Tales From City, Chips And Gravy

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2019.

At around 1pm – bang on target, just as I had predicted, have I mentioned I work in logistics? – I pulled into the car park of The Windmill pub just off the roundabout on the M6 which crosses with the A556.

Exit 19.

It did not seem five minutes since we were last there. It was, in fact, three months ago that we stopped for an hour or so as we met my old college mate Rick before the league opener against Manchester United. On this occasion, ahead of our enticing game with Manchester’s other team, we were stopping for considerably longer. I had enjoyed the trip north; grey skies, but no rain, a clear run. The usual three – PD, Parky and little old me – were joined by PD’s son Scott. This would be his first visit to Manchester, for football or for anything else for that matter. The drive was four hours in length, and we chatted intermittently about all sorts of shite. The game itself was touched upon but only fleetingly. We mentioned that it was likely that Frank Lampard would go for a little more robust midfield three than against other teams; Jorginho, Kovacic, Kante. But other topics of conversation were wide, and wild, and various. This is often the case. I have mentioned before that on match days we often treat the game itself as a discussion topic as if it was the eye of a storm – tranquil, peaceful, calm – while other games are voraciously discussed, with whirlwinds of memories cascading around of past matches and past battles, with the future games discussed at length too, with plans and itineraries debated ad nauseam.

We ordered drinks – three ciders and a diet Coke, no point in guessing which was mine – and studied the varied menu. For some reason that I cannot recall, one of the various “non-football” chats en route to the north-west was of types of food, maybe from our childhood, I can’t remember. I had mentioned steak and kidney pudding – home-made, with suet – and lo-and-behold, a steak and ale pudding was on the menu. PD and I ordered it. Parky chose lasagne. Scott chose ham, eggs and chips.

Is everyone still awake?

The suet pudding was crammed full of steak, the chips were authentic chip-shop style, the garden peas were sweet and juicy, and in typical Northern fashion, everything was set off with thick gravy.

Northerners love gravy.

It was bloody lovely.

Although the City stadium was twenty miles away, and we didn’t think that we would see anyone we knew, after an hour or so Mark from Slough spotted me and came over to sit nearby with two fellow Chelsea mates. I bump into Mark occasionally, but our paths do not cross too often. The most memorable occasion was in China when he was a late addition to the coach trip to the Great Wall of China that I had booked in 2017. Mark, like me, follows his local non-league team. For a few moments we bored the others rigid with stupefyingly dull talk of the two Towns, Frome and Slough, respectively.

After three diet Cokes and a large cappuccino, I was raring to go to the game.

We left there at just after 3.30pm. It was an oh-so familiar drive to the Etihad, and it took us right past the site of Maine Road. Now then, dear reader, I have already detailed two of my three visits to this much-loved old stadium in these reports before so it is appropriate that I complete the story with some notes from the away game in 1985/86.

I am nothing if not consistent.

In fact, on this occasion I am lifting some words straight out of my 1985 diary.

“Caught the 8.32am to Manchester. A pleasant journey through the usual South Cheshire towns. Arrived at Piccadilly at 9.30am. Saw football coaches pull up at the station, so hopped on one. A chap from Stafford had a natter; definitely remember him from the Chelsea vs. Sunderland train. Let inside at 10.30am. A 60p hot dog and up on to the small corner terrace. I suppose we had 2,000, maybe 2,500. A pretty poor turn out really. Chelsea had seats behind the goal. Didn’t see any of the lads. Chelsea began well, causing City’s defence many problems. In about the tenth minute, Speedie flicked the ball to Dixon who, by the penalty spot, calmly lobbed the ball over the ‘keeper. A super little goal really. Chelsea had a good spell, then City put in some long crosses but didn’t cause Eddie much of a problem. The game deteriorated in the last fifteen minutes of the half. I can’t honestly say the second-half improved at all. Only Canoville – on for Hazard – seemed to want to take the play to the home team. We were made to look very plain by a team that were not exactly high on confidence. The highlights were three great blocks by Eddie which saved us from a boring draw. I think he was our best player, always a bad sign. He didn’t put a foot wrong. We were kept in for a while. Spotted our firm waiting to my left as I boarded the bus back to the station. Spotted Winkle. Eventually back to the station for 2pm. A quarter-pounder. Caught the 2.42pm back to Stoke, getting back at 3.45pm. Many flared cords today. Even Chelsea.”

