Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 16 March 2011.

Ah, the 16th of March – a momentous date in my life.

Our game with Copenhagen coincided with the 37th anniversary of my first ever Chelsea game. Ironically, our defeat at the hands of Inter last season was on the same date – but I was pretty confident that a similar fate would not befall Chelsea in 2011. In fact, I had hardly thought about the game against Gronkjaer and co – yet another game that had snuck in under the radar.

I took a half day holiday as I had just about had my fill of stressful sorties up the M4 motorway for midweek games. As it happened, this was a very fortuitous move. At around 4pm, with His Lordship alongside me, I received a text from Bristol Tim on the M4. It seemed that there had been a major snarl-up around Maidenhead and that the eastbound motorway would be closed until 6.15pm. I contemplated my options and took the A34 down to the A303 and headed in on the M3.

From my home in Somerset, I had headed north to collect Parky, then east towards Hungerford, north to the M4, east towards Newbury, and then I took that well-timed diversion south to the A303, then east again to the M25 and eventually north to the M4 and then finally east towards HQ. My route to Stamford Bridge had mirrored an elongated Pat Nevin dribble. A bit like that famous one against The Geordies in 1983, maybe.

With much pleasure, we stumbled into The Goose at 5.45pm – my journey had grown to 141 miles, but I could relax. Tim, however, was still struggling to get in and was still stuck on the M4.

We spent a lovely 90 minutes in the pub, chatting and looking forward to possible venues for “the last eight.” One of our topics of conversation – and consternation – was the price of the game…my ticket had cost me £57. That’s a lot of money for a tie which, hopefully, was already won in Denmark. But what can we do? Maybe one day, I’ll resist. To be fair, Rob had looked at the price and had resisted. However, he made it in from Essex for the pre-match banter (which is what 75% of “Chelsea” is anyway, let’s be honest) and then had plans to disappear off to The Imperial to watch the game on the box. I respected his opinion – he had paid ?50 to fly to Copenhagen for the first leg, but had really felt disgusted about paying more for his own seat at The Bridge. I was left with explicit instructions for me to text him my guestimate of the crowd.

In our little corner, surrounded by familiar faces, it was a typical scene.

Smiles and laughter, groans at shocking puns, pints of Carling, mobile phones being checked for messages, friends arriving, faces noted, talk of past games, the Blackpool post-game party and the inevitable hangovers, Barbour jackets, pints of Fosters, new pullovers, shrieks from the far corner, friends from far off places, the excitement of the imminent draw, “get the beers in Parky”, more tales from Blackpool, plans for Stoke away, Russell’s new job, “mind yer backs”, more beers, blokes in work clothes, shared memories of distant fashions and distant games, Bayern Munich away, Juventus two years ago, the classic moments relived one more time, lads in Adidas trainers, “one more beer”, tangled conversations, jokes, banter, football.

Inside the stadium, it soon became apparent that fewer people than we had expected had resisted the game. All areas, with the exception of the very back rows of the East Upper and the upper corners of the West Stand were full of spectators. Of course, the three thousand away fans were in early and were making the expected din. I suspect that they had been on the Carlsberg all day. Alan had met a couple in The Imperial and he reported that they were buzzing. Their balcony was covered in club banners and flags. Throughout the game, they did themselves proud. Lots of noise. Balloons when the two teams entered the pitch. Lots of planned and choreographed waving of scarves and bizarre hand-jives…lots of singing, lots of fun.

It was back to the CL style programme – white cover, spine – for this game. The programme seller gave me an extra one and I noted a photo of Gill and Graeme inside.

Carlo was testing the 4-4-2 once more and I was a little surprised to see Fernando Torres on the bench.

We had a reasonably well observed moment’s silence in memory of the poor souls who lost their lives in Japan and then the MH serenaded John Terry with the much-loved –

“One England Captain.”

The game?

We couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo.

We couldn’t hit a donkey’s arse with a saucepan.

We couldn’t hit a chef’s arse with a soup ladle.

We couldn’t hit a spaceman’s arse with a ukulele.

We couldn’t hit a red-headed Bourbon Street floozie’s arse with a trombone.

We couldn’t hit Peter Piper’s arse with a peck of pickled peppers.

We couldn’t hit a banjo’s arse with a cow.

The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –

“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fcuking thing.”

“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

“Speak fcuking Danish, why don’t you speak fcuking Danish?”

The Danes also gave many rousing renditions of the theme from “The Great Escape” too. Generally speaking though, we were subdued and were only roused intermittently. As I looked around to check on the gaps in the seats, I spotted a few more American flags…notably those from Southern California, Austin and the Bay Area. Good work.

It was enjoyable to see Jesper Gronkjaer once again. He was a bit of an enigma was Jesper, to say the least. He had blistering pace, but the end product was usually woeful. We ought to name The Shed roof after him, since a high proportion of his crosses ended up heading towards it. Whenever he received the ball, loads of us would often shout “Run Forrest.”

And he usually did.

He had a peculiar running style too, as though his upper body was in a different plane to his legs. His arms tended to move sideways.

We carved out plenty of chances in the game, of course…a few early chances including one for Yuri with the entire goal begging, a Drogba curler which was well saved, a great deep cross from Bosingwa which was volleyed wide by Didier, a couple of Anelka one-on-ones wasted, a Ramires strike saved, some head tennis in the six yard box and a Mikel header hitting the bar, a strong run from the substitute Torres and a deft flick, a deflected Torres shot and an Essien blast saved.

The pick of the bunch though, was a nonchalant shot from Didier which ballooned about fifteen yards in the air and went off for a throw-in down below the TV studio in the NE corner.

Oh boy.

Overall, I thought Drogba and Anelka played two far apart, especially in the first-half. They need to work on their partnership and that can’t be done when they are so distant. The midfield did not really support the front two that well…I have the impression that Carlo advised the team to play within themselves and not overly exert themselves. I can see the reasons for that. Despite the 25 shots on goal, the mood was of frustration amongst the Chelsea faithful, though. Torres looked sharp…I keep saying it…the goals will come. Copenhagen didn’t really threaten too much, but of course the free-kick which rattled our woodwork certainly gave us a scare early on.

As I left the stadium, there were murmurs of discontent, but it only took me a few sobering moments to remember March 16th. 2010 and I was just glad that had made it into the final eight. Carlo’s pragmatism over wild adventure had succeeded and we all eagerly await the draw on Friday.

On the drive home, I contemplated the draw options while listening to a few Spurs fans on “606.” They were just too full of themselves and I’m just dreading our two names to be drawn together in the quarters. Looking ahead, I am hoping to travel to any venue apart from Donetsk. I have visited all of the other six stadia over the years, though I haven’t seen a game at Real Madrid. As I missed out on the trip to the San Siro in 1999 and 2010, a game against Inter would be my personal favourite, though a return trip to the grimy industrial town of Gelsenkirchen would not be a problem either.

On Sunday, let’s beat City.

Tales From Our Attempt To Win A Hat Trick Of F.A. Cups

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Ipswich Town : 9 January 2011.

What a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. As I left the house, the sky was completely devoid of clouds and there was a lovely bite to the winter air. However, on the 30 minute drive to collect His Lordship from Parky Towers, my car was sliding on black ice. It was the worst I had ever known to be honest.I soon heard on the radio that there had been many accidents overnight and in the first few hours of Sunday morning. My other route up to The Smoke, the A303, was closed in Hampshire due to a smash. Not to worry, once I got onto the A350 and the M4, the dodgy road conditions were behind me.

On the Saturday evening, we had both attended a 50th birthday party for Andy, a Chelsea fan from Trowbridge, who I first met in 1984. He is mentioned, in fact, in my little segment in Mark Worrall’s “Chelsea Here Chelsea There” book. It was a great night and a few Chelsea fans “of a certain age” were in attendance from the surrounding towns…I was flying the flag for Frome, Mark from Westbury was there, plus Les from Melksham, to say nothing of Steve, Ashley, Mick, Shep, Parky, Andy and Ally from Trowbridge. It made me think about my youth as a Chelsea fan in the Somerset and Wiltshire area. Certainly in Frome, there weren’t so many Chelsea fans around. The chosen few certainly stuck together…and once our travels to games broadened our experiences, the other local lads soon became friends. I think this is different to the fans – say, in Frome – of the big two teams of Liverpool and Manchester United. Of a school year of 200 boys, there were probably 20 United fans and I am guessing that, because United fans were so widespread, I bet there was no special bond. Why would there be? Chelsea fans however – rare in Frome, for example – clung together desperately. It was a case of strength in numbers. For example, at Frome College in 1981, there were no Chelsea fans in the sixth form, I was the only Chelsea fan in my year and there were four Chelsea fans in the two years below me. So, only five Chelsea fans in a school of 1,300 kids (there were no Chelsea female fans of course, which goes without saying…it was the ‘eighties.) And we knew who we were alright…Chris, Dale, Richie, Troy and Glenn. The Famous Five.

I saw Troy at our game at Ashton Gate in 1976, I saw Dale at games in the ‘eighties, I sit next to Glenn at games to this day but I think Richie didn’t use to go to Chelsea. But we knew of each other alright. I think fans of “lesser” teams always have that bond. With our appeal so much bigger today, I really wonder if that relationship is there for the youngsters in the Frome area. I personally doubt it. However, for us lot – plus PD, Dave and a few more – we’ll always stick together. I think that barren spell in the ‘eighties helped to forge this special friendship and long may it continue.

For the entire length of the journey to London, the sky remained clear and cloudless. I had a quick breakfast and then joined the boys in The Goose at 12.45pm. There was a good turnout for this F.A. Cup game with Ipswich Town. A few of the lads had their children in tow, lured by the cheap ticket prices. It was £25 for an adult for starters. Surprisingly, my home area was only represented by Parky and myself, but the Midlands was represented by Burger, Andy (plus 2 children), Jokka, Neil, Chopper (plus wife and 2 kids), the Home Counties by Daryl, Simon (plus 1 child), Rob, Russ and Gary and finally The Channel Islands by Chris ( plus 1 child). Towards the end, I met up with four from the North – Phil (plus 1 child) and Malcolm (plus 1 child), lads I see rarely these days, but acquaintances from a while back.

So – 24 all told.

A good show.

Guernsey Chris informed me that his son’s first game was against Ipswich in 2001 and he is yet to see us lose. That just goes to show how successful we have been in that period, eh? The United versus Liverpool game was on TV, but not many were paying too much attention – why would we? I mentioned to Gary that I would be soon approaching my seventh anniversary of consecutive Chelsea home games – the first game in this run was on January 18th. 2004 – but Gary puts me to shame. He has missed just one Chelsea first team home game since 1975. To be honest, there should be an asterisk on my run because I missed the first team friendly against Celtic in August 2006, but I’m not counting that (though, if I am honest, I ought to…) Now I have put all of my Chelsea games on a massive spread sheet, expect more and more of these little statistical nuggets over the season. You have been warned.

I’ve mentioned before that the F.A. Cup does not seem to have the allure of times past; despite which ever TV channel has coverage of the games informing us otherwise. Thirty years ago, F.A. Cup games would warrant an extra 25% on the gate, but these days, it seems that the Cup attracts 33% less. Except at Chelsea, where we play to sell out gates at virtually all games, much to my pleasure. However, this is no doubt due to the cheaper tickets at domestic cup matches…one of the best innovations of recent seasons at Chelsea.

With perfect timing, I reached my seat just as “The Liquidator” was rousing the support – after each musical break, “CHELSEA” was lustily bellowed by all and sundry. This was a good sign. I had hoped that our fans would rally behind the team, putting recent past performances to one side.

The team was a pleasing mixture of old and new. Cech in goal, Boso at right back, JT and Brana in the middle and the promising Van Aanholt on the left, a midfield of Frank, the improving Ramires and young Josh, with Kalo, Anelka and Sturridge in attack. No complaints there. Ipswich had 3,000 away fans but no flags.

