Tag Archives: Jose Bosingwa

Tales From The Mumbles

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Swansea City vs. Chelsea : 31 January 2012.

The long awaited trip to Wales for our game with Swansea City came on the back of two lacklustre performances against the other two promoted teams. With Brendan Rodgers’ team playing some lovely football this season, this was always going to be a tough away game.

I had booked a half-day holiday for this one, but the nature of my job simply meant that I had to stuff nine hours of work into four and a half hours. I had a busy and increasingly fretful morning. When I eventually finished work at 1pm, it took me a while to calm myself down and filter the worries of work out of my mind.

Parky had caught a couple of buses from his home in Holt in order to reach Chippenham. When I collected him from the Rowden Arms car park, he was already two pints of lager to the good. Just up the road from the Rowden Arms is a little memorial by the side of the road which marks the spot where American rock and roll legend Eddie Cochran was killed in a car accident, way back in 1960.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/wiltshire/conte…_feature.shtml

For once, instead of heading north at the M4/M5 interchange, I carried on in a westerly direction and was soon crossing the River Severn on the second Severn Bridge. The River Severn is very wide at this point and the bridge is a low sweeping structure, quite different to the classic high bridge of the earlier model, which is still used, three miles or so to the north. Back in the ‘sixties and ‘seventies, we would often visit Wales. I remember having a fantastic summer holiday in the town of Tenby in Pembrokshire when I was about four or five. We also used to visited relatives – Aunt Wyn and Uncle Jack – in Llanelli, too. The town of Llanelli – you have to take your dentures out to pronounce it correctly – is about ten miles past Swansea and I dare say we must’ve travelled through Swansea in those days in order to reach it. However, I have no recollection of Swansea. I certainly have never seen Chelsea play in Swansea before. For all intents and purposes, this would be a first time visit. As far as I can remember, the last time I visited Llanelli was in around 1974. I remember that Uncle Jack was heavily into rugby union and supported the famous Llanelli team of that time. He was – typically – quite a poet and I was given two printed poems that he had written. The first one was of the British Lions victory in South Africa in 1974; the second one commemorated a famous Llanelli Scarlets win against the immortal New Zealand All-Blacks in 1972. I was never a massive fan of rugby (even less these days), but looking back at the Llanelli team from that era – players such as Phil Bennett, Ray Gravel, JJ Williams, Tom David and Roy Bergiers – certainly take me back to my childhood.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/rugb…9.stm#theteams

This was quite an achievement; akin to the 1972 Chelsea beating the Brazil team from that era. Llanelli still play at Stradey Park and every time I hear of Llanelli or Stradey Park, I think of dear Uncle Jack, rabbiting away in an almost decipherable Welsh accent.

There’s nice.

Seeing the old Severn Bridge always takes be back to those journeys to South Wales, stuck in the back seat of my Dad’s old green Vauxhall Viva, wedged between my gran and granddad.

At Magor services, we stopped for a few minutes and I noted Welsh national rugby jerseys being sold in the shop. As if any clue was needed, this confirmed we were in foreign soil. The Welsh, especially in the South, love their rugby. There is still quite a bit of antagonism between rugby followers and football fans in Wales. The rugby folk see football as an intrusion into their proud Welsh heritage by the English, much in the same way that the Gaelic football fans in Ireland look down upon the anglicised game of football.

There’s nice, look you.

Near Magor, there is a field, just off the M4, where Parky and I danced the night away at a Universe rave in the summer of 1992 (though we didn’t know each other at the time.)

1992 – almost twenty years ago. Bloody hell boyo.

We drove past the Celtic Manor hotel at Newport, where Europe won the Ryder Cup in 2010. We skirted Cardiff, with the picturesque Castle Coch guarding the valley of the River Taff, high on the hill to my right. Beyond were the valleys of The Rhondda, the rugby heartland of South Wales. Towns such as Pontypridd, Mountain Ash, Treorchy, Treforest, Ebbw Vale, Tredegar and Tonypandy; all mining strongholds in past centuries now fighting to stay alive.

