Tales From A Litmus Test

Posted on August 18, 2015 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 16 August 2015.

It was around 8.30am. Parky and I were briefly summarising our start to the season, and our hopes for our game at Manchester later in the day. I was being truthful when I told him that I wasn’t looking forward to the day as I ought to be. There was no specific reason, but I suspect that the fear of defeat was breathing heavily down my neck. Was there anything else, more sinister perhaps, to be the reason for my melancholy about another trip north? I honestly wasn’t sure. I know that I have often spoken about the thoughts that I have regarding my level of support for Chelsea Football Club and the – whisper it – inevitably that it might start to wane. As I entered the M4 on the slip road a few miles to the north of Chippenham, I admitted to Parky “that moment will come.”

Like King Canute and the incoming tide, once that moment strikes, there will be little I will be able to do to stop it. As I headed north, with the weather turning sunny one moment and cloudy the next, I wondered if the day, and the key encounter with one of our biggest title challengers, might prove to be some sort of litmus test for my support over the coming season.

I was ready to be tested.

Of course the football season of 2015/2016 was only in its infancy, but there were already thoughts about the madness of modern football, with all of its associated nonsense. At Chelsea, of course, in addition to the dropping of – shock horror – home points against Swansea City, we had to endure the fall out of the “Eva-Gate” revelations during the rest of that first week. Sometimes, I just have to shake my head at the antics of those connected with football. Sometimes I wish it really was “only a game.” As the week unfolded, with respective factions taking pot shots across the bows, I watched from behind my sofa, through my fingers held up to my face, just as many children of my generation apparently did when “Doctor Who” was shown on TV. Oh to be a psychiatrist with Jose Mourinho as a patient, trying to understand his complex personality. Is everything that he does stage managed to perfection? Is everything part of some grand Machiavellian plan? Does he have an “edge” on everyone? Is this desire to lay blame elsewhere a natural or manufactured trait?

In an email to some pals on the Friday, I jested that I would ensure that I was given a parking ticket in Manchester on the Sunday, so that it would give Mourinho something to get the media talking about rather than the inadequacies of his players during a possible defeat against City.

Yes, it had been a crazy first week of the season alright. There had been some daft knee-jerk reactions from parts of the media – lauding Claudio Ranieri after two wins, castigating Dick Advocat after just two losses, even niggling away at Louis Van Gaal after just three shots on goal – but the media’s obsession with Eva Carneiro just about tipped me over the edge. Thankfully, acting as a lovely balance against the madness of modern football and its obsession with the cult of personality, I watched my local non-league team Frome Town eke out a creditable 1-1 draw with a very impressive Merthyr Town side on a lovely Wednesday evening. It stirred my spirits and I almost enjoyed it as much as the Chelsea game against another Welsh side, Swansea City, a few days before.

As an aside, it irritated me that Carneiro was erroneously portrayed as a club physio on at least one BBC news report. The corporation should know better.

Additionally, I have never been able to fathom the hold that Carneiro has on some of our support. Have these people never seen a woman before?

Back to the football.

The trip north – oh so familiar over the past ten years – was going well, but I was still not getting that match day tingle. We drove past The Hawthorns, scene of our last domestic away game in May, and a three-nil defeat which meant little. Up on to the M6 and the traffic was fine. We spotted a Manchester City car, boasting a sticker for the Weymouth Blues. The skies cleared and I ate up the miles. It was a familiar drive in to the city of Manchester and one which has almost become automatic for me; the Manchester Orbital, past Old Trafford, past Salford Quays, past the Salford Lads Club, right in to the city centre.

I parked up at midday, four hours after collecting Parky.

Out in to the bright Mancunian sun, surrounded by the familiar red brick, I suddenly got the kick that I was hoping for.

Chelsea away in a northern city, four hours to kick-off, boom.

The buzz was back.

Fantastic.