The game began and we peppered the Ipswich Town goal in the first fifteen minutes, but Daniel Sturridge in particular was guilty of carelessness in front of goal. We were playing some nice stuff, with a couple of flowing moves and there was a good vibe inside The Bridge. However, Ipswich threatened us on 16 minutes with a quick break down our right. The resultant shot was blocked, but Petr Cech appeared to wind himself in the process. He lay prone for a while, but then rose to a loud roar. On 22 minutes, a lovely move found Studge but he decided to leave it for Anelka who took one more touch than was necessary and his low shot was cleared off the line. I held my head in my hands. Soon after, we got behind them and pulled the ball back for Frank in a Prime Time Position.

Frank slammed the ball over. Oh hell – don’t say it’s going to be one of those games!

More efforts went the same way – shots from McEachren and then Anelka flew over the Ipswich goal. Then, at last, a shot from Anelka and a scramble inside the six-yard box and Kalou prodded the ball over – he doesn’t miss from there!

Immediately after, a lovely early ball – fast and low, just like the doctor ordered – into the six yard box from Jose Bosingwa was adroitly flicked in by Sturridge. Get in you beauty. That goal had the entire crowd on its feet. More was to follow – on 38 minutes, a bad tackle on JT and from the Lampard free-kick, the ball was flicked by an Ipswich Town defender into his goal and we were 3-0 to the good.

Phew – things were going well. The only downer was the relatively tough away draw in Round Four – yet another cup tie against Everton. Why does Chelsea always seem to draw the same teams in all cup competitions? How many more bloody times do we have to play Everton, Liverpool, Ipswich, Watford, Barcelona, Valencia and Porto? I was longing for an away game at Torquay, Orient, Burton Albion, Brighton…or Leeds United.

The bloke next to Alan looked a source of much amusement. As is the way with a lot of our supporters these days, he was silent for all of the first-half…throughout the game, he was listening to a radio via a set of little earphones and of course Alan and I suggested a comic reason for this. You know how we operate by now, eh? I suggested that rather than listen to the roar of the crowd and be involved, he was listening intently to the shipping forecast (probably the most boring piece of radio, ever). That then gave Alan and me the chance to air some truly horrendous puns about the various shipping areas, and out of respect to you all, I won’t repeat any of them.

Ex-Chelsea and Ipswich Town striker Kevin Wilson (Willo) was on the pitch with Neil Barnett at the break.

Rather than sit on our laurels, we kept going after the break and we were soon rewarded with a magnificent goal from Nicolas Anelka. After a quick interchange, he struck a lovely low shot from an angle which entered the goal just inside the far post. A superb goal. Three minutes later, the rarest of things – not only a Daniel Sturridge shot with his right foot, but a Daniel Sturridge goal with his right foot. From a Lampard pass, a delightful curler flew into the goal and the crowd erupted again.

At 5-0, the Matthew Harding serenaded our manager –

“Carlo – give us a wave, Carlo, Carlo – give us a wave.”

Despite no Ray Wilkins being alongside to translate, Carlo sheepishly acknowledged the fans.

“CARLO! CARLO! CARLO!”

Then, a period of lovely confident football…McEachren caressing the ball and prompting others, Lampard strong in the tackle and intelligent with his passing, Anelka devilish – the Anelka of old – and Ramires continuing to impress. Over the past five games, I would suggest that John Terry and Ramires have been our most consistent performers.

After the close bunching of our goals, two more ensued within a minute…two Frank Lampard strikes (the first from the edge of the box, the second from two yards out) and the place was bouncing. Frank – admittedly against a lower class of opposition – appeared to be approaching his old form and looked a lot more at ease than at Wolves on Wednesday. This is marvellous news. To be quite honest, we could have scored a few more, make no mistakes. I remember Gael Kakuta blazing over towards the end. Shipping Forecast Man decided to leave, not surprisingly I suppose, with five minutes of the game left. I guess he had endured far too much excitement for one day.

So – seven nil.

The seventh time we have scored six goals or more in a game in the last twelve months. It was just good to be back on track, despite the poor quality of the opposition. A win is a win is a win.

I met up with Parky on the Fulham Road and he was rather bemused. Why? He had slapped £3 on us to win 6-0! He had missed out on £100.

A typical drive home – Fruit Pastilles, a Krispy Kreme doughnut and a Red Bull at Heston Services to give me enough sugar and caffeine to get home safe, then some anthems from my youth – Scritti Politti, Japan, China Crisis, Talking Heads, Kraftwork and Ultravox…and Parky asleep – no doubt trying his very best to erase the memory of Frank’s last goal.

Tales From Heroes And Villains

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 2 January 2011.

It was time for the Three Wise Men to be on the road again. I collected Glenn from Frome at 8am and Parky soon after. With the rest of the South of England recovering from the excesses of New Year’s Eve, never has the M4 motorway been so devoid of traffic. The 110 miles were completed in double-quick time and, at just after 10am, the three of us were tucking into a Full English at the Yadana Café on Lillie Road. Of course, during the previous day, all of our natural rivals had ground out wins (even the lowly but despised West Ham United had won…) and now the focus was on us. On a rare occasion of annoyance with football, I had deliberately avoided the football highlights on “Match of the Day” on the Saturday night – instead I watched a whole night devoted to the much-loved comedy duo Morecambe and Wise on BBC2.

Eric Morecombe is playing the piano.

Andre Previn, the musical conductor – “But you’re not playing the right notes.”

Eric Morecombe – “…I’m playing all the right notes…pause…but not necessarily…pause…in the right order.”

As we wolfed down our eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans and black pudding, we re-emphasised the need for us to defeat an Aston Villa team which had been on a dire run of form under Gerard Houllier. With Bolton defeated, we were faced with a run of games against teams – Villa, Wolves and Blackburn Rovers – which could and should give us maximum points.

I had recently purchased a new book on Chelsea Football Club, “When Football Was Football – Chelsea – A Nostalgic Look at a Century of the Club,” and I had brought this up on the car ride for Glenn and Parky to take a look at. This book is stacked full of previously unseen photographs from the Daily Mirror and I certainly enjoyed pouring over classic photos of past-players such as Hughie Gallacher, Roy Bentley, Peter Bonetti and Charlie Cooke. If there is one player from our distant past who I would love to know more about, it is the fiery, pint-sized Scottish centre-forward Gallacher. His demeanour in photos suggests a massive personality. The tough Scottish up-bringing, his time on Tyneside, the big money move to London, the goals, the temper, the fall from grace and the eventual suicide. That has to be a story worth telling.

A few photographic highlights from “When Football Was Football” –

1922 – a panoramic view of the wide bowl of Stamford Bridge during the F.A. Cup Final between Huddersfield and Preston.

1924 – the King being introduced to the players of the Chicago White Sox and New York Giants before a baseball game at The Bridge.

1931 – a classic shot of the trio Andy Wilson, Hughie Gallacher and Jackie Crawford in suits, bowler hats and thick overcoats in the London fog on the old forecourt.

1945 – an outside photograph of the swarming crowds locked outside the stadium at the Moscow Dynamo game, with hundreds standing on The Shed roof.

1953 – Chelsea vs. Arsenal – a shot from the dog track – with hundreds sitting on the grass between the old East stand and the pitch…and around fifty on the East stand roof.

1961 – a bemused Jimmy Greaves – in the blue shirts, white shorts, white socks – in the centre circle on the occasion of his last ever game for us, the steep west terrace behind.

1964 – a brilliant colour shot of Ron Harris, aged just twenty, arms crossed, proud.

1965 – a lovely photo of Barry Bridges, Joe Fascione, John Hollins, Bert Murray and Marvin Hinton, sipping coffee in a London café…the old Stamford Bridge Café opposite the town hall if I am not mistaken.

1966 – the look of pain on the faces of George Graham, John Hollins, Terry Venables and Ron Harris as they learn of getting Liverpool in the F.A. Cup.

1967 – the Chelsea wives crying after defeat by Tottenham in the Cup Final.

1980 – fans entering the Shed turnstiles – £2.00 – and an old red / green / white bar scarf being born by a youth in the foreground.

1981 – angry fans on the pitch in protest after the last game – a loss to Notts County – and a broken Shed End cross-bar. We were a right bunch of b******* when we lost.

1984 – Kerry Dixon triumphant, Leeds defeated, promotion gained and shirtless fans celebrating wildly in Gate 13.

It made me realise how I missed the old Stamford Bridge, but these photos vividly enabled me to remember the sense of belonging I used to experience every time my parents brought me up to London in my childhood. I hope that the sense of belonging will never die.

As we finished our breakfasts, I toasted our friendships and reminded Glenn that we travelled up to our first ever game together in November 1983 – a game against the Geordies and we had a cup of coffee in that same café on the Fulham Road as the players in 1965.

The pre-match was a little rushed…down to meet Becky, Rick, Mary Anne and Paul – and also San Francisco Pete, plus Gill and Graeme – at the hotel. I took some photos of them all with Gill’s “Kent Blues” and “CIA” flags. Outside the megastore, I heard one of the most ridiculous comments ever at a Chelsea game…a couple, hand in hand, brushed past me and the bloke said, in a pretentious mid-Atlantic accent “Wow – this is a girl’s paradise…there are guys everywhere.”

I thought like saying “hell – you should have been here in the ‘eighties, mate.”

Then back up to The Goose, where I soon bumped into Burger, Jon and Lee, then Cathy and Dog alongside The Usual Suspects – Parky and Glenn talking to Alan, Daryl, Rob, Andy, Chops…another year, another game, another beer, another pre-match. There was talk in the pub of the Old Firm game taking place in Glasgow – on the fortieth anniversary of the Ibrox disaster. Our mate Ajax would be in attendance.

Reg and Lorraine were manning the bar and had put on a special offer for us hardened Chelsea enthusiasts –

Fosters – £1.49 a pint.

“Here’s one-fifty, Lorraine, keep the change…”

On the walk down to the ground, Daryl commented – “blimey, I’ve had five pints and I’ve got change from a tenner.” In contrast, down at the Chelsea hotel bar, three pints had cost me £12.30.

I reached my seat at 1.15pm and soon noted an abundance of free flags being waved with gusto by the inhabitants of the Shed, East Lower and Matthew Harding Lower. This is the first time I have known free flags for a league game, though it seemed that not everybody got one. I took a few photographs of the new American flags. There were gaps in the Villa section – they only had around one thousand. They soon started their song about winning a European Cup, but it’s a shame they couldn’t sell all their tickets for a game against the League Champions. We soon reminded them about “Wembley 2000.”

The game began and Agbonlahor fired in the first clear chance when he was poorly marked and was able to swivel and shoot. Cech wasn’t troubled but it was a sign that Villa would not lie down. Soon after, an Ashley Young cross / shot was dropping straight into Petr Cech’s goal and our great ‘keeper did well to re-adjust and palm the ball over. Play was even in the first quarter. But we had not really troubled the Villa goal up until then.

After 23 minutes, the ball was lobbed into the Villa box and Malouda stood his ground and then went sprawling. To be honest, I thought that it was a soft penalty, but I wasn’t complaining. I steadied myself and then clicked my camera as Frank slammed the ball centrally into Brad Friedel’s goal.

Great stuff – let’s build on this, let’s go.

Villa were rather loose with their tackles, to say the least, and the yellow cards were stacking up. Yet an errant swipe at John Terry in our own box went unpunished. We thought that the referee seemed out of his depth.

Frank Lampard was taking a few pot shots from distance, but he was not troubling the Villa goal. It has long been my opinion, from when I first saw Frank play for us in Chelsea blue in 2001, that he doesn’t always strike balls that well, especially from distance. He often scuffs his shots, he often gets little power. Alan and I had a little discussion about this and he was in agreement. It’s pretty bizarre when you think about it, considering the amount of goals he scores for us. However, compare him to, say, his nemesis Steven Gerrard – how often does Gerrard strike the ball so sweetly, with his laces, getting his entire body behind the ball? Frank’s sideway scuffs pale in comparison. It might be seem as sacrilege by some, but this is my view. Frank is better with the gentle prod inside the box rather than optimistic punts from way out. I honestly think that one of the reasons why Frank scores so often is due to the vast amount of shots he takes over the course of a whole season.