I was making great time. On past Bridgend, the Brecon Beacons were visible in the winter mist, their summits dusted with snow. Then, infamously, Port Talbot. Nothing can prepare you for Port Talbot. As dire a stretch of the motorway network as exists in the UK. Five miles of agony. To my left, the huge, sprawling mess of the Margam steelworks. I turned off the M4 at Briton Ferry and was soon in Swansea, just two hours after leaving Chippenham. In Wales, all of the road signs are in English and Welsh. So, Newport is Casnewydd, Cardiff is Caerdydd and Swansea is Abertawe.

There’s nice, isn’t it.

Like many cities – Brighton, Hull, Liverpool – with seafront access, Swansea’s old dock area was undergoing rejuvenation with seafront apartments having been built recently. Parky and I had decided to forego the attractions of the city centre and head on to the area known as The Mumbles, a few miles west of the centre. Rather than struggle to hear ourselves being heard in a city centre Wetherspoons, drinking lager out of plastic glasses, we fancied something a little different. I headed out on a road which went right past the joint home of Swansea rugby and cricket teams. In the same way that Sheffield United and Northampton Town once shared their football grounds with their local county cricket teams, Swansea has the same arrangement to this day ( as do Bath Rugby and Somerset Cricket Club). The only North American example that I can think of, where two sports with dissimilar pitches are present, is Toronto’s Exhibition Stadium, home – until 1990 – of both baseball and Canadian football.

The most famous event to take place here involved the West Indian cricketer Garry Sobers, who became the first cricketer to hit six sixes in an over in 1968. Miraculously, this event was captured on film and remains one of the most incredible sporting feats that I have ever seen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWA7wYKcPGo

It was great just to catch a glimpse of the seats on the far side of the ground – it can hardly be called a stadium – as I drove past. There is just something about witnessing sporting venues – even those lying still and dormant – knowing what achievements have taken place within. Up on the ridge of high land overlooking the town were rows upon rows of terraced houses which reminded me so much of Llanelli.

At 3.30pm, I had parked up at Bracelet Bay, a promontory on the eastern edge of the fabled Gower Peninsula, just to the south of Swansea. On a small piece of headland stood the Castellamare restaurant. It overlooked a small beach, with a pristine white lighthouse on some rocks in the distance.

“This will do, Parky, my old mate.”

For an hour or so, Parky and I sat in the surprisingly busy restaurant, supping at a couple of pints of Grolsch, knocking back a plate of fish and chips, chatting about all sorts of nonsense. Crystal Palace 1976, Bristol City 1984, the usual stuff. It was great, actually. It seemed surreal to be in such a strange locale prior to a Chelsea away game. But I am sure we made the right choice. As the sun set behind us, the rocks leading up to the lighthouse subtly changed colour. For a few minutes, the scene was perfect. Hardly on the scale of the Grand Canyon at sunset, but still pleasing to the eye. Even in deepest darkest South Wales, there is hope.

We dropped back into the village of The Mumbles for one more pint in the Village Inn. The Mumbles is clearly the classy end of Swansea bay; it had a small harbour with a few yachts moored and there were a couple of half-decent brasseries too. We had a chat with a couple of locals and made half-hearted promises to return next season. On the drive back into Swansea, night had fallen and the lights reflecting on the ocean across Swansea bay looked almost continental. If you squinted. And didn’t look too hard.

To be fair, though, it had been a lovely pre-match. With Swansea looking like they will stay up this season, we looked forward to a few seasons of travelling to Swansea, taking in the attractions of The Mumbles, The Gower Coast and maybe even further afield. But – please Mr. League Fixtures Computer, not on a midweek evening in bloody January next time, eh?

At 7pm, I was parked up about a mile from the stadium, just off Neath Road. Outside, the weather was bitter. We were wrapped up like a couple of polar explorers. We set off for the stadium and were soon inside. Unlike the team’s former home at Vetch Field in the heart of the city, the Liberty Stadium is up to the north of the city. It was built in 2005 and is typical of the new breed of football stadia. It only holds 20,000 – it seems bigger. Inside, despite bright signs – in Welsh, in English – it is pretty bland, with acres of exposed concrete giving it a solemn feel.

So, no JT but no Gary Cahill.

Petr Cech the captain.

Lampard out injured still, so a Mediterranean Midfield ™ of Meireles, Romeu and Malouda.

