – the lads I often write about, the members of The Bing – were already there…we could feel the buzz of anticipation in the air already. Rob was already passing around the amaretto.

Wes soon joined us and we then headed off to the Duke Of York, ten minutes away, the classic London boozer on a street corner. It was a predictably enjoyable pre-match…we love this pub. It never gets too busy and the landlord always looks after us. More and more troops arrived. Chelsea historian Rick Glanvill was present and I had a quick word. I spent a large proportion of my time chatting with Steve and Wes about my particular take on what being a Chelsea supporter should be about. I think it’s my favourite subject. The previous weekend’s game at Old Trafford acted as a good reference point and a catalyst for some good blue-blooded discusion. Looking at the assembled masses flooding the pavement outside the pub, of around thirty people, only one replica shirt ( worn by a young boy ) was on show and Wes asked for Steve and my opinions on this. Clearly, the sub-culture of football in the UK is well-developed , getting fine-tuned and altering with each passing season. I joked with Steve that the first thing a new Chelsea fan wants to do is buy a replica shirt these days. I’d prefer new fans to buy books, buy DVDs, talk to fellow fans…find out what it really means to be Chelsea. I retold the story of a friend of a friend who met us at a pub in Frome to watch the Liverpool vs. Chelsea 0-0 game in 2005. He hadn’t been into football much as far as I could tell and clearly wanted to impress the three of us…he showed up wearing a Chelsea shirt. The look I gave my mate Glenn said it all. Suffice to say, this chap hasn’t shown any interest in going with us to games since, save for one solitary trip to Cardiff for a Community Shield game.

Beers were being ordered, conversations buzzing away, more friends were joining us. It was a lovely time.

Lacoste Watch

Milo – royal blue.
Andy – dark blue.
Simon – white.
Steve – white.
Daryl – orange.
Lord Parky – lemon.
Chris – buttermilk.

Wes darted off to meet Mo to collect his match ticket. We were then joined by Ashley – from San Jose – and her friend James – currently studying in Dirty Leeds – and I could relax. Everyone was accounted for. I dished out the remaining match tickets. James was 7-0 watching Chelsea…great stuff. We then made our way to Marylebone, a ten minute walk away. I raced ahead and took an “Abbey Road” photo of everyone crossing the road…or was it more like “Resevoir Dogs.” I said to Steve that we hadn’t spoken about the game once.

We caught the train from Marylebone to Wembley Stadium and this only takes ten minutes. I was nicely buzzing. We heard a few new Chelsea songs – pretty original actually – from a group of lads. On that slow walk up to the turnstile entrances, I found myself walking alone amidst some Villa, with some Chelsea lads to my right. All of a sudden, a shouting match started, then some pointing and gesturing, then a lone Villa fan waded into a group of Chelsea. The police – on horseback and on foot – arrived too late and I think the Villa fan came off the worse for wear. This sort of incident – spur of the moment, unplanned – is pretty rare these days. I went over to talk to one of the Chelsea involved –

“Come on mate, you’re too old for all this nonsense.”

I met Jonesy outside Entrance A and handed over the very last of my match tickets. We ascended the many flights of stairs and I then had to walk up to row 42 to reach my seat. We were four rows from the very top, along the side, opposite the royal box. My goodness, we were high up.

I was sat alongside Walnuts, Parky, Alan and Gary, friends from 1984 and onwards.

That first-half was tedious. As dire as it gets. I remember two Joe Cole efforts, lots of passing, no pace. Lots of players were slipping on the greasy surface.

The Villa fans were outsinging us. Lots more pointing and gesturing.

“Have you won a European Cup?”

“Where were you at Stamford Bridge?”

Lots and lots of empty seats…great clumps of empty seats in both Villa and Chelsea sections. The corporate areas were only 75% occupied. The FA should be proud of themselves.

At half-time, we heard rumours of the grass being kept long in order for a Saracens rugby union game next weekend. This was met with howls of complaint…Wembley is a football stadium…why can’t club rugby be played at Twickenham? The grass was kept long but then watered in order to allow the ball to be zipped, despite the long grass, but the result was a slow game with players slipping. All for rugby game in a week’s time. Pathetic.

I noted that it wasn’t until the 51st minute that the whole Chelsea support rallied as one –

“We All Follow The Chelsea – Over Land And Sea – And Leicester
“We All Follow The Chelsea – Onto Victory.”

To be fair, I got the impression our section was trying to get the singing going, but Villa were definitely the noisiest. Memories of that hideous 2008 Carling Cup Final.