Parky and myself spent an hour or so enjoying a couple of bottles of beer apiece in the bar of The Lowry Hotel, right in the heart of the city, overlooking a narrow “cut” of The River Erwell as it winds its way out to Salford and beyond. We had visited this hotel before our famous win at City in the 2013/2014 season – one of the best away days of recent memory – and I suppose it was the superstitious part of me that made me want to revisit. Just as we were about to leave, I spotted the black and gold of an Ellison coach pull up outside the main entrance. This was a sure sign that Chelsea, as I had hoped, had been staying in the hotel. We loitered around for a while, despite the overzealous questioning of a few hotel staff, and were able to wish the players well as they quietly walked through the lobby in their white Adidas tracksuits and on to the waiting coach.

Chris : “Good luck, Eden.”

Parky : “Score two for me today, Eden.”

There was no response, no eye-contact, from him, nor the others. They looked, as you probably might expect on such an important day, focussed and serious. From another direction, came the suited Mourinho, again deadly serious. He looked straight ahead as I wished him well. A gaggle of fans, no more than ten, were waiting outside and only John Terry and Diego Costa had stopped to sign and pose for photographs.

Back at the city centre car park – no word of a lie – a young attendant was sheepishly waiting by my car and handed me a £25 parking ticket.

“I blame Mourinho and his bloody team talk Parky.”

Bollocks.

“Is that a bad omen, Parky? Shall we bugger off home now?”

We were caught in a little traffic, but were parked up in our usual place – a £5 spot at a car wash on the Ashton New Road – only ten minutes from the stadium.

Since the last visit of almost twelve months ago, another Sunday afternoon game, Manchester City’s stadium had been enlarged by a further seven thousand seats, with a high third tier now sitting on top of the south stand. The San Siro style exit ramps still exist at the sides, but the new stand has an encased look, with dull grey cladding at the bottom and windows above. It hardly adds to the aesthetic appeal of The Etihad. Down below, many familiar Chelsea faces were milling around. I met up with Alan and Gary. Alan handed me my match ticket, plus the one for West Brom the following Sunday. It was just after three o’clock. There were handshakes and a few grimaces.

“Take a draw today, son.”

More than one acquaintance admitted that Mourinho had been “a bit of a tit” regarding his outburst against Carneiro and Fearn.

There was ample time for a meet and greet with a few more friends in the bar area of the concourse of the middle tier. Inside the stadium, I was immediately met with the sight of five huge banners, held aloft by helium balloons, yet tethered by some folks at pitch level, announcing the new tier on the south stand. There was quite a festive feel. The new structure would bring the capacity up to around 55,000.

Two things to note.

City have been quite crafty in allowing away supporters into the new top tier too. The support, three thousand strong (at £58 a ticket, no less), was now split in to three tiers, thus making it rather difficult for all of us to synchronise the singing. I always thought that slicing our away section in to two at City resulted in a sub-standard noise level. With three thin sections, piled high upon each other, it would be even more difficult to get our support together.

As I have said before, I have always linked City and Chelsea historically; loyal, yet undervalued support, a sprinkling of trophies over many years, now powerhouses in the new order, with foreign investment bringing new levels of success and expectation. I will watch with great interest to see if City manage to fill those extra 7,000 seats on a weekly basis, what with our new stadium plans taking shape at the moment. It’s a litmus test for City, and maybe one for us too.

The team was announced.

Begovic – Ivanovic, Terry, Cahill, Azpilicueta – Matic, Fabregas – Willian, Hazard, Ramires – Diego Costa.

The loud PA stoked up the home support, with various players featuring on the TV screens – “I play for you” – interspersed with the faces of fans – “I sing for you.”

“I play for you.”

“I sing for you.”

“I play for you.”

“I sing for you.”

“I play for you.”

“I sing for you.”

I remember commenting on something similar last season.

As the teams entered the pitch, the banners moved infield, and streamers cascaded down on to the pitch from the excited Citizens in the new tier above. With so many sky blue and white streamers filling the air, it reminded me of Argentina 1978.

Alan, Gary and I were in the middle of the middle tier, but right next to the home support.

“Lovely.”

The Chelsea support stood the entire game, which is nothing new.

From the whistle – Diego Costa to Willian – I was in to it.

Reports of my demise had been exaggerated.