As Gary said after a few seconds “there’s no leaders out there, Chris.”

The noisy corner section, tucked away behind me and to my left, were in full voice, singing a few rousing editions of Land Of My Fathers. Stirring stuff. There is no doubt, Swansea were infinitely better than us in the first period. Strong in the tackle, determined, energised. Just the way I would want my team to play. Chelsea were off the pace, lackadaisical, sloppy. Our players wanted two touches when one would do, three tackles when two would do. When we had the ball, the players in front stayed stationary. It was frustrating stuff. However, one chap behind me was full of negative comments, interspersed with aggressive swearing. I couldn’t take it any longer; I turned round and glowered. I semi-recognised him. He didn’t say anything. I’m sure one day I won’t be able to hold my tongue. OK, we were playing poorly, but this bloke was taking the art of slagging off the team to a new stratospheric level.

Swansea ran us ragged in the first period. On 16 minutes, Petr Cech raced off his line and Branoslav Ivanovic headed clear and then David Luiz was able to race back and clear off the line. But it was a warning sign for sure. Chelsea came into the game for ten minutes, but our chances were not worthy of the name. Sturridge wide, Merieles over. Nathan Dyer broke but shot straight at Cech. Then, a free-kick on the Swansea right. Scott Sinclair – of all people – deftly looped a delicate lob up and over Petr Cech. The ball appeared to be moving in slow motion, separate from the game, in another world. The stadium stood still. It then erupted.

“One nil to the sheep shaggers, one nil to the sheep shaggers.”

“Scotty Sinclair. Scotty Sinclair. He shags Rosie Webster – but Sally don’t care.”

Although the home fans in the corner were some of the noisiest set of fans I had heard this season, the rest of the stadium was relatively quiet. The Chelsea faithful tried to get a few songs going, but it was difficult.

Gloom and doom at the break. Cold and dispirited. After Norwich and QPR, this was turning into déjà vu. A tired and weary Chelsea team, lacking zip and fight.

The second-half was a strange one. Swansea allowed us tons and tons of possession and rarely threatened us. And yet, we still looked unlikely to score. On the hour, a great ball from Ashley Cole whizzed across the six yard box – it was a perfect ball in – but our attackers were out on The Gower coast, skipping merrily through the gorse on the cliffs overlooking the sands. They certainly weren’t in the attacking third.

Michael Essien, The Bison, entered the fray in place of the pedestrian Romeu and he soon sent a rising shot over the angle of post and upright. That was more like it, we thought. Get some energy in the team. However, shortly after in the same location, he sent a shot off for a throw in.

Oh boy.

Oh boyo.

Still we enjoyed the possession. David Luiz, for the third game in a row, was everywhere. No complaints from me about him. He showed commendable spirit; why can’t all of our players be like him. Torres, bless him, had nowhere to run and so didn’t. I would like us to hit him early just once this season. Just once. It’s not much to ask. Malouda was shocking, blah, blah, blah.

A Daniel Sturridge stab was so reminiscent of the Torres miss at Carrow Road. The fact that Torres was in space did not help. Lukaku came on for Malouda. A break at the other end saw the mercurial Nathan Dyer scream a shot wide. I didn’t see the Cole challenge which warranted his second yellow, but I knew from the reaction from the Swansea fans that it was a bad one. The assistant linesman signalled four minutes of extra time. With us down to ten men, this was a hopeless task surely? I thought back to my last ever visit to Wales for a Chelsea league game. In 1984, we were 3-0 down at Cardiff City with just 6 minutes remaining, but came back to draw 3-3. In those days, we had Dixon, Speedie and Nevin. Players with fight. Sigh.

Lukaku had his big chance when he had the entire goal to aim for, but his shot was easily saved by Vorm.

Then, Bosingwa – hardly flavour of the month at Chelsea – raced down the right and checked inside and shot from an angle. Unlike the rest of the other Chelsea fans, I remained remarkably calm when I saw the ball miraculously hit the back of the net. I was confused as to how it had escaped the clutches of the ‘keeper. I was bemused that such a woeful performance had resulted in a draw.

But I was happy.

“Got out of jail, there” I thought to myself.

The Swansea fans were quiet, their stuffing knocked out of them.