Gary was berating a few players, frustration was creeping in…he mentioned the quoted Ancelotti game plan of waiting until Villa tire on about the 70th minute.

Well – game plan or not – it worked.

Goals from Didier Drogba ( how he loves Wembley ), Florent Malouda ( his second Wembley goal ) and Frank Lampard ( how he loves Wembley – his third Wembley goal ) gave us a 3-0 win in those last tewnty minutes. The first was a poke in from close range after a corner, the second was from the best move of the game and a sublime Ballack cross, the last one a classic Frank finish, cooly finding time for an extra touch before blasting home. The Villa support was silent after Didier’s goal and swathes of their support departed after Malouda’s. However, a few thousand Chelsea decided to leave at 2-0 too.

You can imagine my views on this. The five stalwarts in Row 42 glowered at those who “excuse me’d” past us.

It was a poor game, but we deserved to win it. The realisation of us getting to another FA Cup Final hit home and I was loving it. A few team photos, everyone happy. Parky and myself slowly walked down to the front rows of the upper tier and took a few cheesey photos of each other, bathing in the early London evening sun. We were some of the very last to leave.

We bumped into Steve, Ashley and James ( 8-0! ) outside and the usual hugs and kisses.

The line for the train was long, but the time soon passed. By 8.15pm, we were back in The Duke Of York, where the post party was in full flow. I was gasping for a drink and chose a couple of double G and Ts for a change.

How refined!

Rob was tucking into some nachos, Parky was hopping about, guzzling some Staropramen, plans were being made for The Final. The texts had been arriving too…”see you for the final,” “can you get me a ticket?”, “where are we sitting?” We spoke of The Double.

The Double!

Good times, everyone, good times.

We got back in plenty of time to catch the 9.30pm from Paddington. A couple of Villa fans were singing…I said to one –

“You outsung us, but we outplayed you.”

“Fair comment mate.”

Parky still had time to have an altercation with a trappy Millwall fan on the platform. Oh well. The mood was of quiet euphoria on the return back to Wiltshire…one more G and T, a chat with two Newcastle United fans who had been to Toon Town…Chelsea and Villa mingling in the buffet.

It had been a long day, but start making plans for Saturday 15th. May.

Tales From February 13th. 1982 And February 13th. 2010

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Cardiff City : 13 February 2010.

An early kick-off at HQ meant that I collected the two Glenns by 8.30am and, by the time we hit the M4, the banter was flying. We passed quite a few coaches from South Wales en route. We spoke of the FA Cup…May 2009 was fresh in our minds, but I was more interested in remembering a game from my youth.

Leading up to our encounter with Cardiff City, I was well aware that there was a favourite Chelsea game from the past which also took place on February 13th. At the time, it was the best game I had ever witnessed in the flesh. Throughout this week, my mind was full of memories of our game with Liverpool on FA Cup Round Five day in 1982. On the Friday, in order to get the juices flowing, I emailed a few CFC mates and we bantered back and forth with memories of that day…we mentioned the players, the atmosphere, the thrill of that great game. I’m lucky – so lucky – to have so many Chelsea mates who “know their stuff” and can help rebuild memories of games in the distant past.

In 1981-82, Chelsea were floundering in the old Second Division, but had hit a bit of form over the Christmas and New Year period. This was our third season in the second tier. Our swish Le Coq Sportif kit was worn by such stalwarts as Clive Walker, Mike Fillery and Colin Pates. Personally, I was floundering in the Sixth Form – I had soon realised I had picked the wrong subjects – but was living for football. Playing for my school team kept me sane, but following Chelsea was my passion. For the first time, I was travelling up to games at Chelsea by myself. I was sixteen and the train fare was only £6. I had seen us play against Bolton and Wrexham and had watched these two games in The Shed for the first ever time. For the Wrexham game, a red-head from Texas was watching her first ever Chelsea game and we must’ve been no more than twenty yards away from each other. We had struggled to get past Hull and Wrexham, after replays, to meet Liverpool in Round Five. Liverpool, meanwhile, were in their absolute pomp…European Champions and on their way to three consecutive titles. It was a huge miss-match. In the Daily Mail, Ian Wooldridge had written that “the only hope I can give Chelsea is that they have no hope at all.” I think I knew what he meant. To add to our plight, I’m pretty sure that Liverpool had lost to Ipswich in a League Cup semi-final first-leg on the Wednesday and were looking for revenge. We looked easy targets. Things were mighty ominous.