Sadly, we lost possession straight away and a sublime ball from David Silva reached the run of Sergio Aguero. We held our breath, but Asmir Begovic saved well.

At the other end, Diego Costa fell in the box but I was unsighted. Down in front of us, City were coming at us at will, but Begovic saved magnificently on two separate occasions from the tormentor in chief Aguero. Our possession always looked like it would soon be coming to an end. A rare Matic header was our only effort which caused Hart to save. City were in the ascendency. Another Aguero chance went begging and as I looked across at the baying City fans, one chap was signalling “it could be 4-0.”

I silently agreed.

Just after the half-hour, the ball found Aguero yet again and he edged himself past Gary Cahill to fire City in front, the ball agonisingly coming off the inside of the far post.

We threatened momentarily, but City had dominated the first period. Our play was laboured and slow. Hazard was quiet. Fabregas, save for a couple of rare tackles, woeful. There were few positives.

Then, in the closing minutes, pure comedy.

An injured Gary Cahill needed attention in the goal mouth down below.

“Oh no.”

On came two unknown Chelsea assistants, scurrying like mad, and attended to our defender. The home sections of the stadium erupted in mirth.

“Sacked in the morning, you’re getting sacked in the morning.”

Only the hardest of Chelsea souls could not find that just a little amusing. I caught Alan having a little smirk to himself. In the lower tier to my right, the City fans were singing “Eva, Eva, Eva.”

After us singing Frank Lampard’s name last season and City singing Eva Carneiro’s name this season, this was getting pretty surreal.

What next?

Chelsea singing the praises of Eddie Large?

Next to receive attention was Diego Costa, clumped by a City defender, but away in the other half. Again, I was unsighted. As he walked off, head bandaged, he seemed to be overly agitated and Ivanovic – I think – had to steer him away from a City player.

At the break, there was the grim realisation that it could have been 4-0 to City. There were long faces everywhere I looked. After dismissing City as a main threat for our title before the season, I was having to re-evaluate, but yet a little voice inside my head kept saying “this is only the second game, don’t judge just yet.”

At the start of the second period, it was announced that Kurt Zouma was coming on as a substitute. My immediate thought was that Mourinho was looking to strengthen the midfield and maybe take off Ramires, put Zouma alongside Matic, and move Fabregas forward.

No. I got that wrong.

Kurt Zouma replaced John Terry.

What?

I had to think back to see if JT had received a knock. That was Gary Cahill injured before the break, surely. I just couldn’t compute that John Terry had been substituted.

Thankfully, much to our surprise, we enjoyed an upturn during the first part of the second-half. The increase in aggression and passion quickly inspired the away contingent to rally. We did our best to support the boys.

A break found Fabregas down below us in the inside-left channel and his lofted pass found Ramires, who controlled the ball and stabbed the ball past Hart. There was an instant roar of approval, but then the gnawing realisation that a linesman had flagged for offside. The City fans alongside us became animated and agitated. They mocked us for our false joy. I just looked across at them and mocked them similarly.

“Alright, calm down for fuck sake.”

Our play had improved since the first-half. Our chances on goal were rare, but we had definitely stepped up a gear.

Mourinho then replaced Ramires, one of the biggest improvements in my mind, with the much-maligned Juan Cuadrado. I am sure that there was a communal shake of the head among the Chelsea supporters inside the stadium and out. Our winger was much-heralded when he signed for us in February for around £24M. Since then, he has disappointed in nearly all of his subsequent games. There is a little part of me who thinks that Mourinho sees him as the 2015 version of Tal Ben Haim, a player so suspiciously “un-Chelsea like” in quality as to warrant the view that Mourinho only bought him, and kept picking him, as a mark of bitterness towards the lack of funds afforded him by the board.

Or is that me being too cynical?

With twenty minutes remaining, and the game delicately poised, a fine move – our best of the match – involving Eden Hazard and Diego Costa almost brought dividends. Diego lost his marker and played in Hazard, who made space well with a typical body shake, but Hart saved well.

We groaned a million “fackinells.”