On 37 minutes, Richard Dunn clipped a ball over Cech’s bar after nobody attacked the ball to clear. Soon after, Paolo Ferreira unfortunately took an extra touch in clearing the ball when a simple swipe would have sufficed. The ball was deflected into the box and Michael Essien was adjudged to have taken the legs of a Villa attacker. It all happened so quickly, nobody knew what was going on. No Villa players appealed, the Villa fans didn’t even celebrate.

Ashley Young repeated Frank’s methodology and hit the ball centrally into Petr’s goal. They all celebrated in our corner, the gits.

I met up with San Francisco Pete at half-time and we had our usual moan – it’s a bit of a lucky superstition now…the five minute moan to each other and then, more often than not, an improved performance in the second forty-five. Didier needed to get in the game, Malouda too. Let’s see what the second half would hold.

Oh boy – after just two minutes we went a goal down. We didn’t stop the cross and a great hanging ball had “goal” written all over it. Hesky jumped against Bruma, but we stood no chance. Villa were 2-1 up.

Hell.

Individually, the three midfielders did some good stuff in the second period…going forward. However, too often that defensive block – that shield in front of the defence – was missing. A nice move involving Didier and Malouda set up Frank, but Friedel saved. Soon after, another defence splitting ball from Frank found Malouda, but the goalie got down to block. We certainly had a spell of domination around the hour mark, but our chances were wasted. Malouda – one of our front three remember – was memorably behind Ashley Cole on a few occasions. He is a player that doesn’t seem confident right now. Carlo rang the changes and we hoped…

Kalou had a couple of mesmerizing runs at the defence before falling over his feet in a heap while appealing for penalties. I think he may well have trademarked that move. Can somebody phone the patents office please?

On 84 minutes, Chelsea pressure resulted in a mad scramble and I was on my toes…I’m not sure how he did it, but Drogba steadied himself and struck low. The ball may well have entered the goal via two Aston Villa defenders.

We roared. We jumped. We screamed.

Well, apart from a row of around eight middle-aged supporters down below me and away to my right…oh dear, here I am moaning again, but why do these people bother? There were just sitting there, stony-faced, hardly moving, let alone applauding. I guess they think that Chelsea owes them something. The rest of the crowd, though – invigorated and noisy – was roaring the team on.

And then it happened – a whipped in cross from Ess, a blocked Drogba header and the ball bounced out to John Terry. John steadied himself and drilled the ball into the waiting goal.

Up we jumped – oh God the noise – and I simply screamed “COME ON – COME ON – COME ON.” My camera was in my hand ( I had clicked on the Essien cross ) and I shot away as JT wheeled away towards the East Lower. We don’t often celebrate there. It was reminiscent of Wayne Bridge’s run towards the Portsmouth fans at Christmas 2004. I steadied my hand and took five or six shots of the players catching up with JT, jumping on him, screaming away, fists pumping. I was aware that the whole team was heading towards the Chelsea bench and took one last photograph of the captain embracing Carlo Ancelotti. The photos are of a scene of wild euphoria amongst fans and players alike – wild times. I could only imagine how Becky, Rick, Mary Anne and Paul were reacting. I envisaged them jumping high and falling out of the Shed Upper onto the fans below.

And there they were – the team celebrating with the manager.

Beautiful.

My spirits were so high, I was even hoping for a ridiculous fourth. Even without this goal, I thought that JT was again our best player. His form has been excellent of late. Then, the cruel twist and the horror of the Villa equaliser – the ball dropping to an unmarked player at The Shed End at the end of a game seems to be such a familiar sight these days.

3-3.

We even had a last minute chance which rocketed past the North Stand goal…Stamford Bridge would have gone into orbit had that one gone in.

It was not to be.

We all met up at the hotel after the game in order for the four American guests to meet, at last, Ron Harris. At the top of the escalators, we stood as Ron gave his own little appraisal of our current woes. The problem I have in discussing the inherent frailties of Chelsea Football Club is that I still maintain that joyful glee that I first experienced on my first visit to The Bridge in 1974. All of the players are still heroes to me and I am still so proud to be able to come to games and witness the team in action. I don’t like hearing negativity. I abhor it to be honest. So, I listened with gritted teeth as Ron spoke about “something’s not right, the youngsters are not up to it, it looks like there is a split in the camp, the punters won’t put up with this for much longer.” The notion of everyone not pulling in the same direction at Chelsea is still something that I have difficulty coming to terms with.

The “split in the camp” angle has been mooted in the UK press for a while – though I don’t always read the papers – but the unity showed by the team after The Captain’s goal would suggest that there is nothing wrong with the team spirit. I know I’m always the optimist, but there are signs we are pulling together…but we are still lacking in confidence. I’m hoping that Ramires continues his improvement and we look a much better team with Frank back in the midfield.

We then joined up with the rest of the boys for a post-game pint in the Lillie Langtry. I was expecting a heated post-mortem, like after our loss at home to Manchester City in February, but the moment had passed. Instead, we shared some laughs and we planned some arrangements for Wolves away on Wednesday and for Ipswich next Sunday. I’m hopeful that a few of the other teams at the top can take some points of each other, that some will go on a rough run of form and that we can slowly rise again.

Damn that optimism.

Tales From White Hart Lane

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 12 December 2010.

Tottenham Away.

Throughout the week leading up to our game at White Hart Lane – and if I am honest, for a few weeks before it too – I was filled with some sort of grim foreboding. We all know that our form has dipped of late, but the thought of having to travel up to deepest, darkest North London on a cold Sunday in December was making me feel nauseous. The thought of losing to our old enemy was bad enough, but there were added reasons for my general malaise. The kick-off time didn’t help…a 4pm kick-off would mean that I wouldn’t even get back to my car until 7.30pm. There were recent memories of our past two defeats to add to the mix. The weather would be undoubtedly cold and grim. And of course, the thought of 33,000 baying Spurs fans is enough to make any Chelsea fan feel sick. A defeat at Spurs, too, would be the worst possible way to prepare for the two games against United and Arsenal.

My mind was muddled and I was reminded of one of those atmospheric Turner paintings of London, a cityscape out of focus and blurred with everything shrouded in a film of thick fog but, on this occasion, without any feint hint of light.

You get the picture.

I set off from my Somerset village at about 10.15am with the whole day ahead of me. It had been a cold night and the hedgerows were lightly dusted in hoarfrost. As I drove up the slight incline out of the village, with the former sight of a Saxon hill fort on top of the ridge of land to my left, a couple of pheasants flew up and over the hedge and clear of my onrushing car. The sky was pure winter blue with no clouds. The sun gave the naked trees a wonderful orange glow in the morning light. I was suddenly struck with the thought that I could have easily stayed all day in those fields around my home, photographing the twisted branches of those birch and oak trees, the rise and fall of the hills, the detail of the hedgerows and the ancient stone walls. The lure of the grim streets around White Hart Lane was not great at that exact moment in time. I had twelve hours away from this rural idyll and I let out a silent sigh.

So, a moment there for me to step back and question what motivates me as a Chelsea supporter to travel up to London, or wherever, and see us in the flesh. Maybe it’s just in my blood, to coin the old CFC advertising slogan.

I collected Lord Parky and we were on our way. We went through our plans for the day and we touched on the deficiencies of the team. Another sigh.

I spoke to Parky about an article I had read in the current “Four Four Two” magazine about an England versus Germany international played at White Hart Lane in 1935. It was a fascinating piece for a number of reasons. Over 10,000 Germans made the trip (a huge number for the time) in a propaganda exercise by the Third Reich. Most incredible of all, the England FA sanctioned the flying of a Nazi flag on one of the flagpoles atop the old East Stand. Even in those days, Spurs was noted for its large Jewish fan base (though I have often heard that Arsenal’s Jewish fan base is larger), so the local press was awash with protests leading up to the game. There is a chilling photograph of the German team on the White Hart Lane mud before kick-off with their right arms raised. It echoes the infamous photo of the England team, in Berlin three years later, being forced to do the Nazi salute despite protestations from the players.

The blue skies suddenly gave way to clouds as we headed into London and we were soon parked-up at our usual place at Chelsea. We then had plans to join Alan and Gary at The Railway near Liverpool Street. However, it sounded pretty rowdy when I spoke to Alan on the ‘phone and so we decided to have a quiet pint in The Famous Three Kings at West Kensington before heading east. We caught the tube to Liverpool Street and then the over ground train to White Hart Lane. We were fine, actually. Our friendly chatter was helping to allay fears of the game ahead. I had a text from a mate saying that Didi was on the bench, along with Frank.

This would be my eleventh visit to Tottenham. I admit, this isn’t a large amount of times, but I have a reason for this. As our unbeaten run against Tottenham gathered momentum, I honestly felt that I would jinx our form if I ever went to White Hart Lane. So, from 1993 to 2008, I only visited the home of our hated rivals on three occasions. Unfortunately, I didn’t witness the 6-1 triumph in 1998. My first ever visit was on a rainy day in September 1986 when we won 3-1 with goals from Mickey Hazard ( 2 ) and Kerry Dixon. Another highlight from way back was the 3-1 game in 1991 when “Judas” Gordon Durie was given the severest bout of booing I have ever witnessed. Happy days.

The funniest story about a Chelsea game at White Hart Lane involves the 1989 game when I was 3,000 miles away. This game took place just after I had left England to embark on a ten month holiday in the US and Canada. The old Leitch stand at Tottenham, the Shelf stand, the East stand – call it what you will – was being renovated and so Spurs ( Gary Lineker, Paul Gascoigne, Chris Waddle et al ) were playing to a limited capacity of just 16,000. I have the distinct feeling that Chelsea were not given access to any tickets. However, my good friend Andy and his mate Jonesy had somehow obtained tickets in the home Paxton Road End and they had to make out that they were Spurs supporters. We walloped Spurs 4-1 on that great afternoon and Andy tells the story that he and Jonesy even got the Spurs fans sitting around him singing “What a load of rubbish” as goal after goal went in. Andy always enjoys telling that story. I can well remember being at a state park in Virginia on the following day, having just put my tent up, phoning home and hearing the great news from my father that we had won 4-1 at Tottenham. It is with typical irony that during my 1989-1990 season-long sabbatical we finished in fifth place that season, our best finish since 1970. Great timing, Chris!

At 3.40pm, our train pulled in to White Hart Lane station and I was immediately reminded of the miserable walk back to the same station after our two springtime defeats in 2009 and 2010. As Parky and I crossed the High Road, with Spurs fans in the majority, I noted the shabby nature of the area around the stadium. There are two Spurs shops on that main stretch. There is a modern one on the corner with Park Lane, adjacent to the away section, but the shop on the High Road has boarded-up flats above. For an apparently glamorous club (discuss…) the area around White Hart Lane is as low-rent as is possible to get. The difference between N17 and SW6 is huge. I am reminded of an action-packed passage from Martin King’s “Hoolifan” every time I cross the road towards the West Stand at White Hart Lane…vibrant memories of bovver boots, Ben Shermans and shaved heads, circa 1967.

“We look wide-eyed out of the shop window as this herd of buffalo in Spurs colours gallops past, leaving clouds of dust in its wake.”

We were funnelled into the away stand, with home fans bellowing “Y*d Army” all around us. I reached my seat, high above the corner flag, four rows from the rear, next to Al and Gary. I had a lovely view of the police observation room with hangs, dramatically, from the stand roof.

OK – here we go, game on.

The Chelsea team were in all blue.

No white socks.

The skies were overcast.

The Chelsea support was in great form.

Hardly anyone was wearing colours.

Let’s go.

We were very surprised and, of course, pleased with our very positive start to the game. We peppered the idiosyncratic Gomez with a few shots and a lone shot from Bale was Tottenham’s only reply. Good vibes. However, after 15 minutes the entire Chelsea defence appeared to freeze as Defoe worked the ball into Pavlochenko who easily struck at Cech’s near post. The docile Spurs support roared and we groaned.

“Here we go again.”