At the final whistle, we roared and Alan leaned over to say “we used the get out of jail free card there, son.”

We must be spending too much time together.

The Chelsea players half-heartedly applauded the away contingent, but at least David Luiz and Petr Cech showed the right spirit, tossing their shirts into the crowd.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50631876337658

Outside, I met up with Parky and we slowly made our way back to the car. The wind lashed at our faces and we knew it had been an awful game. We chatted briefly to a Chelsea fan from Belfast on the walk back to the car, but he had an accent almost as impenetrable as Uncle Jack’s.

Just before we reached the car, I overheard a Welsh voice saying to a friend –

“Just lost a mate of twenty years tonight. On Facebook. Chelsea fan. I told him to fcuk off.”

Tidy.

This was an easy away trip. I was back home by 12.30pm. I look forward to going to Swansea next season. With the Brendan Rodgers, Scott Sinclair and – now – Young Josh link, I think I can safely say that I will be wishing them well for the rest of their campaign.

(By the way, who thought that this one would be entitled “Tales From Wales”? Too easy.)

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Tales From The School End

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Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea : 23 October 2011.

After a rather nondescript and unexciting season in 2010-2011, it certainly seems that the current campaign is trying desperately hard to make up for it. With less than ten games in, the season seems to have had more exciting games, sub-plots and talking points than last year already. This was another crazy day of football. It left us breathless. It also left us pointless, but not without a fight.

It is one of the strange anomalies of my Chelsea supporting life that I had only ever visited Loftus Road on one other previous occasion. Admittedly, we hadn’t played them in the league since the 1995-1996 season, but even so. However I then thought back about my priorities in the days when my income was at a lesser level than of late. Back in the ‘eighties and ‘nineties, I only used to go to between four and five away games each season. In those days, the temptation of an away day to Old Trafford, Anfield, Highbury or White Hart Lane was always more alluring than a trip up to the pokey confines of Loftus Road. Looking back, away games at QPR always seemed to be on Boxing Day, Easter Monday or midweek days too; more reasons which made travel from Somerset more difficult.

Yep, my only other visit to Loftus Road was on a Wednesday in the spring of 1995. I remember travelling up to London on a half-day holiday to collect away tickets for the Real Zaragoza game, but I then drove up to Shephard’s Bush for our game against QPR in the evening. As was the way in those days, Daryl and I were one of the hundreds of Chelsea fans who had tickets in the home stands. We had great seats, right in the middle of the single tiered Ellerslie Road stand, but the game was poor. We played in the atrocious – and infamous – tangerine and graphite away kit and a lone Kevin Gallen goal gave the home team a deserved win.

Sixteen years later, I was long overdue a second visit.

On a bright autumnal Sunday morning, I collected His Lordship at just before 11am. This was a pretty late start, really, but we were in no rush. We had another lovely drive up to London, stopping for yet another Costa Coffee at Reading. The high spot of the morning’s drive involved us chatting about us in thirty years time, still going to Chelsea, Parky 85 years old and myself ten years younger.

We had a few moments visualising the scene of myself, arriving at his care home, smoking a pipe – Popeye style – and shouting out at him –

“Come on you old fool, get a move on.”

And then Parky propelling himself out in a wheelchair. Both of us wearing slippers. Both of us in cardigans. Both of us as deaf as a post.

“Who are we playing?”

“Arsenal today…Spurs on Thursday.”

“Thirsty, you say? So am I. Let’s stop off for a pint.”

Getting to The Goose, Lorraine the landlady in a blue rinse, Reg the landlord still waiting for Liverpool to win the league after 50 years.

“A pint of Carling? Seventy-five quid please.”

I was crying with laughter and did well to keep the car steady.

Well, let’s hope we are all able to go to Chelsea in 2041, wherever we may be.