Radamel Falcao, booed by City for his past season in Salford, entered the fray, replacing Willian, who had begun to tire. There were calls, tongue in cheek, for Falcao to replace Cuadrado. I was always told that it is not advisable to make substitutions before defending a corner. Falcao’s first three seconds of match action resulted in Kompany rising high above Ivanovic.

Bollocks.

2-0.

No way back now.

Insult was added to injury in the last five minutes when Fernandinho fired home from an angle. The home fans exploded in untold glee.

3-0.

Ugh.

In the dying embers, Diego Costa hit the post.

The City fans were in their element.

“Champions of England, you’re having a laugh.”

At the final whistle, a couple of the lads in front of me reached over to shake hands with the City supporters with whom they had been enjoying some good old-fashioned banter throughout the game. It was good to see. Despite a gut-wrenching defeat, I was deeply proud that not many Chelsea fans left before the end of the game.

I met up with Parky outside.

“That’s our second successive 3-0 away league defeat, Parky.”

Parky was with Kev, from Edinburgh, who last featured in these tales on our trip to wonderful Lisbon last autumn. I had managed to get a ticket for Kev before the game, and despite the loss, was full of thanks. Parky, maybe getting a little carried away, was looking forward to relegation and games against Bristol City and Cardiff City.

“Steady on, Parky, it’s not that bad mate.”

Our walk back to the car was alongside joyous sky-blue clothed locals. It was a strange feeling, to be honest. Despite the shifting sands of club rivalries, I still find it hard to genuinely hate City.

I ask you. If Chelsea fall short this season, would you rather that Arsenal, United, Liverpool or Tottenham won it?

Nah.

I wondered what Frank Lampard, in New York, thought about it all.

As with many trips to Manchester, music was in my thoughts throughout the trip. I had opened up the day on Facebook with a few lines from New Order :

“I feel so extraordinary.
Something’s got a hold on me.
I get this feeling I’m in motion.
A sudden sense of liberty.”

After a painful defeat, with home more than five hours away, I quickly decided upon a new update.

On this particular Sunday, it was now time to quote another Manchester son :

“Trudging back over pebbles and sand.”

On the drive south, with parts of the Chelsea supporter base no doubt going in to meltdown, Parky and myself were soon relaxing, enjoying each other’s company and looking forward to the next few games. As we sped past The Hawthorns, we made plans for our pre-match next Sunday. As Parky drank his ciders, I sang along – badly – to some music from the grim old ‘eighties.

I ate up the miles.

I was my usual philosophical self. It had been a tough game, but I was just so proud to be part of it. Hats off to those who continue to travel, to support, to keep the faith. I was so relieved that I had enjoyed the match day experience. I need not have been worried. Maybe the players had failed their test, but at least I had passed my own personal litmus test. I was happy for that at least.

After setting off for Manchester at 7.30am, I reached home at 11pm. It had been a long, tiring day.

Thankfully, I just missed our game on “Match Of The Day 2.”

Next Sunday, a Chelsea goal at West Bromwich Albion will be roared like a goal from our ne’er do well past. The noise will be deafening and the earth will shake.

See you there.

Tales From The International Champions Cup

Posted on August 6, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fiorentina : 6 August 2015.

This was a strange evening and a strange game.

In the current climate, a home friendly is a pretty rare occurrence anyway. With our predilection for foreign climes and summer tours, a warm-up match at Stamford Bridge has been a very rare event over the past decade or so. I didn’t bother with last season’s game with Real Sociedad and, if I am honest, the only reason that I decided to attend the game with Fiorentina was because I had attended our other three “International Champions Cup” games in the US. I set off from work, alone, at 3.30pm to complete the set.

My main concern for the evening was the probable traffic chaos in London likely to be caused by the planned one-day tube strike. I sped as quickly as I could along the M4. At Reading Services, I spotted a father and daughter in Chelsea blue.

“Thought I was the only one daft enough to go tonight.”

“Should be a good game.”

Ah, the game. I hadn’t thought much about it until then.

This would be our first ever match with the viola of Florence. My very first encounter with them was on a muggy Sunday afternoon in late May 1989, when I watched a dull 1-1 draw between Juventus and Fiorentina in the home end at Stadio Communale. Apart from my first-ever sighting of Roberto Baggio – the eventual transfer of him between the two clubs would heighten animosities which exist until this day – my main recollection from that balmy Italian afternoon took place with around fifteen minutes of the game remaining.