Some notes to add.

I was living in Stoke-on-Trent at the time. Far be it for me to suggest that its location slap-dab between the football “awayday” cities of Birmingham, Liverpool and Manchester might have, perhaps, influenced my decision to live there for three years.

My proclivity to record fine detail of train times, and timings in general,  continues to this day. Did I mention I work in logistics?

The early kick-off? Probably, no undoubtedly, a result of our reputation at the time of being Public Enemy Number One, and on the back of the previous visit, in late 1983/84, which resulted in seven thousand Chelsea roaming Moss Side and taking unbelievable liberties.

I travelled alone and did not chat to any close friends. Sometimes it was like that.

Winkle. A young lad, a bit of a face, who was pointed out to me by Alan – probably – and who was in and around the firm at the time. I learned quite recently that he had passed away some time ago; a relatively young death, a heart attack I believe. He is often mentioned on a few chat sites.

Flared cords. After the bright sportswear of 1983/84, it all went a little undercover and muted in 1984/85, and even more so in 1985/86. I have recently seen reference to this period in terrace subculture as the “anti-suss” era. After the skinhead and boots era passed, and as casualdom took hold, it eventually dawned on the police that those lads in smart sportswear with expensive trainers and the wedge cuts were hooligans. Lads needed to divert further. Out came plain pullovers, darker trainers, black leather jackets, darker jeans. Less gregariousness, and still one step ahead of the authorities. In the north-west, and Leeds – always Leeds – this manifested itself in slightly flared cords and jeans, a new trend after tight and faded jeans of the early ‘eighties. In fact, it all looked – hugely ironically – quite mainstream. But the devil was in the details. Heavy Armani pullovers, Hard Core jeans, Aquascutum and Burberry, Berghaus and Boss.

Hot dogs and hamburgers. The fodder of football. Nobody asked for a salad at games in 1985, and nor do they do now.

The gate on that Saturday morning was just 20,104, but this was especially low because – I do not doubt – it was at such an early time. In addition, I have a feeling our allocation was all-ticket, a rarity for those days. That season was eventually won by Liverpool despite Manchester United going on a nine or ten game winning streak at the start. As if it needs stating again, no leagues are won in October nor November. Low gates predominated in our football at this period, a time when football hooliganism had scared many away. Those that went were often treated shamefully. Out of interest, the top ten average gates from that season are featured below.

  1. Manchester United – 46,322 (4)
  2. Liverpool – 35,319 (1)
  3. Everton – 32,388 (2)
  4. Manchester City – 24,229 (15)
  5. Arsenal – 23,813 (7)
  6. Newcastle United – 23,184 (11)
  7. Sheffield Wednesday – 23,101 (5)
  8. Chelsea – 21,986 (6)
  9. West Ham United – 21,289 (3)
  10. Tottenham Hotspur – 20,862 (10)

It always makes me giggle to see that West Ham’s highest ever league placing still resulted in a lower gate than ours.

“Where were you when you were shit?” they ask us.

We should sing this to them :

“Where were you when you were good?”

Enough of 1985/86.

I made my way through the city. The traffic flowed surprisingly well.

I always find it odd that Manchester is often abbreviated to “M’cr” on many road signs.

“T’ls F’rm M’cr” anyone?