Yes, wherever we may be. With our game against Queens Park Rangers taking place a few miles north of The Bridge, it gave me yet more time to ponder on the CPO shenanigans of late and the likelihood of us playing at Stamford Bridge, or elsewhere in the next few decades. As I have mentioned before, this is the first time that the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham had its three teams in the top flight of English football; quite an achievement. I pondered on the landscape of football in the capital and, more pertinently, the landscape of football in West London. Although Chelsea has traditionally drawn its support from large swathes of South London and parts of West London, we are, of course, located just north of the River Thames. We are a London club, for sure, but also a club of the Home Counties, those counties which nudge against the city of London itself. But, with football, location and identity are intrinsically linked. Territory is important. Location is important. Of the options being mentioned in the infamous Chelsea / CPO proposal, the sites at Earls Court and Imperial Wharf are close to home and within walking distance of The Bridge. Battersea is obviously south of the river, but just across from the borough of Kensington & Chelsea – at a push, this would get my approval if we had to move. But, throughout these recent discussions, the Wicked Witch in all this was the site at Old Oak Common, just over three miles to the north of Stamford Bridge. And, very importantly, even further north than QPR’s stadium at Loftus Road.

Not only that, the immediate location seems to be surrounded by rail yards, dead-end streets and industrial estates. A veritable Millwall North. For Chelsea to end up playing in this awful location, miles from our traditional home, fills me with absolute dread.

And yet, for overseas fans, this must seem strange.

What’s three miles? It’s only a sport stadium. It’s still in London. What’s the big deal?

Well – it’s everything. It’s absolutely everything.

With the reappearance of Wimbledon playing in Kingston-On-Thames this season, there are fully twelve league clubs in London and our proximity to each other is so important. If you think about just the five teams in the South and West – Chelsea, Fulham, QPR, Brentford and Wimbledon – these clubs are all clustered within a radius of three or four miles. For us to be shunted north a few miles would undoubtedly alter the dynamic of our club.

With all of this heavy in my mind, I drove into the heart of Rangers territory. Up the North Circular, past Gunnersbury Park, just like my dear father used to do from 1974 to 1983. Dad hated driving in London and he always used to park at Ealing Common, away from the heavy traffic, and we would then get the tube in. I passed through Acton and we noted quite a few Kiwis with All Blacks shirts, fresh from celebrating their triumph against the French. I eventually parked up barely half a mile from Rangers Stadium.

It was a warm Sunday lunchtime and Parky and I soon found us ensconced in an old-fashioned boozer called The Orchard Tavern, just off the Uxbridge Road. Despite there being signs on the door which said “Home Supporters Only” we encountered no problems. We settled down to watch the Mancunian derby, amongst a gaggle of United fans, a few wearing replica kits. There were a few Rangers lads at the bar, and save a few hard stares from a lad with an Aquascutum scarf, there were no problems. After tons of possession in the first quarter, United imploded and the score was 3-1 when we left at about 3pm.

Fifteen minutes later, we had walked up Bloomfontein Avenue and were chatting to Alan and Bristol Tim. Tim had been drinking in one of their main pubs. There had been no trouble. We heard crazy talk that United had won 6-1, but quickly dismissed this as a silly rumour.

Then, Alan took a call from Gary and began smiling…6-1 it was.

Oh boy.

I spotted Cathy and Dog a few yards away and so I went down for a quick chat. They were amazed to hear that City had trounced United and we had a little conversation about City. To be honest, I know they are now major rivals with us, but I’ve always had a major soft spot for them. Their support has always held firm. If any team deserves a little success, under the shadows of United for so long, it’s them.

Who should be with them but Tuna – and also Joe and Michelle from Chicago, last seen in Turin. Two Americans, wearing the colours of the Chicago Bears, were also there. After a little explanation, it all clicked – they were over for the NFL game at Wembley, but sadly had to leave Loftus Road before half-time to get up to Wembley for the game.

Well – I know what I’d do. See all of the Chelsea game, then get up for the last two hours of the NFL game. Easy.

Maybe it has been a different story up in London, but there hasn’t been too much hoo-ha about the Bears vs. Bucanneers game this past week. I have no problem with America’s sports teams playing friendlies in the UK, but I loathe the idea of regular season games taking place here. You can be damned sure that the fools at the FA look at this and will revisit the odious idea of the 39th Game again in the next few years.

For the first time ever, I approached the away end at Loftus Road – the School End – and its tiny structure looked ridiculous. The whole ground, although neat and compact, seems to resemble a Subutteo stadium. Once inside, there is no room to breath. Gary, Alan and I were in the upper tier – £55, the most I have ever paid for a normal league game – while Parky was down below.