I remember so many things from that day. Let me share more of them. My parents and myself caught the 8am train from Westbury and there were a gaggle of Doctor Marten-wearing Chelsea fans on the platform…no doubts, I would get to know some of these lads over the next few years. At Paddington, Mum and Dad went off to do some sightseeing, while I headed down to The Bridge to savour the pre-match atmosphere. I arrived at Fulham Broadway at around 11am and the place was already buzzing. No doubt I walked up to the East Stand, but I remember staying down by the entrance to the old West Stand for ages. I had never been to the Bridge so early and I was amazed how many fans were milling around the area by The Brittania pub ( now The So Bar. ) There seemed to be many more street vendors than usual. I specifically remember an old chap in his seventies selling old black and white photos of players from the ‘forties and ‘fifties. For some unfathomable reason, I bought one of United’s Duncan Edwards. Like all of this chap’s photos, he was pictured as he ran out onto the pitch, on those wooden running boards which used to go over the dog track.

We had West Stand seats and I remember being thankful. I am pretty sure that the game wasn’t all ticket, hence the massive crowds outside. For the 24,000 fans who would be using the terraces, it would be a case of “first come, first served.” I remember looking at the ever-growing line of Liverpool fans lining up outside the buildings of the Oswald Stoll Foundation. I looked on in awe. These lucky so-and-sos had enjoyed successes since the early ‘seventies that I could only dream of. I can’t, unfortunately, remember if the legions of scallies were wearing Adidas Stan Smiths or Slazenger and Lacoste pullovers.

The gates opened at 1pm and, for the first time since my debut in 1974, I ascended those lovely steps on that huge embankment of the West Stand. Our seats were right by The Shed – seats 1, 2 and 3, row 2 or 3. Magical stuff. My parents arrived at about 2.15pm. By then, The Shed was heaving. I believe the gates closed at 2pm. For an hour, I watched on as 14,000 Chelsea fans in The Shed sang and swayed, anticipating the game ahead. A few hundred fans were watching from atop a block of flats across the Fulham Road. I watched aghast as the shared North terrace bore witness to several charges by the Chelsea boys at their Liverpool counterparts. Two pens were Chelsea, two pens Liverpool, with a line of police somewhere in the middle. I remember seeing some Chelsea scamper through the Brompton Cemetery behind the East Stand, rush over the train lines and attack the Scousers from behind. I had never seen the like of it. To be truthful, I was sick of it. Our big day, the whole of Britain watching and these loons were dragging our name through the dirt. I was yet to learn the nuances of hooliganism. I was only 16 remember.

I remember, right down below me, about twenty Chelsea kids in their late teens, jumping over The Shed fence into The Benches in order to run up to the North Stand to join in the fray. To my huge displeasure, my mother was shouting at them to get back! I grimaced, as you can imagine.

The game kicked-off at 3pm with 41,412 jammed inside the grand old stadium. I can distinctly remember looking across at the towering East Stand, so out of place with the rest of the stadium, and noting that every single seat – row upon row – was occupied. I saw 10,000 heads, with not one single gap. Surely that doesn’t happen often. This reassured me of our massive potential. We were a middling second-tier team, but could draw in 41,000. As a comparison, our highest league gate in 1981-82 was barely 20,000.

The game was a classic. Liverpool boasted such legends as Rush, Dalglish, Souness, McDermott, Hansen and Lawrensen. After just eight minutes, we won the ball in midfield and Peter Rhoades-Brown broke away in the inside left channel. He shot early and I had an unimpeded view as the ball crept into the goal by the far post, just evading Grobbelaar’s dive.

The Bridge erupted and so did I.

For the rest of the game, Liverpool probed away without creating too many chances. Colin Pates and Kevin Hales were an odd choice in midfield, but they nullified Liverpool’s midfield maestros. At half-time, we heaved a sigh of relief. We wondered about the task ahead. Could we do it?

All I remember of the second period is the action down in front of me at The Shed End goal on about 84 minutes. We had held on – teeth grinding tension throughout – and after a goalmouth melee, the ball broke kindly to Colin Lee, who stabbed the ball in from close-range.

In that split second – I can still see the net bulge – I knew we were safe at 2-0 and I celebrated again. A different kind of celebration…the fear had gone. We were going to beat Liverpool! The thrill was almost too much. I had seen us beat Liverpool 3-1 in 1978 and we had done it again. Unbelievable.