I dropped the lads off outside The Etihad at about 4.15pm and then drove on to park up. For the first time ever, my away ticket had failed to materialise and so I had needed to call Chelsea the previous day for a reprint to be arranged. I soon collected it at the away end ticket office. We bumped into others; Deano from Yorkshire, the Bristol lot, Scott and Paul. Everyone excited about the game.

PD and LP were in the middle tier. Scott and I were up in the third tier. This added a little frisson of excitement for me; my first time in the lofty heights of Level Three since the stadium was expanded in 2015. Others were sampling the top tier too, and were equally looking forward to it.

My seat – as if I’d be seated, none of us were – was in row W, but this was only halfway back. The tier goes on forever. But due to the layering of tiers, and the steepness of the rake, the pitch honestly does not seem too distant.

We had heard horrible news from elsewhere; a Tottenham win, a Liverpool win, and my local team Frome Town had let a 2-0 lead in Portsmouth evaporate against Moneyfields, who themselves were down to ten men, conceding an equaliser in the final minute. It is not known how Slough Town did.

Frome at Moneyfields.

Chelsea at Moneyfields.

I’d be more than happy with a 2-2 in Manchester.

The team had been announced. No real, huge, surprises.

Arizzabalaga

Azpilicueta – Tomori – Zouma – Emerson

Kovacic – Jorginho – Kante

Pulisic – Abraham – Willian

Barkley and Pedro are way down in the pecking order now, eh? It is clear that Frank loves Willian. He is enjoying a fine season, again, after an indifferent start.

The night had fallen by kick-off time.

I waited as the minutes ticked by. Scott ascended the stairs after squeezing in a final lager. There were a surprising number of people that I knew settling down alongside me.  I had incorrectly presumed that most ASTs would have been located in the other levels. With no cameras allowed at The Etihad, I was planning to utilise my ‘phone and I therefore knew that my match photographs would be limited to broad panoramas. There was the usual audio visual countdown to kick-off, but how many times can the world hear Martin Tyler scream the word “Aguero!” without feeling slightly jaundiced by it all. Yeah, I know, even if that goal was a kick in the solar plexus for Manchester United and its millions of fans.

I am surprised, actually – knowing how City like to “one step beyond” wind us up – that Frank Lampard’s goal against us in 2014 was not part of the countdown on the TV screens.

Yeah, Frank Lampard at Manchester City.

What the fuck was all that about?

At last, the final minutes. A huge City banner – “125 years” – welcomed the teams onto the pitch. To the side, an equally large banner declaring “This is our city.”

Blue Moon boomed.

As at many stadia, banners covered every inch of balcony wall. I am always bemused by the small flag to the left on the Colin Bell Stand that simply says “Reddish Blues.”

For the geographically-challenged, Reddish is a part of the Manchester conurbation.

In another universe, it might represent a small band of Mancunians who like United and City.

And it would be a very small band, marooned in Reddish for eternity.

Both clubs despise each other alright.

United and City.

Reds and Blues.

Munichs and Bitters.

A City most definitely not united.

A City divided.

I looked over at Frank Lampard, track suited, and wondered if he ever gave his bizarre stint as a City player much thought. Guardiola in the other technical area was casually dressed as always.

City in blue (with an odd hint of purple on the sleeves) shirts, white shorts and white socks. They seem to change that blending every year. I prefer them in the blue socks of my youth.

Chelsea in royal blue shirts, royal blue shorts, royal blue socks out of necessity.

If only City had kept to blue socks.

The game began.

I had mentioned in the pub, or the car, how City often start peppering our goal at The Etihad from the off. And it invariably involves Sergio Aguero. On this occasion, soon into the game, it was Kevin De Bruyne who flashed a low shot from an angle just inches past Kepa’s far post. I looked to the skies, or at least the towering stand roof above my head.

“Here we go again.”

But as the game developed, we showed no cowardice in taking the game to City. The last two league games at the same stadium had produced different game plans, but still the same result.