Around 1,500 Fiorentina paninari – Timberland boots, Best Company T-shirts, Armani jeans, Burlington socks, Invicta backpacks, Schott bomber jackets, sunglasses, attitude – got a signal from their leaders, or maybe a phone call from their Juve counterparts, and quickly packed up their banners in the away end and left the terraces en masse, intent on disturbing the peace of an Italian summer on their way back to the city’s train station.

Ten years later, I was in Turin again, when Juventus boasted Zinedine Zidane and Thierry Henry in their team, and watched as Antonio Conte scored a very late winner against Fiorentina. He famously went down in Juve folklore that afternoon by sprinting over to the visiting Viola fans and taunting them with a black and white corner flag.

As a Juve sympathiser, there was a frisson of excitement about seeing them again sixteen years later.

As expected, I did hit some slow-moving traffic, but further out than expected. Ironically, the last section into London stayed relatively clear. At 6.15pm, I was inside The Goose, but in the strangest of circumstances. Nursing my first SW6 pint of Peroni of the season, I soon realised that there was not one single person in the pub that I recognised. I felt like I was in a parallel universe. This was going to be a strange one alright.

Thankfully, a few friends soon arrived.

Mick mentioned that he might have to leave just after half-time because of the expected ninety minute wait at the two closest mainline stations. For once, I was glad that I was driving and the master of my own destiny. The Bristol Four soon arrived and we chatted about the pre-season. We briefly spoke about Kenedy, the Brazilian lad who appeared in our team against Barcelona in Maryland. We all agreed that we could not remember the last time that a “trialist” ever appeared in our team. It’s an odd one. Like something from the amateur days of the pre-war years.

Although I was not too bothered about seeing the introduction of the first team squad to the spectators at 7pm – a full hour before kick-off – I wanted to have a leisurely stroll down the North End Road and Fulham Road. I soon noticed US-style pennants hanging from street-lights celebrating our Championship of last season, with torso shots of all of our players looking all mean and moody, and intent on repeating in 2015/2016.

I approved. It added a little to the streetscape around Stamford Bridge.

It was difficult for me to judge the size of the crowd. I didn’t expect a sell-out, especially in lieu of the London Underground strike. The place seemed busy enough. I didn’t spot any Fiorentina fans outside the stadium. I had decided to purchase a ticket in the East Upper for a change. What with the chances of the modern Stamford Bridge being demolished within the next few seasons, it might turn out to be one of my last visits. I promised myself to take more than my usual share of photographs. A different angle, a different perspective, lovely.

I had a great position in the towering East Stand, in row seven towards The Shed. The place was filling up nicely. Flags had been positioned by each seat. It was soon obvious that there were many more youngsters in attendance than usual. By all accounts the pre-game introductions were a little over the top with their US-style razzmatazz. What next? Players being parachuted in from the skies above next season?

As kick-off approached, the area around myself was full. There were chattering kids behind me, plus many more within sight. The next generation was well represented and it was good to see.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. I like the fact that each of the four stands are slightly different, with idiosyncrasies, yet there is a common design to all. I am stirred that the new stadium designs echo these slight variances. The usual banners were out, though I noticed a few – Captain, Leader, Legend for example – looking rather faded and forlorn.

Our team contained several surprises.

Begovic – Aina, Zouma, Terry, Traore – Mikel, Loftus-Cheek – Cuadrado, Oscar, Moses – Falcao.

It would be home debuts for four.

I am sure that Ola Aina is in for a fine future at the club, but my main worry is that his name contains too many vowels for a defender.

“Too exotic son. See if you can get yourself some consonants. Work on that and you’ll be fine.”

Am I the only one who thinks our home shirts and shorts are – nicely – a deeper and darker shade of royal blue this season? They are certainly darker than the mid-blue of 2012-2013. Fiorentina, sadly but not surprisingly, showed up in white / white / violet.