However, we didn’t crumble and dominated possession in the first period. An Essien shot, a Kalou header, we kept going. We noted that Michael Essien still wasn’t back to his best and he looked rather sluggish…where were his surging runs? He needed to impose himself more. Anelka was a bit frustrating, but I had no real complaints in that first period. I didn’t like that their playmaker Modric was being given far too much space, but Spurs didn’t test Cech too often. Bale had a few runs down our flank, but Paolo was holding his own.

We were doing OK. I loved the two textbook tackles from John Terry. The second one broke up a threatening Spurs attack and as we broke up the left, in front of the West stand, JT was hurtling towards the box. The resultant cross was played ahead of him, but he still flung himself at the ball. What a goal that would have been. It was a pulsating match and I was getting stuck in to supporting the boys with gusto. It was a great performance from the Chelsea choir. On several occasions, I was croaking rather than singing, like in days of old.

At half-time, I was confident that we would get a result…I had seen enough to even wonder if we could snatch a win. Midway through the break, the Chelsea fans down below me began again…

“Don’t worry – about a thing. ‘Cus every little thing is gonna be alright.”

At the start of the second-half, Carlo substituted Mikel for Drogba. It was great to get Didi back on the pitch, but we all wondered why Ramires and not Mikel stayed on the pitch. If anything, for the first ten minutes, our performance dropped a few notches and I sorely wondered if our chance had gone. However, roared on by the Chelsea faithful in that tight south-west corner (how apt), we never gave up…we dominated possession and moved the ball consistently well. At times it looked like we lacked the cutting edge, but with Drogba on board we were able to vary our approach a little.

Gary and Alan were baying for Kalou to be replaced and eventually got their wish when Daniel Sturridge entered the fray. Not long after, a high ball up towards Drogba, a turn, a tussle with Dawson and a volley straight at Gomez. I was right behind the course of the ball and I could hardly believe our luck when the sheer pace and power of Didi’s shot meant that the ball spun up and over Gomez.

The Chelsea end went into orbit. We screamed and screamed. I began jumping up, grabbing and hugging a few strangers, and then I turned around and just “eyeballed” several other fans, screaming and pointing at them. I was well aware of this quite demonic behaviour, but knew that it was a sign of how important this goal was to our season.

Passion, noise, vibrancy, euphoria – all of it encapsulated in those top rows of the away end at White Hart Lane. I gave Gary a lasting hug and grasped Alan’s hand. This was a massive goal.

We pushed on and still dominated the play, even more so than in the first-half. We were playing as a team for the first time in quite a while and it was so pleasing. Malouda was getting more involved. JT and Ivanovic were holding things together at the back. Even Ramires was growing as the game progressed…there is a chance our new Brazilian can easily become a target for our boos, but we need to resist. This is a new ball game for the lad.

Throughout the weekend, I had been texting Danny in California about obscure Tottenham songs and midway through the game, I remembered another one – based on the Terry Jacks song from around 1974…“Seasons In The Sun.”

“We had joy, we had fun, we had Tottenham on the run, but the joy didn’t last ‘cos the ba5tards ran too fast.”

Oh dear – how many of our fighting songs really are fighting songs!

Frank Lampard had been warming up on the near touchline for a fair portion of the second-half and he enjoyed our support of him. In response, he clapped us and urged us on. Eventually, he came on and it was so lovely to see him back in Chelsea blue. I said to the bloke next to me “we can still win this mate.”

Still the Chelsea fans were going strong. One song in particular was met with a stony silence from the Tottenham fans –

“There’s no trophies at The Lane.”

In the last minute – the memories are rather blurred – the ball was pushed through to Ramires down below us. He touched the ball wide, but Gomez clattered him…I immediately glanced up at the ion-rushing Mike Dean and there he was – pointing at the penalty spot.

Oh boy – what a beautiful sight. All of us immediately began bouncing again, grabbing each other, yelping, even hitting each other…the things we do. I’m sure I would react along similar lines if I was watching in a pub or at home, but surely not so intensely. That is – I guess – going back to the start, why I bother to travel to watch Chelsea in the first place…everything is heightened, the senses go into overdrive, I participate in our history, I’m part of it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My camera was poised as Didier (why not Frank?) spotted the ball and we prepared ourselves for the biggest celebration since Anfield.

“Come on, son.”

“Go on, Didier.”

The shot and the save – 33,000 Spurs fans roared and we slumped.

Lastly, a Gareth Bale free-kick and, surely not! I was reminded of Robbie Keane’s last minute equaliser in the 4-4 game in 2008. Thankfully, the shot was high and we could hang on for the draw.

The final whistle.

As Alan said “we’ve played worse here and won.” It had been a fantastic game and I had enjoyed every minute of it. We clapped the players off and JT made a lone walk towards us. He had been quite magnificent. His best game for ages. He was an inspiration. He appeared to thump his chest and shout out “We’re alright, we’re alright!”

I texted a few mates, Chelsea and non-Chelsea alike – “Reports of our demise are exaggerated.”

What a game. It just goes to show that for even an old-stager like me, this fantastic game of ours can still leave me gasping for more. I met up with Parky outside the away end and we dashed back to join the quick-moving line at the train station. The home fans were subdued and we blended in. We spotted a few mates just as a punch-up took place a few yards ahead. One against one, the thud of attack and then the police arriving to arrest the lone Spurs fan.

We called back at Salvo’s at Earls Court for one last drink before we drove home. Back in the car, we admitted how much we had enjoyed this foray behind enemy lines. It had been lovely. It renewed my spirits for the tough days ahead – the next two games to start with – and it made me realise that even in the bleakest of days in a cold English winter, Chelsea Football Club still has the ability to raise our spirits like nothing else.

Love it.

Tales From Eastlands

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 September 2010.

Another early kick-off, another early start. I left my home village at 7.15am and I was soon texting Alan that I was on the road.

“Jenson Button.”

The Formula One World Champion spent his childhood just a mile or so away from my home – as I never tire of telling the world. The two villages of Mells and Vobster have always been separate but the now redundant Vobster church used to be within the Mells parish, plus the Mells village football club is officially entitled Mells And Vobster United. My grandfather Ted played for the team back in the roaring twenties, while I played a handful of games for the reserve team in the early ‘eighties, before my love of watching soon over took my love of playing.

As I headed past Writhlington School, I was reminded of the tough battles that my school teams used to have against that school when I was a right-winger for Oakfield School, then Frome College. I remember a tough-tackling left back, who resembled Malcolm MacDonald the Newcastle striker, who I always seemed to be up against.

I then drove through the old mining town of Radstock – a little piece of Northern England transplanted into north Somerset, complete with terraced houses and slag heaps of coal waste – as the low morning sun lit up the houses. The rain which had been forecasted was nowhere to be seen and it was a beautiful start to the morning.

With the ground of Welton Rovers to my right, I remembered the game I watched there the night after Barca beat us in the CL semi last year – Frome Town came from a goal down to defeat local rivals Paulton Rovers in the Somerset Senior Cup Final…a game watched by over 1,000.

I then passed through Farrington Gurney and I thought back to a brilliant night I had enjoyed back in 2006, just after our back-to-back title, when I met up with Ron Harris and Kerry Dixon at a charity event at the local golf club.

At Pensford – home of ‘sixties musician Acker Bilk – I drove past a pub called “The Travellers Rest” and it brought back beautiful memories of Chelsea’s 2005 League Championship, when three very contented Chelsea fans called in for a celebratory pint on the drive back from Bolton.

It then suddenly dawned on me that I had been driving for just fifteen minutes, but yet my mind had been swamped by football memories from my past and it seemed to sum it all up. Wherever I go in Britain, there are football memories nearby , just waiting to be exposed. I had a little laugh to myself and thought “enough!” – I still had four hours of driving to do before I would reach Manchester…I’d best start thinking about “other stuff.”

I soon reached Bristol – and that’s another story.

Via a chain of events too complicated to retell here, I managed to get tickets for both Burger and Julie, now residing in Stafford and so the plan was to collect them en route to Manchester. Parky, meanwhile, had some great news during the week – he wasn’t originally able to afford to go to the game, but a gang of Chelsea from Trowbridge had hired a stretch limo for the day and one chap – Shep – was unable to attend. So – in lieu of the many pints that Parky had bought Shep in their youth, Parky was called in as a last minute replacement and it was all free-of-charge…happy days indeed. I wondered how they were all getting on in their white Hummer…I kept a look out for them as I headed north.

I stopped at Strensham to refuel the car and a Subway breakfast roll, the Malvern hills to my west, the Cotswolds to my east and the sky completely devoid of clouds. I passed a Bath City coach on its way to Fleetwood Town.

At 9.45am, I had navigated the tight narrow streets of Stafford town centre and was parked up outside Burger’s house, as surreal an experience that I have had in the past few years following Chelsea. Who would have thought that when we all met up in New York last summer and caught the train down to watch the boys play in Baltimore, that just over a year later, they would be living in Staffordshire and I would be taking them to a game at City? A cup of coffee was waiting for me and I was given a brief tour and history of the house…it’s lovely and Julie is especially thrilled with her little English cottage. Burger is equally chuffed with the Bear & Pheasant pub, just five doors down, where he is already one of the locals.

Proper Burger. Proper Chelsea.

It didn’t take long to reach to reach Manchester – the time soon passed as I spoke about my history as a student in Staffordshire and Burger spoke of his life as a student in Toronto. We exchanged stories on the drive through the flat Cheshire Plain.

The time was shooting by, but I wanted to give them both a quick taste of Manchester before we parked-up. I drove in past Old Trafford and momentarily parked outside the forecourt so Burger and Julie could see the Munich Clock, the Sir Matt Busby and Holy Trinity statues. I quickly spoke about the match-day experience at Old Trafford – the pubs, the rituals, the colour – but was soon on my way again…a quick glimpse of the Imperial War Museum North on the banks of an old wharf at Salford Quays, then into the city centre. As we slowly drove past impressive red brick buildings, Julie commented that she was reminded of the financial district of downtown Toronto.

At 11.30am, we were parked-up at Piccadilly and we fastened our jackets for the swift walk to the stadium, out past some Victorian canals and new apartment blocks.

Before we knew it, we had met Lovejoy and Burger had collected his ticket…he would be sitting ( or rather standing ) in the lower tier, while Julie’s ticket was, bizarrely, the row in front of my ticket. Alan and Gary were talking to birthday boy Andy, but Julie and myself soon shot into the stadium to tie Burger’s flag to the balcony wall, dead centre…job done.

This was a milestone for me in my Chelsea life – Game Number 800 – and I got Alan to take a photo of me for posterity. Looking back through the years, it’s clearly apparent that my attendance at Chelsea is a result of my salary increases…if I had my way, I would have reached 800 years ago.

Game 1 16.3.74 Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0
Game 100 21.3.87 Chelsea 1 West Ham United 0
Game 200 4.2.95 Coventry City 2 Chelsea 2
Game 300 5.3.98 Real Betis 1 Chelsea 2
Game 400 31.3.01 Chelsea 2 Middlesbrough 1
Game 500 9.9.04 Chelsea 3 Real Zaragoza 0
Game 600 5.12.06 Chelsea 2 Levski Sofia 0
Game 700 29.10.08 Hull City 0 Chelsea 3
Game 800 25.9.10 Manchester City vs. Chelsea

The way I am accelerating away, I’ll soon be seeing games before they are played.

The stadium, an oasis of sky blue, slowly filled up and I again noted that City have a lot of permanent banners on show at Eastlands.

“We’re Not Really Here.”

Just before kick-off, who else but Parky, plus a few other familiar faces from West Wiltshire appeared and sat a few seats away. I’m just glad they made it intact. Parky was predictably wobbly…and reeking of alcohol, bless him.

During the opening passage of play, City had more possession and were constantly exploiting our right flank, where Branislav Ivanovic was constantly finding himself marking two attackers. On a couple of occasions the midfield man ( Mikel then Essien ) did not shift over and close down the man with the ball, leaving Ivanovic covering both once the ball had been played to the wide man Milner. I clearly saw Ivanovic shout at Mikel the word “speak!” when this happened the first time. I’ve often said that we aren’t a great team of talkers, JT excepted.