In 2017/18, Antonio Conte played ultra-defensively, lost 1-0, and lost many friends, despite it almost paying off.

In 2018/19, Maurizio Sarri attempted to play City at their own game and lost 6-0, one of the worst days out of my life, so thank you for that.

In 2019/20, Frank Lampard’s team played with great spirit, good movement, a fast tempo, and for a while it looked like we could pull off a wonderful victory.

A Willian shot from the inside the box in the inside-right channel missed Ederson’s far post by the same margin as the De Bruyne effort a few minutes earlier. Tackle for tackle, pass for pass, punch for punch we were matching them.

I focused on Tammy Abraham for a while. There always seems to be an element of doubt about how successful Tammy will be when he receives a ball. I am never sure of his intentions, and I am not sure if he is either. Did he really mean to keep possession or did he really intend to control it quickly and then distribute it to a team mate? Did he mean that flick? However, one scintillating feint and a quick turn into a sudden patch of space left his marker questioning his career choice. This was just wonderful.

“Well done, Tammy, son.”

Willian was full of intelligent running, sometimes the overlap option and often the underlap option, and saw much of the early ball. Christian Pulisic looked in fine form on the opposing flank. A shot from Fikayo Tomori went close.

A rare City foray into our box was met by not one but four Chelsea defenders lining up to block a goal bound shot. Magnificent.

With twenty minutes or so gone, Mateo Kovacic released a magnificent ball right into the heart of the City defence. It dropped majestically into the path of N’Golo Kante, who touched it on. I felt myself relax, as if I knew a goal was coming. I sensed that he only needed to poke it past a manically exposed Ederson.

He touched it, and it slowly rolled goalwards.

I remained remarkably calm.

Tammy followed it home.

City 0 Chelsea 1.

I was calm no more.

I exploded with noise.

This place has not been a happy hunting ground for us of late. We usually lose. Could we repeat those – magnificent – rare wins in 2013/14 and 2016/17?

Scott hoped so; he had bet £50 on us at 13/2.

City had been quiet all game, and were silent now.

“Super Frankie Lampard.”

We looked imperious. City’s defence looked porous. We prodded and teased all over the pitch. This was a great game. I was loving it.

Out of nowhere there was a ridiculous “Fuck Off Mourinho” and I was pleased that very few joined in.

We were playing with skill, speed, purpose and pleasure.

But then.

We lost possession poorly and the ball was quickly threaded through to De Bruyne. A shot from outside the box drew the attention of three or four defenders willing to throw their bodies towards the ball, but on this occasion luck was not with us. A shot was cruelly deflected off a limb and Kepa was beaten.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

Fackinell.

The home team was roused and we gulped as a De Bruyne shot was slashed narrowly over. Just eight minutes after the first goal, Mahrez cut inside – past Pulisic and Emerson, both dumbfounded by the trickery – and we watched as his low shot nestled inside the far post.

The game had been turned on its head.

And now the score line had a sadly typical feel.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

Sigh.

Now City’s fans roared.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart. Again.”

Our play grew nervous. Kamikaze back-passes, nervy touches. A shocking clearance from Kepa went straight towards that man Aguero – “here we fucking go” – but to our relief (not pleasure, this was not pleasurable) his shot struck the bar full on.

At the break I muttered some usual phrases from the earlier part of this season.

“Naïve defending. We need to know when to clear our lines, we are just inviting them on. Silly mistakes.”

The first quarter of the game, with us playing so well, had seemed like a cruel false dawn, a fib, a lie.

I bumped into some good pals at half-time and their smiles cheered me. It was great to see Dave from Brisbane, over for this and Valencia, again. In the toilets, I involuntarily began smoking for the first time since my schooldays.

Cough, cough, cough, cough.

Sadly, the second-half was a poor shadow of the high-tempo attack and counter-attack of the first period.

N’Golo – a real force of nature in our purple patch – struck at goal down below us but his shot was blocked. It would be our only goal bound effort for ages.