Back to 2010. It took a while for us to find a parking space, but I eventually found one near The Elm pub. Who should be outside, pints in hand, but Cathy and Dog. There were police outside. We were on the look out for Cardiff, but hadn’t spied any apart from on the M4. We were expecting a big show from them. This was the first time I had seen Cardiff at Chelsea since 1983. I remember they sang the Welsh national anthem throughout the minute’s silence for a Chelsea fan killed at Huddersfield. We responded with boos and a chant about Aberfan, the site of a landslide which wiped out a primary school in the Welsh valleys in the ‘sixties. A different era.

Parky dipped into The Elm – he later reported that the pub was full of some Chelsea faces from the past – while Glenn and myself sat down for a fry-up at the refurbished Yadana cafe. I met a mate from work. Tickets were exchanged. The Goose was shut – not opening until 12.30pm – and I can understand why. The threat of violence pervaded most of our conversations throughout the morning.

On the walk down the North End Road, the bitter chill still in evidence, we saw no Cardiff, except in The Kings Head, which was guarded by twenty policemen and around five on horseback. For a change, we had a pint in “Jimmy’s” inside the Matthew Harding.

Unbeknown to me, Petar Borota had passed away on the Friday. How ironic that this player from 1981-82 ( he didn’t play in the Liverpool game, his place was taken by the young Steve Francis ) which a few of us had mentioned in our emails on Friday should be taken from us that very same day. He was as mad as a bucket of frogs, but was well loved at Chelsea. We applauded him for a minute before kick-off.

RIP Petar.

I spotted two inflatable sheep being passed around the MHL. There is now a “Malta” flag in the West Stand. About time more American flags showed up, I reckon. I almost missed our opener. I was looking down at the MHL singing “Ingerland” at the Welsh hordes when I looked up to see Didier clean through on goal. An easy finish and 1-0 to us after a couple of minutes. Good stuff. The rest of the first period was a bit messy. A few long-range efforts…a lob from Drogba from just inside the Cardiff half, a thunderous strike from Sturridge, a tame Lampard effort. At the other end, Bothroyd and Chopra were being given too much space and Cardiff were getting into the game. Their support was roaring. We accused them of doing “unmentionables” to sheep. Virtually all of the Cardiff fans were standing, but I did see gaps. Maybe they hadn’t made it past The Elm! A cross from Burke and Chopra headed in, totally unchallenged. Not a set piece this time, but as good as. Like Dracula, we hate crosses. With The Bluebirds flying high, I became mesmerized by three pigeons flying around the stadium. Suffice to say, it wasn’t a great game! Joe Cole was poor…he’s trying too hard. A sublime ball from Ballack, into space, was the highlight.

Mumbles and grumbles at half-time. Daryl’s son Ed came down to bemoan our woefully quiet support. Charlie Cooke was paraded at the break by Neil Barnett. I spotted Michael Essien watching from the same seat in the West Middle as Jose Mourinho versus Fulham. How we miss Essien.

We played better – much better – in the second period. Kalou came on for Joe Cole and he did well. Drogba was akin to a one man wrecking crew, full of strength and running. His ball to Ballack carved open the entire Cardiff defence and was just gorgeous. Ballack finished with aplomb. Phew. Cardiff’s support soon quietened down – and their team tired.

I had said to Alan at Preston that Daniel Sturridge would go on to emulate Peter Osgood in 1970 by scoring in all of the rounds – a pretty rash statement, I’ll admit. He wasn’t playing particularly well, but the ball broke to him down below me. The trouble was that it was on his right side…”and he hasn’t got a right foot” I said to Alan. With that, the ball broke kindly and he slotted it in wuith his left. How we laughed. Up and down we bounced. Three-one and coasting. Salomon capped a fine performance with a lovely header from a stunning Ferreira cross. Roman’s smiling face was shown on The Shed screen and we serenaded him…he responded with a wave. About time we gave him some love – his reign has not been without flaws, but he’s no Glazer, no Hicks, no Gillette.

On the walk back to the car, police sirens were wailing and we heard rumours of post-game naughtiness. We were soon on the road West. It felt strange heading along the M4 at 2.45pm…so odd to be heading back so early on a Saturday. I spotted the Wembley Arch in the distance, as we listened to some Depeche Mode. They were in the charts with “See You” in February 1982 and, like us, are still going strong. We drove past The Madejski, where Reading and West Brom were eking out an FA Cup draw…and we then overtook an armada of Cardiff City coaches. We pondered options for the Quarters. With us due to play Pompey in the league on March 6th., we wondered if we just might get them on that same date in the cup instead.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Hooliganism

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Tales From Our Second Home

Tales From February 13th. 1982 And February 13th. 2010