We then enjoyed more of the ball, but there was a distinct lack of movement upfront. On 27 minutes, Drogba took a short corner and I shouted “what is the point?”, only for the resultant cross to be headed across goal by Nico for Ivanovic to head against the bar. Chuckles from Alan and myself…” I’ll keep making the wrong call, if it leads to more chances, Al.”

This seemed to be the quintessential Italian game, with Signori Ancelotti and Mancini in charge, the former Milanese managers transplanted to these shores, but reverting to type. We had more and more of the ball, but less and less chances…the Chelsea support was getting frustrated. The support wasn’t great either, but it’s difficult at City as the away support is split in two. To be fair, the home fans weren’t too vociferous either. The warm sunshine which had greeted our arrival in town had disappeared in the cold shadows of the stadium and everyone inside looked freezing…jackets buttoned tightly, caps on.

The first song on the PA at half time was the Joy Division classic “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”

Either that, or James Milner, I thought.

We began the second period brightly with Anelka soon forcing a save from Joe Hart. The Chelsea support was roused and we got stuck in. However, we easily lost possession and the ball was worked by City to Carlos Tevez. With both JT and Ashley Cole backing off, I screamed

“One of you go to him!”

I’m sure the same sentiments were shared by Burger in the Lower Tier, Andy in Orange County, Bob and Pete in San Francisco, Gumby in Texas, Rick in Ohio and Steve in South Philly.

An excellent strike by Tevez and were were 1-0 down.

This was always going to be a tough game – City will be in the mix at the end of May – and I would have been content with a draw going in to the game. Now, our powers of recovery were to be tested. Could we do it? We still had a lot of the ball, but we were limited to long shots from Essien, plus a couple of free headers from Alex and Ess. Sturridge took lots of abuse from the home fans and didn’t provide much final product when he was brought on for the surprisingly quiet Drogba.

I thought John Terry was our most consistent player on the day and his “never say die” spirit was encapsulated in the last minute when he won a tackle by stooping to head the ball on the ground, with City boots swinging around him.

City had defended well and their team had showed more fight, spirit and passion. It was a strange Chelsea performance and our squad looks a little on the thin side with no Frank, Yossi or Kalou. The sight of the massive bulk of Yaya Toure against the slight Ramires will be my abiding memory of the day.

Throughout the game, fellow spectators in our row were constantly getting up to go out to use the toilets…up, down, up, down, “excuse me, ‘scuse me”…”weak bladder mate?” Up, down, up, down. It was annoying the hell out of Gary, who chirped

“F – ing hell, there’s more movement in this row than there is in our f –i ng team today.”

Howls of laughter.

That good old gallows humour always helps.

Julie and myself were almost out when I suddenly remembered “Burger’s Flag” and we had to fight the descending Chelsea fans all of the way back up the stairs. There was Burger, with a “face on”, standing in the lower seats. I’m not sure if he was unhappy with the team or for me for forgetting his flag.

Wink.

We slowly edged through the terraced back streets of the City heartland of South Manchester – Longsight, Burbage and Didsbury – and were buoyed by the goals being scored at the Emirates and Anfield, but the mood in the car wasn’t great. We had a brief post-mortem. However, Burger and myself shared a few inevitable laughs and by the time I had reached Stafford at about 5pm, with Arsenal’s demise taking the sting off our defeat, things were back to normal…we were planning our next trip together, and even thinking of potential away games in the F.A.Cup…

“Number 54 – Stafford Rangers…will play…Number 11 – Chelsea.”

It was lovely to spend some time with Julie and Burger – great to see their infectious enthusiasm for my country and their plans for the future. I was almost jealous of them – they are able to look at England with fresh eyes and a thousand days of new towns, new villages, new experiences ( to say nothing of Chelsea gamnes ) lie ahead for them both.

After 390 miles, I reached home at about 8pm and watched the highlights of the game on the English institution that is “Match Of the Day.”

It was – of course – a bad day at the office, but we’ll bounce back.

We do a lot of bouncing at Chelsea.

Tales From The F.A. Cup Quarter-Finals

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 7 March 2010.

And so there were eight teams left…

Portsmouth vs. Birmingham City.

I had a busy Saturday, doing a few chores, but managed to sit down and watch the first of the four televised F.A.Cup games. It was nothing to shout about, but I was pleased that Pompey defied the odds to advance into the semis. At around 3pm, my phone rang and there was a young child’s voice on the other end singing “que sera sera, whatever will be will be, we’re going to Wembley.” I soon realised it was my Pompey mate Rick’s young son Matthew. Sadly, Rick has had a tough time of it of late – redundancy from his job and then the shambles of the Pompey administration. Suffice to say, they had both been to Fratton and were dreaming of Wembley once again.

One team through, three to go.

Fulham vs. Tottenham Hostpur.

Boy, this was a pretty dull game. I was aware that Steve Azar was watching this with a Fulham mate of his, along with those docile home fans and their pitiful noisemakers. I was able to see this on TV too. A dreadful first-half, but it got a little better in the second. I was cursing Duffer every time he missed those three chances. I was hoping Spurs would fall out of the cup to be honest, but it came as no surprise that they eked out a hard-fought draw.

Both teams went into the bag for the semi-final draw.

On Sunday morning, I made a solo-trip up to London, the rest of my usual match-day companions otherwise engaged. It was a lovely drive up, me alone with my thoughts and The Stranglers on the CD player. On my last final approach on the A4, the main road from Bristol to London, which actually passes a few yards from my workplace, I peeked over at the River Thames, barely one hundred yards away. The winter sun was glinting on the water. With clear blue skies overhead, it was another perfect Sunday in the capital.

The meet was arranged for 1pm in The Goose. I spent a lovely two-and-a-half hours in the pub, chatting with a few Chelsea mates from near and far. Steve soon showed-up, having just about thawed out from the previous night’s game at Craven Cottage. He was lamenting Fulham’s unsurprisingly quiet support. We spoke about the Chelsea / Fulham rivalry “that isn’t” – oh, how it winds up Fulham fans that most Chelsea have a soft-spot for them. A few words with Daryl and Rob, who were chatting with Steve for the first time proper – talk focussed on a few games from the past which threw up a few anecdotes…Rob’s eventual getaway in a bright yellow Ford estate after the Millwall game in 1984 caused much hilarity…also talk of Spurs away in 1975 and Fulham at home in 1976. All of these tales of past games help bind our friendships.

There’s a part of me that would much rather meet up on match days, talk about these games from our childhood when the experiences were wilder and more intense, rather than go to the actual games. I know I’m not alone in this thought. Sometimes the trigger of “Bristol Rovers away in 1980” garners more chat than that for the up-coming game. ( We lost 3-0 and Tony Pulis scored, in case anyone is wondering…) Daryl then told of his father and a few mates from Guernsey hiring an old ambulance ( yes, really ) to tour the venues of Italia 1990 following England. I really should have gone to Italia 1990 – almost the last time I really felt connected to the national team. Steve had been to the England game on Wednesday and how things have changed since 1990. He spoke of jester hats, painted faces and Mexican waves. I stood aghast as he described all this to me. The last England game I saw in person – sitting alongside Daryl – was the “Zola” game at Wembley in 1997. This was Daryl’s last game, too.

“Another pint boys?”

Mick ( bluemick ) and his son soon showed-up to join our little group and it was lovely to see him again. I first met Mick in Chicago in 2006 and he now lives in Denver, one of my favourite US cities. We spoke about the 1972 League Cup Final ( we lost 2-1 to Stoke ) and Orient away the same year…not that I remember those two.

Next to arrive was Wes, from Texas, via South London. More stories, more laughter. Glad to hear he was sorted with a ticket for next week against West Ham, where there will be quite an influx of CIAers.

I made the point to Steve that Chelsea’s resurgence since around 1997 has been perfectly timed with the onset of the internet, which has maximised our reach around the globe. Think back to Aston Villa and Everton’s periods of success in the ‘eighties…lost in the ether. Our rapid rise in global support has certainly been greatly aided by the internet.

There wasn’t much chat about the day’s encounter with Stoke. With the League causing us the jitters – and with Arsenal and United winning – I was pleased that we had a Cup tie. Maybe the chance for us to relax a bit, though Stoke would be no mugs.

Reading vs. Aston Villa.

I had my back to the TV which was showing this game, but was pretty contented to see the un-fancied home team race to a 2-0 lead. However, John Carew ( he played against us for Valerenga in 1999, another away game to remember ) got his act together and Villa had a great second-half. We spoke of the 2000 F.A.Cup Final – against Villa – and how it was such a poor game.

Into the semis went Villa.

Chelsea vs. Stoke City

We left these stories, and many more, behind as we made our way to The Bridge. For a change, I would be sitting alongside Steve in The Shed Upper. I grabbed a programme. Sad to see that one of the old women who sat quite near me until around 2005 had passed away…people who have John Ingledew’s books will know of her as the “scarf lady.”

We had superb seats, row five, just behind the goal. Probably the best seats I’ve ever had at Chelsea in over 35 years of games, in fact. However, the fact that I was sitting in such a prime location worked against me as I spent the first-half snapping away like an idiot, finding it hard to concentrate on the actual game. I was trying to capture some new angles with my camera…a Paolo cross here, an Anelka dribble there. Plenty of shots of the Stoke defence standing firm as corner after corner rained in.

The Stoke fans were in good voice, although we all expressed surprise that they only brought 3,000 down from my former stomping ground in The Potteries.

“Go On Stoke, Go On Stoke, Go On Stoke!”

I looked over to my left at the towering West Stand, the winter sun lighting up the glass screens. Two things worth commenting on…another new banner ( County Down ) on the balcony, but hundreds and hundreds of empty seats ( yet again ) in the Millennium Boxes. Chelsea really does need to re-market these at a more realistic price. These were the only seats unsold, though, apart from a few pockets here and there. Another full house at HQ.

Stoke had a few chances in the first-half, but we were the stronger side. I was impressed with Anelka and Malouda’s movement, swarming around the Stoke defence, but of course they defended deep and it was difficult for us to break them down. Alex and JT were repelling the bombardment, via crosses from Tuncay and throw-ins from Delap. Good to see Hilario involved with a few stops.

We peppered the Stoke goal – a mere 25 feet away from me – and a deflected shot from Frank gave us a deserved lead at the break. There’s certainly less foot room in The Shed than the MH, though – I had nowhere to leap when Frank scored. From Alan, up in the NW corner, came the expected text message.

“THTCAUN.”

To which I replied “COMLD.”

Of course, the away fans were on John Terry’s back the entire game, though even my trained ear for the Stokie accent found it difficult to decipher what they were singing…

“John Terry – He’s Shagging His Gums.”

“John Terry – He’s Shagging A Laugh.”

“John Terry – He’s Shagging Giraffes.”

Who knows? After Frank swung in – at last!!! – a corner with pace, JT rose like a freshwater fish with pink coloured flesh native to Scotland to plant the ball firmly in the Stoke net. We roared our approval. I had my camera at the ready for his trot back to our half and was able to capture his rolling up of his left sleeve and the stare at the 3,000 away fans. Then the point to the captain’s armband.

Not sure if there was any reference to England – I just think it was a case of saying “I’m the Chelsea captain and I’m not going away.”

Of course, The Shed responded – in clear English.

“John Terry – Has Knocked You Out.”

Into the semis we went. Our ninth such appearance in the past seventeen years – that’s just fantastic. By contrast, from 1970 to 1993 – twenty three years – we made not one single semi-final appearance. JT, Alex and that man Ivanovic were fantastic all afternoon. Let’s hope we are back on track.

As Steve and myself walked back up the North End Road, I half expected my phone to be buzzing with news of the draw. By 6.10pm, all was quiet. If we had got Pompey, my mate Rick would have phoned. If we had drawn Tottenham, all of the world and his dog called spot would have phoned. I surmised, therefore, that it had to be Villa.

At 6.14pm, a text from Steve –

“Villa.”

Tales From The Chelsea Soap Opera

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 27 February 2010.