Reece James replaced Emerson, with Dave swapping wings.

“It worked last time, Scott.”

City came close at the other end. We were riding our luck. We found it hard to repel City, who were growing stronger with each passing minute.

Michy Batshuayi for Tammy.

Mason Mount for Jorginho.

A dipping effort from Willian caused a fingertip save from Ederson, but it seemed that we would never score. Mason Mount took responsibility for a very central free-kick in the dying minutes but the effort drifted well wide.

Sigh.

Just after, Raheem Sterling slotted home, but VAR ruled it offside. Nobody in the away end celebrated it, nor should they.

Fuck VAR.

It ended at approaching 7.30pm with our first league loss since the home game with Liverpool.

As I slowly began the slow walk down many flights of stairs, I muttered “no complaints” to many.

And there really were no real complaints.

In the grand scheme of things, we played OK, but no more. At times we were fantastic, at times not so. But City – “Stating The Bleeding Obvious Part 859” – are a very fine team. They are not firing on all cylinders just yet, but when they do…

There were steady 7/10s across the board.

I met the boys outside.

“At least we have pissed off ninety-five billion Liverpool fans this evening.”

We walked along Ashton New Road in the rain, in Raintown, as is so often the case.

Not the glory of 2014 nor 2016 this time.

At 8pm I began the long drive home.

I made good time as I headed south, stopping off at Stafford Services where we feasted on a ridiculous amount of junk food. Jason Cundy was spotted in the adjacent “Costa” though I did not have the energy to say hello.

The rain continued for hours. But I was cocooned in my car. I had no concerns, of the game nor my long drive home. We had seen worse, eh? I eventually arrived back home – no rain, now – at 12.30am, the day’s total mileage hitting 420 miles.

It had been a good day out.

I am not going to Valencia – safe travels to all – so the next instalment will feature the home match with West Ham United.

And I will see some of you there.

Talking of the ‘eighties…

Tales From Victoria

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 21 April 2012.

Throughout the build-up to the game with Arsenal, my thoughts had been full of past games. Should we prove to be triumphant at The Emirates, I’d wager that the trio of wins within seven days would represent our greatest ever week. The only other week that was comparable – and one that sticks in my mind for some reason – was from April 2000. On April Fool’s Day 2000, Chelsea won 1-0 at Leeds United when Leeds were a top four team. On the following Wednesday, Barcelona were humbled 3-1 in the Quarter Finals of the Champions League. On the following Sunday, Chelsea beat Newcastle United 2-1 in a great F.A. Cup Semi-Final. Three massive wins, one massive week. Following our momentous double of Tottenham and Barcelona, could we surpass these three wins from 2000? It was the main train of thought in my mind as I collected Parky at 8am.

Well, I’m lying.

My head was full of the second-leg at Camp Nou. I don’t apologise for this – I am sure I am not the only one prioritising the return leg on Tuesday. Images of 95,000 crammed into the multi-tiered layers of the Catalan edifice, with 3,000 Chelsea fans clinging on for dear life in the very top corner. Images of a Chelsea team in Real Madrid white taking on FCB in red and blue. Images of a Barcelona team, riddled with feelings of revenge, putting us to the sword. The occasional image – flickering, out of focus – of us nabbing an improbable draw…or win. Images of pure joy in the lofty heights of Camp Nou. Images of quite easily the best away game ever. Images of a mad scramble for flights to Germany – Munich, Stuttgart, Berlin, anywhere.

But first – Arsenal.

We’d surely field a team of players who would, generally, not feature in Catalonia. Parky and I may have mentioned a few of di Matteo’s options as we drove to London, but the Depeche Mode CD soon quashed much talk of football. I made great time and I was parked up at Barons Court – for a change – at 10am. As we approached the station, I noted that a young lad who sits in front of me at Chelsea – Dane from Bracknell – had just arrived at the station, too. We exchanged “hello mates” and then Parky and I set off for a pre-match meet at Victoria.