Asmir Begovic did well to get down low within the first minute to save a rasping shot from distance after a simple passing move cut into our defence. We then enjoyed long spells of possession and our best twenty-five minutes of the evening. With the sun setting in the north-west corner, lighting up the sky nicely, I was settling down and enjoying this. Victor Moses, one of the stars in the United States, was again showing real promise in his determination and desire. Ruben Loftus-Cheek was impressing with his finesse and strength. We were playing some nice stuff. We were treated to a lovely Rabona from Oscar on the goal-line to my left.

I commented to the young couple to my right “I can do that after seven pints.”

I detected a foreign accent in the chap’s confused response, so I then decided to talk my way through the game with the Shed season ticket holder to my left. We had a good old natter throughout the match.

Mikel had been doing the simple stuff well, but then caused much merriment with an effort on goal which more resembled a defensive tackle.

Fiorentina then gradually took hold of the game. They kept the ball well and our play deteriorated alarmingly. On the half hour, a long raking drive smashed against Begovic’ crossbar. We had been warned. Soon after, Begovic saved well but could not smother the ball leaving an easy tap-in for Rodriguez.

The Fiorentina manager – ex-Juventus player and ex- QPR manager Paulo Sousa – was watching down below from the technical area and was increasingly pleased with his team’s performance. The little knot of away fans, no more than 150 in the bottom corner of The Shed, roared with approval too. They were, surely, mainly ex-pats. There was one “Viola Club Stockport” flag.

Fiorentina gained control and we struggled. The game went flat.

The noise, hardly tumultuous, reduced too.

At the interval, the Chelsea Women – in coats, they must have been feeling the cold – were introduced by Neil Barnett with the recently-won FA Cup.

Mourinho changed the personnel at the break, with Azpilicueta, Cahill and Ivanovic joining Zouma in defence. Matic replaced Mikel. The impressive Moses was sadly replaced by Ramires after the second of two knocks.

In truth, the second-half resembled the second-half at Wembley on Sunday; we enjoyed the majority of the ball, but found it difficult to break the opposition down. The frustration was starting to seep down to the players from the stands. Ivanovic seemed to be, again, a main source of our attacks, but again annoyed me with his final ball. As the game progressed I saw him getting increasingly annoyed with things. On one occasion he turned to the bench and had a proper rant, his face clearly contorted with rage about something or other.

“He had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle” as the saying goes.

The comparison with the cool and calm and seldom-flustered Azpilicueta on the other flank could not be more dramatic.

Jose Mourinho, too, seemed to be increasingly annoyed. There were wholesale changes from both teams on the hour mark – on came Willian, Hazard, Fabregas and Remy – and Mourinho took dislike to the amount of time that Sousa orchestrated a similar amount of team changes too. It turned out to be the longest break for substitutes I can remember.

Joaquin, a visitor to Stamford Bridge with both Real Betis and Valencia in previous years, appeared among the viola substitutes. It was one name that I recognised.

“What do you mean Giancarlo Antognoni doesn’t play for them anymore?”

With more established quality in our ranks, surely a goal – and the inevitable win on penalties – would come now. Chelsea controlled possession but seemed to take forever to get going, and I lost count of the number of times the ball was passed laterally. We did improve when Willian, Hazard and Fabregas linked on a few occasions, but chances were rare. A Gary Cahill header from a Fabregas free-kick went close, and we all wondered how Remy, on for the quiet Falcao, managed to shoot wide from close range.

A rather agricultural – no, bloody clumsy – challenge from Kurt Zouma on a poor Fiorentina player – caused much merriment in the seats around me. It was, quite simply, one of the ugliest tackles that I have seen for a while.

The atmosphere, roused at times, was pretty quiet now, and parents with young families began to leave early on their long and tedious journeys home. I had commented to the Shed Ender to my left that I was impressed with the attendance. It looked to be at the 35,000 mark. Imagine my surprise when a full house of 41,435 was announced. Again, even for a friendly game, tickets sold rather than spectators in seats is used. It’s an odd one. Undoubtedly, there were empty seats around the ground too. Even so, on a night of massive travel disruption, this was a great attendance.