This hadn’t been a great week for me, what with missing out on the trip to Inter, then having to endure a gruelling time at work. I was so busy that I even forgot to book my own seat for the FA Cup game with Stoke. I was just happy for the weekend to finally arrive. I picked up Glenn at 8am and the two of us drove up to London. At times, the weather was rotten, but we still had a good old natter about work, football and everything.

There would be a mini Californian get together for this game and I had already texted the three participants of my whereabouts and plans. Very often my mates will enquire of me “any Yanks coming over today, Chris?” I’m in a lovely position having got to know so many new Chelsea faces from America since my travels first took me to the US for the Roma game in Pittsburgh in 2004. Then, of course, there are these “Tales” which have become so much of my Chelsea routine over the past two years. I am a great diarist anyway, so these reports are second-nature for me…but I do wonder how long I can keep doing them. Maybe, in 2025, I’ll still be writing about our rubbish support at home games, making corny jokes, reminiscing over the past ( “of course, things were much better in 2005” and “of course, things were much better in 1984” ), lamenting our newest multi-million pound signing, talking about my CIA pals ( “is Gumby still in jail?” ), laughing at Lovejoy’s latest conquest and mumbling on ad infinitum about The Smiths and Depeche Mode. I wonder.

Steve Azar was waiting for us at the cafe on Lillee Road at around 10.30am. There was no time to waste, so while Glenn and myself wolfed down a brekkie, Steve updated us with details of his trip to Italy. I approved of Steve’s classy Victorinox top. He had brought over a copy of The Sporting News baseball preview for me and we spoke of me being able to hopefully combine some baseball with the Chelsea games on the East coast in the summer.

Rush, rush, rush.

We popped into The Goose at just after 11am and we stayed for about an hour. The place was typically busy. A few mates arrived – Steve was able to meet Lovejoy and a few more of my friends, most of whom had been over in Milano. Everyone had reported back of a good time. The funniest story involved a mate “W” who had been stopped on his way through the airport in Milano – an Italian sniffer dog had molested him in searching for some contraband, and I just have images of all hell breaking loose. It seems the dog was all over him. You can just imagine how we all reacted, giggling with laughter, at this news. The saddest story from Italy involved my mate Neil who succumbed to a tummy bug on the Wednesday and – shades of Gumby – never made it to the match.

Andy and Tom, in on a flying visit from LA, arrived at about 11.15am and it was great to see them again. We chatted about all things Chelsea, but these 12.45pm starts are killers for pre-match chats. Andy left early to get his flags up. Sky TV was on in the pub and I was really dismayed to hear a chorus of boos in the boozer greeting footage of Wayne Bridge getting off the team coach.

I walked down to the ground with Tom and Steve, then bade them a fond farewell outside The West Stand. The three Californians – sitting in the fifth row of The Shed Upper – were soon spotted with my telephoto lens. Andy had got the three flags in and up on the balcony. I wasn’t so sure he would be successful with his two “OC Hooligans” flags.

City only brought 1,500 away fans and I thought this was poor. Three flags, including one which stated simply “1910 Mancunian Purification.” I am guessing this was the date Manchester United left their stadium in Clayton, inside the city, out to Old Trafford in the then separate city of Salford.

I’m afraid that I succumbed to photographing the entrance of John Terry and Wayne Bridge onto the pitch. I took several photos. In two photos, Wayne Bridge is glaring at JT. I guess he has every right to. I took a few photos of “the handshake that wasn’t” but evidence from my seat was inconclusive. I was saddened to hear boos each time Bridge touched the ball, but it was lovely to hear the volume decrease on every touch. Wayne Bridge will still be a Chelsea hero in my eyes and virtually all of my mates share the same view.

Well, having seen over 500 games at Stamford Bridge, few were as mad as this one.

The first-half was one-way traffic – albeit rarely getting out of second gear. Florent Malouda, still at left-back, had a lovely rising drive after eleven minutes. That boy can certainly strike a ball. Looking at the team line-up, I was convinced it was another 4-3-3, but Joe did pop up all the way along the front line. Mind you, so did Drogba and Anelka. Was it 4-3-3 or a narrow 4-4-2? Either way, the two full backs were pushing on. Ivanovic – the most improved player for me – sent over three magnificent crosses for Drogba, unmarked for two of them, and he should have tested Given. We were doing OK. The crowd was quiet, as is often the case with early starts. The Shed were especially docile. Joe had been quiet too, but then set Frank up with a sublime pass into space. A great finish, one-up and coasting.

What could possibly go wrong?

Hilario had only touched the ball three or four times the entire half, but after a poor attempted header by Mikel, Tevez sensed fear in the heart of our defence, twisting away from our two centre-backs. This defending was hapless and hopeless. The slightest of touches from Tevez and the ball crept over the line, past a floundering Hilario. How often do we hear the phrase “typical Chelsea”? The howls of derision from ghosts of previous defensive calamities echoed around The Bridge as the away fans – quiet beyond belief until then – rejoiced.

Peter Bonetti was on the pitch at half-time. If nobody said it hundreds of us thought it –

“Get your boots on, Catty.”

We also witnessed a truly awful “Crossbar Challenge” – with Kerry Dixon on the pitch too – when five youths made pitiful attempts on the MH goal cross-bar.

The second-half. Do I have to?

We had good early pressure, but a wicked break from Bellamy ( with our defence out of shape ) caused us all to sense fear again. He’s a horrible bloke Bellamy, but has awesome pace. A cross-shot crept in to the goal at the far post and we all knew – 41,000 of us – that Petr Cech would have blocked it. Well, at last, the crowd was roused with some noise coming down from the stands. However, some substitutions confused us…I still thought we were losing the battle in midfield and wanted a change in formation. Boos when Joe was substituted, but I thought he had been poor again. Belletti came on, only to soon haul down Barry to give away a penalty. The break had again caught us out and he was sent-off. Oh hell. City scored through Tevez and I was so disappointed to see more than a few home fans get up and leave. Anelka had a lovely shimmy past two defenders down in my corner, but shot straight at Given. In fact, many of our shots went straight towards him. Then a preposterously stupid challenge by Ballack and we’re down to nine. Unbelievably, some fans around me were berating the ref for issuing the red, but he had no choice. That is not to say Dean didn’t have a poor game, but Ballack – already booked for dissent – was just bloody stupid to tackle in such a way. Ballack – and Frank – was having another poor game. It was a typical Ballack tackle…how often is he done for pace, then scythes a player down from behind? I was trying to remember if I had ever seen two Chelsea players sent off in the same game before. I think not.

With Ballack’s dismissal, things got a whole lot crazier. We applied more pressure, but got caught on the break with SWP setting up their fourth. With this, hundreds of home fans decided to leave. I stood up, glowered at the ones leaving behind me and – OK, rather sarcastically – clapped them and said “thanks for your support.” One chap took exception and swore, only for one of Rousey’s mates to say something similar to him. He swore at Rousey’s mate, then looked back and repeated what he had said to me.

Bizarrely, those that were left in the stadium, made a great racket and it pleased me no end. That was more like it – support in the face of adversity, no booing, good old-fashioned support. I was so pleased and proud to see that all of the regulars in our section who I have got to know since 1997 all stayed until the end. I was well pleased. Frank made it 4-2 with a calm penalty and there was a massive roar when “five minutes of extra time was announced.” We had all of the ball in those last few crazy minutes and it shows what a fantasist I am that I still expected us to draw. Oh, how I would have loved that, for the fans who had left early especially!

As we exited at the end, we were met by my good mate Andy, always stoical in defeat. He made two great points. He thought that Chelsea fans were above booing former players. He also said that the 6,000 who left with ten or twelve minutes to go will be the ones moaning about not getting cup final tickets.

For a change, Glenn and myself decided to have “a couple” before heading back to sleepy Somerset. We slowly walked over to join in with the post mortem taking place in “The Lillee Langtry,” over by West Brompton tube. I was still numbed by the defeat and unable to shed any light on the match. Sometimes, I sit back and let others talk. This was one occasion. The mood was gloomy, but we had seen it all before…”typical Chelsea” it had certainly been. Daryl was leading the analysis with some great points and we all eventually chipped in with some comments. We mused on how we had the world at our feet in the summer of 2005 – we appeared unstoppable. The players are now five years older, the team doesn’t have that same vigour. But – back in October, or November after Arsenal away, we were odds on to become champions again and so let’s not give up just yet. We have a tough road ahead, we have key players missing, the fallout of JT’s misdemeanours still haunts us. It will be a tough one, but it’s still in our own hands.

With Glenn dozing, all of these thoughts – and many more – rattled around me on the drive home. I was sad to hear of Ramsey’s awful leg-break on the radio at Stoke…even more upset to hear Arsenal won. They have an easy run-in and are still in the mix. It’s not often I hate watching “Match Of The Day,” but this was certainly the case. I watched the highlights of our loss, grimacing…the John Terry handshake, the Bridge boos, the Ballack tackle, the fans leaving early…our first home defeat in 25 league games.

God. Not a good day at the office.

Tales From The Old Gold And Black Country

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 20 February 2010.

What a shocking game of football. It reminded me of the dark old days when you came away from a game with only a few lasting memories.

I collected Parky and, via a short stop in Bath to collect my mended camera, we were on our way to the midlands. We stopped at Strensham services and noted a Chelsea supporters’ coach from Devon. We thought about it and decided that a trip to Wolverhampton may be their nearest away game this season. They seemed chirpy and rosey faced, replica kits to the fore. I think there must be a formula flying around somewhere which dictates that the probability of football fans attending games is inversely proportional to them wearing team shirts. I remember a work colleague, an Everton fan, telling me that he “can’t afford to get up to Goodison, so he always buys all the replica shirts.” There’s some sort of twisted logic there, somewhere.

The Malvern Hills looked a picture, dusted with snow once again. We pulled off the M5 and headed up towards Wolverhampton, on the northern edge of The Black Country, that former industrial heartland of England. Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark were on the CD player as we slowly edged through Dudley, Tipton and Cosely…I thought about calling this piece Tales From Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Black Country.

At 12.45pm, we were parked up in the town centre and were on the look out for a quiet, welcoming pub. The first one we entered was full of locals – football lads – and I didn’t fancy it. I’m always wary of being in the wrong place at the wrong time at away games. It’s always best to play the probability game. Instead, we spotted The Walkabout and entered…there were bouncers on the door and we noted two policemen inside. This would be a safe haven. We stayed there until just after 2pm. A quick look around and we soon noted lots of familiar Chelsea faces, though few I knew to speak to. Parky spotted an old mate – Gary – and we stood with him while we watched the Everton vs. Manchester United game. There was no cheering when Berbatov scored, but plenty when the Toffees equalised. It didn’t take long for the first “Carefree” to echo around the large boozer. There were about 150 Chelsea in there, a reasonable cross-section of our away support, if not our home support in general. Hardly any women, one child, two replica kits, plenty of geezers in our forties and fifties. A few faces. More than a few Stone Island pullovers. A bit of chat with Gary and Parky. We toasted the recent arrival of Parky’s grandaughter – Kayla Ellen, a Chelsea fan for the future – and talked about the usual stuff which attaches itself to a Chelsea Away Day. We commented about “how many Chelsea fans around the world would like to be in our shoes.”

Outside, we were forced to our right by two policemen, thus keeping us away from the centre. We played “dot to dot” with clusters of policemen, tracing our route to Molyneux at the bottom of the hill.

Like Newcastle, the stadium in Wolverhampton is right at the heart of the city and I like it. The long natural incline leading down from the town centre once formed the basis of the huge Kop until the ground was slowly – very slowly – remodelled in the ‘eighties. When I think of the Wolves of my childhood, not only do I think of players such as Jim McCalliog, David Wagstaffe and Derek Dougan, but I also I think of the idiosynchratic Molyneux stadium. There was the immense Kop to the right and the unique multi-spanned roof opposite. All of these individualistic stadia are long gone these days and it’s a shame. I can also hear the gentle burr of the ‘seventies ATV commentator Huw Johns telling of some action on the pitch. He had such an evocative voice and often commentated on Wolves games. Before my time, Wolves were the team of the ‘fifties – winning three league titles – and they captured the imagination of the nation with their unique set of friendlies against teams such as Honved. In their distinctive old gold shirts, they were some team, lead by England captain Billy Wright. If the Munich air crash had not happened in 1958, catapulting Manchester United into the nation’s hearts, maybe Wolves would be a major player these days. I think that their black and old gold is a simply classic combination, though the current shade is a bit too close to Hull’s amber for my liking.