At 10.30am, Parky and I strode into The Shakespeare Tavern and ordered two pints of “Becks Vier.” It made a really pleasant change for us to have a change of scene on a match-day in London. This was a first-time visit for me, but I was well aware of its role in Chelsea lore. This pub, just outside Victoria train station, was the anointed meeting place for the Chelsea firm back in the ‘eighties, when it was known by the typically ‘eighties moniker “Shakes.” I’d imagine that Chelsea fans regard Victoria as base camp on match days; it is the station where vast swathes of our support head for, before going off on a pub-crawl down the Kings Road, or catching tubes into Earls Court, West Brompton, Fulham Broadway or Parsons Green, the four tube stops which services Stamford Bridge on match days.

Victoria, Pimlico, Kensington and Chelsea – our heartland.

We had arranged to meet a little posse of Chelsea fans. Steve Neat, from Staten Island, was the anointed leader but he came with four others. Andrew used to live in NYC but now lives in Kent. Paul and his son Jeff are from the US (though, if I am honest, I am not sure where) and a new face – Orlin – is from San Francisco. Andrew reminisced about a lot of the old pubs at Chelsea which have gone by the way-side since the ‘eighties. I’ve never really spent much time on The Kings Road on match days, but it always used to house the de-facto Chelsea Pub Crawl, from the Chelsea Potter down to The Worlds End and further south to the Hand and Flower. This was Parky’s old stomping ground of course.

I really enjoyed chatting to Orlin, who remembers me from a few “Zigger Zaggers” at the Club America game at Palo Alto in 2007. We spoke about the San Francisco pub “Mad Dog In The Fog” which I know sometimes houses the SF Chelsea fans. Orlin’s story fascinated me. He is originally from Bulgaria and was a boyhood Levski Sofia supporter. He told me that Chelsea is well-supported in Bulgaria and I wondered if it was linked to Chelsea’s games against Levski’s arch-rivals CSKA in the 1971 ECWC campaign. It seems that a lot of Levski’s fans aligned themselves with Chelsea. Levski also play in blue. Of course, we played Levski Sofia on two occasions over the past ten years. He told me how drawn he was when his two teams competed against each other; he realised he was referring to Levski as “we” and that was his brutal awakening to who he feels closest to.I understand that, no worries. I referred to him as “Mr. 49%” for the rest of the chat. He comes over to England 5 or 6 times each season and was at the Leverkusen away game. I loved to hear his emotional story of how he missed the 2008 Champions League Cup Final in Moscow because his daughter Victoria (if only, eh?) was born the day before. Her birthday is the day after this year’s final in Munich and he owes himself a CL Final trip. Watch this space.

Jesus, sporting a beard which is getting more prominent each game, arrived at 11.30am, fresh from picking up his Barcelona away ticket. I reckon Jesus isn’t shaving until we win the CL Final in Munich. So there we have it, in a corner of a pub in Victoria, Chelsea fans from all over the world, gathered together.

Parky, Andrew and Chris – England.
Steve, Paul and Jeff – USA via England.
Orlin – USA via Bulgaria.
Jesus – England via Mexico.

We sped off to catch the tube up to Arsenal. I noted that Jesus was wearing a little Chelsea pin-badge on his shirt, the only sign of allegiance to Chelsea, thus mirroring the dress code of Parky and myself.

We cut it fine, but reached Arsenal tube, just a hundred yards from the old Highbury stadium – one of my favourites – at 12.25pm. Every time I slowly walk up the steep incline at Arsenal tube, I am always reminded without fail of my first ever visit in August 1984. It was one of our most famous ever away games – and one of my most cherished memories. It was such a seminal game that Mark Worrall wrote a whole book about it.