Despite five minutes of extra time, no equaliser was forthcoming.

“We could have played until March and not scored.”

The Shed Ender agreed.

“Sorry for the cliché, but as so often happens in these pre-season games, there are more questions than answers.”

He agreed again.

“My biggest worry is that all three of our strikers might be a knock away from being side-lined for weeks.”

I was a little subdued on my slow exit from a warm and sultry Stamford Bridge. And although I wasn’t – honestly – reading too much in to our rather lacklustre performance against a well-drilled Fiorentina team, I knew full well that out there in cyberspace, thousands of virtual Chelsea fans were throwing themselves off the nearest bridge, building or balcony as we endured another pre-season loss.

How these people would have coped in 1975, 1979 or 1988 beggars belief.

I wanted to get home as quickly as I could. Sadly, the journey home turned into one of farce as the roadworks on the A303 meant that I was severely re-routed, almost as far as Southampton damn it, and didn’t get home until 1.30am. Others, living in London, were still catching one final night bus.

A strange evening indeed.

Tales From New Jersey

Posted on July 25, 2015 by Chris Axon

New York Red Bulls vs. Chelsea : 22 July 2015.

Ah, the passage of time.

Ten summers ago, I was lucky enough to travel to the United States of America to watch two out of three Chelsea tour matches when we travelled as league champions for the first time in fifty years. I attended a match in the capital city of Washington against DC United and then at the Meadowlands in New Jersey against Milan. In 2015, I was repeating myself; a return trip to the nation’s capital and another game at the Redskins’ Fedex Field and then another game in New Jersey, this time at the purpose built home of the New York Red Bulls of the MLS. There would also be a third game in Charlotte, North Carolina. And again, we would be returning to North America as English Champions.

So, here was a great chance to compare the two trips, and to note how both the global spread of Chelsea Football Club has impacted upon another continent, but to also check on how the football scene in the US has changed over the ensuing decade. It would be a trip that will bring me face to face with many good friends, but also face to face with football’s steady rise in a once barren football nation.

Season 2015-2016, I guess, would begin in the little-known town of Harrison, New Jersey, across the Hudson River and the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan.

“Let’s go to woik.”

Most of my summers away from the constant beat of football – or at least Chelsea – follow the same pattern. After following the team extensively during the previous nine months, I usually feel exhausted and in need of a break. The summer of 2015 was certainly no different. As 2014-2015 closed, I felt myself shutting-off. I needed to re-charge those batteries.

However, I was in no doubt that the upcoming US Tour, with matches against New York Red Bulls, Paris St. Germain and Barcelona, plus the fun of meeting a few good Chelsea mates, would be the kick-start that I would need.

And yet this tells only half the story.

In my closing words from the last game of season 2014-2015, I mentioned that it had been the least enjoyable of the four league championships that I had witnessed. I don’t really want to go over old ground, but in the circumstances I feel it is appropriate. There are probably several reasons for the melancholy which greeted title number five, but two are paramount. After our win against Bayern Munich in the European Cup Final of 2012, I sagely suspected that any success which followed would not reach those same heights of emotion and satisfaction. And although the lovely journey towards our fifth league championship was often exciting and entertaining, the deciding win against Crystal Palace was slightly anticlimactic.

Also, of course – and most importantly of all – in the closing months of last season, I sadly lost my mother after a short but yet distressing illness. In the period immediately after this devastating loss, football seemed at times irrelevant – and silly, banal and ridiculous – and yet at times it acted as the force which kept me sane. It was, undoubtedly, a strange and confusing time.

For both of these reasons, and more, it felt like I almost sleepwalked through the months of March, April and May.

Without being too melodramatic, season 2015-2016 represents a new challenge for me.

Of course I am genuinely intrigued to see how the new season will pan out, not only in terms of the team’s success – which, worryingly, seems assured in some optimistic quarters of our support – but also how I react to having a different set of circumstances under which I find myself supporting the club. Will my support for the club step up a few notches, will it remain constant, or will it begin to decline, with an almost imperceptible inevitability? If I am honest, I have felt that I have reached some sort of plateau of support over the past few seasons. I guess that is a pretty high plateau. I have averaged around fifty games over the past ten campaigns and it is unlikely that I will be able to maintain that level of support – some would call it addiction or obsession, rather than simple support – over the ensuing decade. But I’m not sure. This is why I find this season rather intriguing.