Loftus Road only holds 18,500 and it only ever used to hold around 23,000 back in the ‘eighties. Back in those days, Chelsea would swamp the home areas and virtually take over the entire stadium.

That man from 1995, Kevin Gallen, was down below, reminiscing with the very excitable public-address announcer about previous games with us. I’m surprised that the infamous 6-0 shellacking from 1986 wasn’t mentioned to be honest. For the immediate period before the entrance of the teams, the PA was pumping very loud music at us and I longed for the days when fans made their own entertainment before games began, the atrmosphere bubbling, the noise rising each minute. These days, the noise is enforced upon us from above.

“London Calling” (our song, damn it – Joe Strummer was a Chelsea fan) gave way to “Pigbag” and the teams eventually entered the pitch.

But I couldn’t help but notice lots of empty seats in the main stand to my left. This was their biggest game for 15 years and they couldn’t even sell 16,000 seats.

Pathetic.

Oh boy, I was concerned that Mr. PA Guy was going to explode, such was his excitement of his beloved Rs playing Chelsea. He could hardly contain himself.

“Come on you SUPER-HOOPS.”

Bless.

Above us, the sky was pristine blue and the patch of sun on the pitch contrasted strongly to the areas of shadow to my right. The two spindly floodlight pylons at the other end – The Loft – gave the stadium even more of an appearance of a model kit. It took a while for the home fans to get behind their team and I thought our support, split over two tiers, sometimes struggled too.

My mate Alan commented –

“It seems like a game from the second division. From the ‘eighties.”

I’m not going to dwell too much on the game. I thought that, apart from Sturridge and Mata, we got out of the blocks slowly and Rangers’ midfielders seemed to be first to all of the loose balls.

I have to be honest, I thought that David Luiz’ challenge which lead to the early penalty was a stupid piece of football. It was rash and clumsy. You have to give the referee no excuse to award a foul once you get your body inside the penalty area.

And again, I’ll be honest; I did see the Bosingwa tug which lead to his sending off, though I wasn’t convinced that John Terry could not have covered.

And Drogba’s sending off was just an awful tackle.

By this stage, the Rangers support was in ecstasy and I suspected that PA Man had simultaneously combusted somewhere.

We were down to nine men and we were struggling to maintain any foothold in the game.

Oh hell.

But – what a second-half performance.

It was with growing pride that I looked on from row F of the upper tier as the Chelsea players down below me rose to the challenge of being not one, but two players down. Villas-Boas made the changes and the final nine did themselves proud. I was convinced that we would get a goal.

A Lampard header.

An Anelka header.

Anelka played through but he decided not to shoot, the ball instead coming out for Luiz to attempt an overhead kick which Lamps touched over.

A John Terry shot over.

And then the awful refereeing decisions – the grab on Luiz, not helped by his accentuated fall, and the fouls on lamps and JT.

A few breaks at the other end and Petr Cech kept us in it.

Tons of Chelsea possession – they did us proud.

Five minutes of extra time…COME ON!

But no – QPR held on, the irritating gits.

At the final whistle, the Chelsea fans roared our thanks for the team’s proud performance and John Terry, Ashley Cole, Frank Lampard and David Luiz walked down to the away end to thank the travelling two thousand for our support. I watched John Terry point at all of us, pat his chest (his trademark) and then dismiss the muppets in the other three stands with a derisory flick of his palms. The Chelsea fans roared. Us and them together.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.ph…type=2&theater

Outside, there were around five police vans parked alongside South Africa Road as we descended the steps, still disbelieving that we hadn’t scored. I met up with Tuna, Joe and Michelle and I wished them well on their travels back to the US. The police moved us along and I then walked around to meet up with Parky. The home fans were buzzing, but we had seen it all before. It had seemed like a day from another era all of the way through and here we all were once again, the victims of those jumped-up Herberts from Shephards Bush once more.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, eh?

Still, as always, Parky and I had enjoyed being part of it. Even in defeat, we’d rather be part of the rich Chelsea matchday experience than being sat at home on our sofas.

Or being a United fan – that definitely helped us cope on the drive home.

What a crazy game.

What a crazy day.

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