This was Steve’s first visit to Arsenal’s new pad and he was suitably impressed. It is, of course – putting club loyalty to one side – a magnificent stadium. I must admit that I wish it was called Arsenal Stadium – like the signs on the art deco East Stand at Highbury – since I know Emirates will one day withdraw their funds. I also like the large images of current and former players adorning the high walls of the stadium, arms linked; Tony Adams, Cliff Bastin, Thierry Henry, George Armstrong.

Quite effective.

I reached the away segment in the south-east corner at 12.44pm; perfect timing. I was stood next to Alan and Gary, but it soon became apparent that the group of four Japanese tourists behind me were very annoyed that everyone was standing. At one stage, the mother – sitting right behind me – sat still, with her eyes closed. I guess she would rather be at Harrods or the Hard Rock. I wondered how they got ticket; one of life’s great mysteries. They left with five minutes to go; no surprise there.

The game was something of nothing. The Chelsea team was essentially a “B” team, with only Petr Cech, Gary Cahill and The Captain likely to start on Tuesday in Barcelona. It was, of course, lovely to see Oriel Romeu back on the pitch after his extended absence. The sky was a brilliant blue, the stadium large and almost full. I noted more Arsenal banners than on previous visits; they have obviously taken a leaf out of our book. As the teams came onto the pitch, a large flage was hanging over the north stand – I don’t suppose it is referred to as the North Bank – which said –

London Our City.

With 13 league championships, 10 F.A. Cups and 2 European trophies, I guess they have a point. They are a large club and it would be foolish to think otherwise. However, I’ve always regarded their fans to me the most pompous and boring of all London’s clubs. Arsenal fans could never sing anything as beautifully obscure as “If she don’t come, I’ll tickle her bum…”

I spotted one banner was ridiculously infantile –

“We Don’t Need Batman – We’ve Got Robin.”

Of course, all of this boasting by Arsenal will account for nothing if we become the first London club to bring home the European Cup on Saturday 19th. May.

The game was a stinker to be honest and neither team deserved three points. Arsenal themselves seemed decidedly out-of-sorts and I expected more from them. I know it is a well-worn cliché, but how 57,000 fans can make so little noise is a mystery of the modern era. Our woodwork saved us on two separate occasions in the first-half, but Arsenal rarely got behind us. Those three goals against from last December were never likely to be repeated.

The Chelsea fans seemed subdued, too and the noise only really got going occasionally. The three favourite songs of the day were –

“She said no, Robin, she said no.”

“Seven years – you’ve won fcuk all.”

“We won 5-1, Wembley.”

I had no complaints with the back-line of Bertrand, Cahill, Terry and Bosingwa. I have nothing but praise for Gary Cahill; he has adapted to life in SW6 so well. A bright future in blue beckons. Ryan Bertrand looks like he has an equally secure place in our hearts, too. The midfield two of Essien and Romeu were steady, but it was the forward four of Malouda, Kalou, Sturridge and Torres which caused most anxiety. Of the four, Torres’ hold up play was the only bright spot. The other three were at times quite woeful. Sturridge worries me; his choices are usually the wrong ones. I guess he is suffering with a lack of games. Confidence can’t be switched on and off like a tap.

At half-time, I had a quick chat with Beth about the games in the US in July. Jason Cundy was spotted amongst the 3,000 Chelsea fans.

Did we have any real chances? I remember a towering header from John Terry from a Malouda corner in the first period but little in the second-half. By that time, the wayward runs of Sturridge had contrived to frustrate the hell out of all of us. Van Persie was clearly not himself – he was kept at bay by Cahill and Terry – and rarely troubled Cech. A sublime interception by the substitute Mikel was magnificent, just as it looked like Arsenal had eventually breached our rear-guard.

Mata came on but offered little. Cole entered the fray and triggered a noisy reaction from the snoozing Goons.

The game petered out and I – for one – was happy with a draw.

The players slowly walked over as the Chelsea fans showed support.