Everyone of a certain age remembers our promotion-clinching game at Wolves in 1977 – I was only eleven, so didn’t go – but I remember the euphoria it engendered. My only previous visit to Wolverhampton was in odd circumstances in 2003. My mother had been poorly and in hospital. I therefore missed four consecutive home games ( thus missing the Abramovic hysteria at HQ ) and my first game “back” was the 5-0 demolition job we gave Wolves. It was fantastic to be back “on the treadmill” at that game – special memories.

As soon as I entered the away area, Steve ( folsom blue ) yelled out to me. It was just fantastic to see him – we have been emailing each other for a month or so and I could tell he was so pleased to be back in the UK, with work, for two months. He said he hadn’t slept the previous night. I could believe it. He had travelled up with Al and Gal on one of the official CFC coaches. Gary got a beer for me and we had a nice pre-match chin-wag in the dark, crowded area beneath the seats of the Steve Bull Stand. The songs started – the uncensored ones – and I joked that Steve could relax and join in, knowing his family were 6,000 miles away. I said there might be a few “unchained melodies” from Steve over the next two months. The rumourmill was in full force, with news that Everton had scored a second…then a third. Oh, how we laughed. That set things up lovely for our game.

From my seat in the lower tier, Molyneux looked a picture. The four stands were trimmed with gold and the stadium looked trim. Strangely, there is a wedge of “temporary” seats in one corner – though these were present in 2003, too. I was sat in almost the same seat as in 2003, too. In the programme, some 100 pages of it, there were stats about the two teams. It claimed that we had gone 225 league games without consecutive defeats. I found that very hard to believe. I noted that the three Wolves Life Presidents were very diverse – Steve Bull, footballer, Rachel Heyhoe-Flint, female cricketer and Robert Plant, rock star!

The first-half was dire, wasn’t it? Not only did the team seem to have other things on its mind – an engagement with Jose coming up – the fans seemed a bit subdued. Wolves give the lower tier of the side stand to away fans and this doesn’t help…our support was thinned-out along the pitch. The Wolves midfield were giving our three no space. We lacked desire and spirit.

“Come on – move for each other! “bellowed Alan.

The winter sun made viewing difficult, so I doubled up with a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Wolves had a few half-chances. We went ahead with the only really good move of the first-half. Zhirkov played a lovely one-two with Herr Ballack and then zipped in a killer ball for Drogba to pounce. We celebrated – but knew we had got off lightly. We simply hadn’t performed, none more so than Florent Malouda.

Into the second-half and Ballack upset the home fans in the stand which housed the more vocal elements of the home crowd. They rewarded him – quite oddly – with a full rendition of “Ten German Bombers” and this small-town xenophobia quite surprised me. Towards the end of its conclusion, Petr Cech saved superbly at point blank after a defensive lapse. Soon after, JT kicked and missed – groans from us all – and Big Pete saved our blushes once more.

This was clearly a poor game. I felt for Steve, but at least he has more games on his sabbatical.

With the support getting quieter by the minute, a punt forward by Cech and Drogba easily outfought the last man.

“Oh – that’s embarrassing” I whispered.

He made a yard and stroked the ball in. Two-nil. Phew. Drogba lapped up the praise down in that far corner and I realized how lucky we had been.

At the final whistle, JT handed over his jersey and boots to two different Chelsea fans. A nice touch. I hugged Alan and there was emotion in my voices as I wished him a great time in Milano. I won’t be going – work commitments, I’m afraid. Outside, a quick word with Steve – “5hit game, mate” – and wished him a good time in Italy too. Alan will take good care of Steve. He will be an associate member of The Bing during his stay with us.

We got a police escort – of sorts – up to the town centre. The streets on which we were walking were devoid of Wolves fans. It felt like being back in the ‘eighties. About six lads from Trowbridge caught up with us and there was a comment from Andy that “this is the last chance for this current team to win anything – we need to change it.” I knew what he meant. It had been a strange day in Wolverhampton, for sure. We pulled out of the centre at 5.30pm and listened to the latest sad episode of Pompey’s demise on the drive south.

Some Depeche Mode, some fruit pastilles, Parky sleeping – the usual return trip home.

Our record is 19-4-4 and this is pretty good, you know. The swagger of the Mourinho championships is missing, but I’m not complaining. We have eleven league games left. I have a feeling the last three away games – Manchester United, Tottenham, Liverpool – will make or break us. The potential to win the league at any of these locations is making me salivate, but the risk of failure ( imagine if we were to lose it at any of these hideous locations ) haunts me too.

By the way, our win at Wolves was our 141st league game without back-to-back league defeats.

Tales From A London Derby

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 7 February 2010.

What a tough old week for us as Chelsea fans. By the time Sunday came around, I was bored to death thinking about “Vanessagate,” let alone talking about it.

I picked-up Parky at just after 9am and was in London by 11.15am. We had a breakfast by West Brompton and then went our separate ways. Parky sloped off to The Goose to meet the usual suspects. He would also take care of Wes, who was arriving at about 1pm. I had my hands full meeting Eddie, who I briefly met in Baltimore in the summer, and also John from LA, who I had not previously met before. John was over with work – a real flying visit – and was visiting Stamford Bridge for the very first time. We had exchanged emails and texts during the previous few days and I could tell he was bursting with excitement.

Eddie had just had a breakfast at Lloyds when I called by at about midday. He was with his wife and a Watford-supporting mate. Lloyds was quiet, but it was getting busier. I wasn’t sure when John would be arriving, so I popped over to see Mark Worrall at “the stall.” Paul Canoville had just called by and had signed two copies of “Chelsea Here Chelsea There.” I quickly called Eddie and he sprinted down to buy one.

I spent a while outside the tube station. This was a different experience for me – I’m usually esconced in the pub from midday to 2.30pm or 3.30pm on Sundays at Chelsea. I noted many people who I either know by name or by sight. Around five touts were plying their trade. They were asking £175 a ticket. With each train arriving, more and more fans were alighting at Fulham Broadway. There was a nice buzz of anticipation. The weather had tuned colder. My jacket was buttoned up around my neck. I noted a few Gormless Goons slouching around. John arrived at just before 1pm and it was great to see him. This was his first ever visit to this part of London, so as we turned towards The Bridge, I said that “these are historic footsteps, then.” John was with a mate from LA – an Ipswich supporting fan from Iceland. Everyone welcome! John was impressed with the façade of the West Stand and I explained all about the Shed as we approached the hotel. I knew that Ron Harris would soon be leaving the hotel foyer, so we were lucky to catch him. John had his photo taken with Chopper. John was loving it. Job done.

We then spun around, over the bridge, to The Fox And Pheasant, the tiny pub in the shadows of the towering East stand. I have lost count of the number of US visitors I have taken to this lovely boozer. We toasted to “Friendship and Football.” We chatted about all things Chelsea – John got into our club via Gianfranco Zola, which is a fine reason. I joked that it sure beats finding out about Chelsea via a game on Playstation. However, mid-way through our pint, we found ourselves talking about MLB baseball and college football for quite a few minutes.

“Wait – why the hell aren’t we talking about Chelsea?!”

We all laughed.

We walked back down the Fulham Road and just happened to be passing The So Bar at the exact time that Paul Canoville was going inside. Canners looked well and I reminded him I spoke to him at last year’s CPO. Amazingly, he remembered. Top man. Another photo opportunity for John and by now he was buzzing…and saying “awesome” far too many times for his general well-being. After Ron Harris and Canners, I said to John “I wonder who you’ll meet next?” just as the immortal Lovejoy strolled past, chewing gum, looking dapper. I had to laugh. We called by at the stall and John invested in the other “Paul Canoville-signed copy” of “CHCT.” John grimaced when I explained that the original tube station is now a “TGI Friday’s” but I approve of the way this lovely red-brick building has been refurbished, with the booking hall still intact.

We strolled up to The Goose, where festivities were in full flow. It was rammed. The Birmingham vs. Wolves game was on TV. Conversations were taking place at a pace. Wes was chatting with Parky. Thankfully, not much banter about JT. We heard of a pub opening at 9am for the Cardiff game next Saturday. That will do nicely. Daryl joked that Parky and myself ought to throw some cartoon-style tin tacks onto the M4 to derail the Cardiff coaches. A nice idea. John and Otley set off at 2.45pm to take in the pre-match atmosphere. I can’t say I blamed them. It was great to see John so thrilled with the Chelsea match day experience.

I got in the ground at 3.45pm and was ready. It had been a tough week.

Let’s play football.

As with last season, just one poxy Arsenal flag. I noted a new “Carefree In The UAE” banner in the West stand. It looked like Carlo had chosen a 4-3-3 formation to me. I exchanged texts with John, who had lucked out with tickets. He was in the East Middle – negative – but was in the very front row – positive. I just about picked him out with my telephoto just as he was getting stuck in with a “Carefree.” I could see his smile from 100 yards away. Happy days.

A few choruses in praise of John Terry and then the teams entered the pitch.

Let’s get it on.

After just a few moments, a Drogba free-kick was cleared for a corner. I snapped my camera just as JT leapt to head it on. At the far post, a smudge of red and blue shirts and I saw the net bulge.

The Bridge erupted. I doubt if the record 82,905 in 1935 made as much noise. I took a few shots of the celebrations taking place in the SE corner, then panned over to John in the East.

Snap.

In response to a Gooner chant about us, we replied “You’re Not English Any More.”

Arsenal then dominated for quite a period. Cech saved superbly from the impish Arshavin. We appeared to be giving them too much space in midfield and we were worried. Then – a rapier like break and Drogba was on goal. A shimmy inside and he slammed the ball in. My head exploded and I jumped up onto the steps. I looked back at Alan and we pointed at each other. No words were needed. Such joy. We then controlled the game until the break. Arsenal’s support was wounded. Our support was good, without being deafening. Until the second goal, we seemed to be a bit nervous.

In a pathetic attempt to rile us, the away fans sang a song in praise of Wayne Bridge. Of all people! What idiots. Do they not remember 2004? This is like us praising Dean Saunders or David Elleray. Anyway, we sung a song about Wayne Bridge, too. You can guess which one.

At half-time, John Hollins was on the pitch. He got a great reception. It seems that, at last, we have forgiven him for destroying the classic 1983-1985 team. He’s a nice guy. A Chelsea legend. Great to see him so happy.

It was more of the same in the second-half. Lots of Arsenal possession, but little end product. I soon witnessed the awesome ( that word again ) power of Drogba, bursting forward down below me. Truly an amazing spectacle. However, we still gave Arsenal lots of space in the midfield, despite great individual performances. It was a strange game.

Arsenal let off a flare in the Shed lower, but this inspired the home support and we produced the noisiest few minutes of the season. I bet John was falling in love with Chelsea all over again.

Then, that Drogba free-kick which slammed against the bar. Oh boy.

How Didi loves playing Arsenal. He has certainly got onside their head. I realised how similar this game was to the 3-0 win at The Emirates in November. If that Drogba free-kick had gone in, it would have been even more so. Lots of Arsenal possession, but lightweights versus heavyweights. Boys versus men. We defended with raw power. They shall not pass. We were still a bit nervous, though – we daren’t concede a goal as it would have given Arsenal confidence. I checked with Alan just to make sure Kanu wasn’t on the bench, with memories of late Arsenal comebacks at The Bridge still fresh in my mind. I needn’t have worried – Petr Cech was enjoying his best game for ages. We defended deep and it paid off.

Throughout the game we sang “One England Captain” and this will probably develop into the song of our season.