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

Three points from the B Team would have been stretching it even for us in this week of weeks.

I met up with Parky and Jesus and we slowly trudged alongside the home fans on the way back to the Highbury & Islington tube station. I had received several texts from friends which said that both of them had been spotted on TV. Jesus, bless him, was amazed that anyone anywhere knew what he looked like.

I spotted small pennants adorning the lampposts on the perimeter of the walls surrounding the stadium. They were of photos of various Arsenal fans, with a brief description of their story. I thought this was another nice touch. I spotted one fan – I think his name was David Smith – who has not missed a home or away game for 50 years. I immediately thought of our Cathy – 35 years of unbeaten support to her name – and raised my eyebrows. And then I felt a tinge of sympathy for Mr. Smith. As his beloved Arsenal have never experienced league football outside the top flight – how boring of them – I realised that he had yet to experience league visits to Shrewsbury, Bristol Rovers, Bournemouth or Rotherham United.

And it is that aspect of Arsenal’s support which so grates; their support has never been tested. They squeal about a lack of trophies but I often wonder if they would simultaneously combust should their club ever suffer the embarrassment of relegation. Manchester United, West Ham United, Leeds United, Tottenham Hotspur, Newcastle United and Chelsea have all been relegated in living memory. Should Arsenal ever suffer the same fate (unlikely, I know), expect suicides off the top tier of The Emirates.

We slowly edged down the Holloway Road, where I once went for an interview at North London Poly in 1983 – what was I thinking? We eventually slipped onto the waiting tube train and we were away.

We serenaded Jesus with a song on the tube south –

“You’re not going home.
You’re not going home.
You’re not going.
You’re not going.
You’re not going home.”

Two QPR fans were on the tube, heading west to see the game versus Tottenham. I wished them all the best. We may dislike QPR, but we hate Tottenham.I was feeling weary by the time we had eventually reached Barons Court tube station. I popped next-door to a lovely little café and ordered a Panini and a double-espresso. Who should enter the café right after me, but Sebastian Coe – or Lord Coe to give him his full title? This is weird because I was only mentioning Seb Coe to two friends at work on Wednesday, when I was re-calling the time I bumped into him along the North End Road after the Barcelona game of 2005. Seb is, of course, a bona-fide Chelsea fan of many years standing. I remember seeing him being introduced to the crowd at the home opener in 1981, a mere 24 hours after breaking yet another world record. He wrote the introduction to the “Chelsea Story” (1982) book which was lovingly written by the recently departed John Moynihan. In that introduction, he used a phrase which I often thought was wonderful –

“Following the club could be as frustrating as chasing split mercury across a laboratory table.”

In September 1982, I knew exactly what he meant.

While I waited for my espresso and Seb waited for his two teas, we spoke about the day’s game. He was clutching a match programme. I know it sounds silly, but we chatted away like old friends. We both said we were happy with the draw. We both mentioned the joyous defeat of Spurs on Sunday. Regarding the game we had just witnessed, he commented –

“Arsenal are a bloody miserable bunch, aren’t they?”

If I had met Lord Coe, away from a match day, in an airport or somewhere, I expect I may have been stuck for words, but our Chelsea bond made the conversation flow. Parky asked him if he was running in the London Marathon on the Sunday –

“No, I’m too old.”

I asked him if he was going to Spain on Tuesday –

“No, I’m too busy.”

And in that moment, I felt a tinge of sadness for Sebastian Coe.

We stopped off for a drink at Beckhampton, between the market towns of Marlborough and Devizes – a pint for Parky, another coffee for me – before eventually returning home. QPR had indeed beaten Tottenham – good – but Newcastle had won again – very bad. Our challenge for a fourth place finishes is starting to falter now. However, our thoughts now turn to the Champions league.

There is no time to stop and think now. There is no time to breath. Barcelona awaits and who knows? As I said earlier, it has the potential to be the best away game in 107 years.

Let’s go.

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