The final whistle and a huge roar. We could smile and relax.

“We Are Top Of The League. Say, We Are Top Of The League.”

JT stayed on the pitch for a few moments by himself, thanking all four stands for the support we had given him. He threw his shirt into the MHL. As he walked towards the tunnel, alone, I saw John looking on. One hug from Carlo Ancelotti and our captain disappeared down the tunnel.

A text from John – “UNREAL.”

It had been a tough week.

From a position of strength and power, let’s move on.

Tales From Beneath The Pennines

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Burnley vs. Chelsea : 30 January 2010.

This was a classic trip north to support my team. So many things to shoe-horn into this match report.

This has been a strange week for me at work as I begin with a new company on Monday and there are the usual worries and concerns. But, I tried to put all non-Chelsea thoughts to one side. With football the focus, nothing else matters.

The kick-off at Turf Moor was 5.30pm, thus allowing me a little lie-in, for once. This would be my first ever visit to Burnley and made it two new grounds in eight days, after last Saturday’s foray to Preston. To say I was looking forward to my solo mission to Lancashire would be a big understatement.

But first, a quick shopping expedition to Bath. I set off at 9.30am. My goodness, the weather was spectacular. A heavy frost and bright sunlight greeted me. No clouds. I spent about 45 minutes in Bath and I made a bee-line for “John Anthony.” I have been visiting this well-known menswear shop for about 15 years as it has always sold a great selection of “football clobber.” There was a post-Xmas sale on and I picked up a couple of half-price bargains…a muted blue Lacoste rain jacket and a deep red Victorinox baseball cap. I had a bit of banter with the Arsenal-supporting sales assistant. He was surprised to hear I was going to Burnley. It’s always fascinating, for me, to note how the clothes at football change and develop over the years. It’s a shame we no longer have the regional differences in terrace fashion that we had in the ‘eighties – it’s a homogenised look these days. For a while, the usual brands such as Lacoste, CP, Paul & Shark, Henri Lloyd, Armani, Boss and Hackett have held sway, with only the occasional new brand, such as Victorinox, coming to the fore. I wondered what the Burnley lot would be wearing. I was wearing a warm Schott jacket, which I bought at “John Anthony” many years back. I well remember the look on my mate Glenn’s face when I showed up at his house to take him to football and he came to the door wearing the exact same coat. Oh boy – we were known as the Schott Brothers. I have to say, he “won” the bragging rights on that as he bought his first, but I got it cheaper. Happy days. For my mates and me, who have been brought up in terrace culture since we were in our youth, we feel happy eschewing replica kits and the associated garb. We know who we are. If we’re in that away end, we are Chelsea. Maybe a little in badge here or there. That’s enough for us.

JT was being discussed on the radio and so I turned it off. As I headed north, with the Malvern Hills dusted with snow to my west, I listened to Everything But the Girl, that under-appreciated band from my ‘twenties.

“Wherever You Go I Will Follow You.”

Alan and Gary were coming up on the official Chelsea coach. As I hit the outskirts of Manchester, I was listening to “The World Of Morrissey” and I was bouncing. I don’t listen to him much these days, but when I do, it always pleases me. I was chuckling along to the lyrics of “You’re The One For Me, Fatty.” Who else writes such fruity lyrics?

I was now in my element. In my search for new footballing experiences, I had planned to travel around Manchester on the eastern ring-road, simply because I hadn’t ever driven it before. With the two Manchester clubs located in the inner-city area, Manchester is ringed by five “satellite” teams, from Bolton in the NW, via Bury, Rochdale and Oldham, to Stockport in the SE. This greater Manchester area, so important in the industrial revolution and the formation of the professional game, has played a simply massive role in Chelsea Football Club’s history. Our first ever game at Stockport in 1905, the Khaki Cup Final at Old Trafford in 1915, our first FA Cup win at Old Trafford in 1970, Clive Walker’s goal at Bolton in 1983, the tragedy of Matthew Harding at Bolton in 1996 and our first championship in 50 years at Bolton in 2005.

At Bury, I noted wind turbines on the snow-capped moors overlooking the town. Lots of red-brick mill buildings. Smoke stacks. Still no clouds – a perfect day. As I turned off the M60 – Manchester’s M25 – onto the M66, there were signposts for classic Northern towns such as Ramsbottom, Rawtenstall and Clitheroe. With those names came images of a by-gone era, of boyhood comics telling the stories of football-mad boys playing in the streets with tennis balls and of long-forgotten teams such as Glossop and Worksop. On the approach to my destination, I noted rows of small houses perched on the hillsides the colour of which, sombre grey, that I had never seen before. As I drove over the brow of a hill, Accrington was down below me to my left, an absolutely classic Northern town, rows upon rows of terraced houses, with chimneys puffing grey smoke. Then, ahead, a magnificent view of the moors above Burnley, devoid of trees, naked, ancient brown. It was – to be blunt – just what I had expected.

I remember watching Burnley many times on TV in my childhood. They were a good little team, managed by former player Jimmy Adamson…the names trip off my tongue. Frank Casper, Dave Thomas, Peter Noble, Bryan Flynn, Martin Dobson…and my favourite, the Welsh winger Leighton James. They won the league in 1960 and had a fantastic scouting network, especially in the North-East. Burnley is the smallest town – only 75,000 – to have sustained a top flight team for any length of time. I remember being entranced by the classic Turf Moor ground on TV – a terrace to the right with houses and moors behind, but a modern stand – with seats! – behind the goal to the left. You didn’t always get seats behind the goals in those days.

On the last roundabout before I entered Burnley, to my left, yet more slate grey houses. How bleak. I was getting a proper buzz about this. A real sense of place. There are certainly footballing cities further north in England, but I was strongly sensing that there are few that evoke such a strong sense of “northern-ness.” I had looked at Burnley on many maps and thought of it as “the end of the line for Lancashire” – beyond, only the Pennines and that foreign land, Yorkshire.

My mother, just after the war, had befriended a mill-worker from Burnley and had stayed with her one week. What my mother thought of it, in austere post-war Britain, one can only imagine.

I reached Burnley at 3.45pm and paid £5 for “secure match day parking” in the town centre. I popped my head inside one local pub, noted a few local “boys” and decided against it. I back-tracked and walked the half mile to the stadium, the chill wind biting at me from every direction. Police vans were parked on the approach to Turf Moor. There were about ten policemen outside “The Princess Royale” pub, another grey building. There were a few pubs on this main road, but I didn’t fancy it. Too risky. I noted several billboards promoting the club under the slogan “Together – We Are Burnley.” Outside the main stand, a montage of former Burnley players and I was s0 pleased to see a large photo of former Chelsea winger Ian Britton, arms outstretched, in ecstasy, having just scored one of the most decisive goals in their history. In May 1987, Burnley were facing relegation to non-league football in the first-ever year of automatic relegation. On the day, Burnley beat Orient 2-1 and Ian Britton scored the second. The look on his face, always cheeky, is a picture.

For the best part of an hour, I waited for mates to arrive. The weather was getting worse. Everyone was wearing hats and caps. I was wearing my trusted Yankee one. There were the inevitable gaggle of reporters and cameramen questioning us about JT. I was asked by a BBC bod to comment, but declined. We’ll close ranks and see what happens. Chelsea will stand by him, no issue. We have had bigger worries than his infidelity – bankruptcy, tragedy, hooliganism – but I still feel let down. I had to laugh at one Burnley fan who was being interviewed. He ended his piece to camera with a prolonged howl which I could only liken to a rebel yell, that Southern speciality, now evident Up North.

Nick and his son Robbie arrived. Nick’s sister now lives in Accrington and is a Burnley season-ticket holder. She was there with her husband .They wanted to arrange a family photo, but Robbie was having none of it! No inter-club friendliness in that family. The Nuneaton boys arrived – Andy, Jonesy, The Youth, his son Seb and Lovejoy. Andy was wearing a fantastic mid-brown Berghaus jacket which gets better every time I see it. I noted quite a few Chelsea arriving with Aquascutum scarves wrapped around their necks. These were so popular in the 1985-1989 period. Classics to this day. More faces arrived. A quick word with Cathy. A few people mentioned our last visit – a painful 0-3 defeat in the last few weeks of the 1982-83 season. After that, I was absolutely convinced that we would be relegated to the Third Division. Convinced! Dark days.

Alan and Gary eventually arrived at about 5pm. Seems all the Chelsea coaches had been parked in a holding area out of town after rumours of trouble involving Chelsea and the Burnley mob, the wonderfully blunt “Suicide Squad.” I met Ajax again and sold him a spare for Arsenal.

Inside, we had superb seats, in the second row, to the right of the far post. Gill from Kent was ten seats away. Since redevelopment, the TV cameras swapped sides, like at The Bridge. Turf Moor holds 22,000 and this represents one-third of the town’s population. Putting club loyalty to one side, that’s an amazing achievement. However, my mate Mark, from eight miles up the road in Darwen, is a Blackburn fan and loathes Burnley. He calls them The Bastards, or The Dingles, after a family of low life ne’er do-wells in the UK soap opera “Emmerdale.”

Burnley, ably supported by a noisy home support, gave us a tough game. This was one we had to win, though. Burnley made life hard for us and I kept thinking of the old adage “there are no easy games in The Premiership.” We scored after good work from Malouda and a simple tap-in from Anelka right in front of us. Eagles seemed to be a threat on their left, but it was a first-half which simmered without producing many chances. We seemed to be unable to stretch the home defence. Cech didn’t really have to make a save. I was snapping away like a fool and half-expected a steward to ask me to put my camera away. Thankfully this never happened. I took a lovely shot of Malouda, our best player in the first-half, whipping a ball in. I noted a full moon appear in the gap between north and east stands, just above the scoreboard. It seemed to add to the drama…

Ian Britton made the half-time draw and he waved over to us, with that endearing cheeky smile of his. We responded with a chant from the ‘seventies –

“Ian – Ian Britton – Ian Britton on the wing.”

I also had a – sadly – great view of the mess which lead to their equaliser. Not Alex’ finest moment. All of a sudden, we became more urgent and the second-half was all ours really. Branislav Ivanovic had a great game and caused more of a threat than the poor Joe Cole. Lamps and Ballack seemed to be labouring. JT was having a stormer, though, and was ignoring the boos from the home support. We peppered Jensen in their goal and a Joe Cole was disallowed for offside. Our support found it hard to battle the vociferous locals. Alan, Gary and myself kept singing. We stood the entire game. After a typically robust piece of defensive play by our captain, I commented to Gary

“JT will score the winner tonight.”

As the game continued, I was still confident we’d get a goal. With five minutes left, Frank swung in a corner, JT leaped and the ball bounced in.

We went ballistic. I grabbed Gary – looking back, quite violently! – and we bounced up and down with me yelling “I told you! I told you! I told you!” After the build-up to the day, it just had to be. Some things are just meant to be.

The away end was now bouncing. My mate Glenn texted me to say he saw us on TV. The players made a quick getaway – clearly under orders. JT kissed the badge and a stern Frank gave us a thumbs up. We sang a few songs beneath the stand. We were all happy. I said to a few friends “that is a defining game in our season.” It reminded me of that tough night just up the road at Ewood in early 2005. Five years on, the same feeling. This will be our year. This was not a great Chelsea performance. Hell, at times, it wasn’t even good. But we look the likeliest team to win the league. So, let’s enjoy it.

I left Burnley at 8pm and wondered if I would ever be back. I retraced my steps, stopping off for a filling Chinese buffet in Ashton-Under-Lyme, the place full of Mancs of both hues no doubt. There was heavy snow near Stafford and I feared the worst. However, it didn’t follow me south. Japan were now on the CD player. More memories of those tough Chelsea winters of my youth. Then a tiring detour through Wolverhampton, with Molyneux sleeping in the distance, followed by a couple of Red Bull pit stops, resulted in me not getting home until 2.15am.

Another long day, but a magical day of childhood memories, of new experiences, of music, of terrace culture, of laughter, of friendship and of football.

Hull and Arsenal next. Let the Chelsea roll continue.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: John Terry

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