All of these thought, plus many more, formed a backdrop as I prepared mind, body and soul for yet another season supporting the team of royal blue on the Fulham Road.

After landing at Dulles International Airport at 3.30pm on Monday 20 July, my latest American adventure began. I picked up a hire car and soon found myself heading north. How I love the American road. The weather was perfect, the scenery magnificent. I zipped over an iconic iron bridge over the Potomac River; I was buzzing.

I was headed for my friends’ house in Flemington New Jersey. I have known Stacey since 1989. I first met her husband Bill in 2001. They kindly invited me to stay the first night with them. After five hours of driving, I eventually reached their fantastic house at around 10.30pm. The last time that I had seen them was at Gettysburg when I visited that wonderful and historic Civil War site with my dear mother in 2010. As we chatted – a bottle of Peroni never tasted better – I could not help think back on the few hours that my mother spent in their house five years ago. Lovely memories. The next morning after breakfast, we spoke about a few current issues occupying our minds, but – typically me – I managed to chat about football too. Stacey and Bill are no football fans, although Stacey accompanied me to our 1-1 draw with Milan in New Jersey in 2005 – but I enjoyed our conversation about how football has taken hold in an increasingly rapid fashion in the US in the time that I have been visiting.

During the previous evening, I had driven past the Pennsylvania town of Bethlehem, and I spoke to Stacey and Bill how that town used to house a US football powerhouse back in the ‘twenties called Bethlehem Steel. It was lovely that I drove past such an important town in the history of US football. The late David Wangerin penned an intriguing book called “Soccer In A Football World” which detailed the rise – and fall – and then rise again – of our sport in the United States. In the early twentieth century, everything was up for grabs, with various sports clamouring for national attention. For several reasons – some more nefarious than others – football missed its opportunity to stake a hold in the hearts and minds of the US nation. The other four major sports left football in their wake. It has taken a long time – via the boom and bust era of the NASL – for football to reach its current place in the hierarchy of US sports. The growth has been exponential in even the eleven years since my first Chelsea game in the US, the 3-0 win over Roma in Pittsburgh, when the Chelsea section was only around 150 in number.

The growth of the MLS – now with the fifth highest league attendances anywhere in the world – has grown year on year. New teams are created, new markets explored, new superstars added. It is an interesting story.

I often think that the US is a fantastical social experiment; “add various races from Europe, then add other races from Asia, then Africa. Mix and observe.”

It seems to me that the US football fan culture has evolved under similar lines; “add banners from Italy, songs from England, standing areas from Germany, scarves from Spain, chants from Mexico. Mix and observe.”

On the Tuesday, I drove to River Edge in New Jersey. I was staying with another couple – Lynda and Tee – for two nights, which would encompass the first of our tour matches. I have known Lynda, via the New York Blues, since 2010 and I first met T in 2012. Sadly, Lynda lost her paternal grandfather on the Sunday; it would be a tough time for her, but I was welcomed with open arms. Tee coaches football and soon arrived back from a “gig” in Hoboken.

It was Tuesday afternoon – around 5pm – and we sped over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Our excitement was palpable; we would soon be meeting up with many friends in a bar under the shadow of the Empire State Building, but there was an added – and wondrous – twist. Not only would former players Bobby Tambling, Mario Melchiot and Paul Canoville be making an appearance, but arrangements had been made – hush hush and all that – for Frank Lampard to make an appearance too.

What excitement.

My friend Roma, with her friend Peggy, from Tennessee arrived at about 6.30pm. Roma is a familiar figure in these Tales, and has been a fantastic friend over the past twenty-six years. Roma has attended games at every one of Chelsea’s previous eight US tours (she is “one up” on me, since I missed the 2013 tour), and was doing all three of this summer’s games. However, when I calmly informed her that her hero Frank Lampard would be in the bar later in the evening, her reaction was lovely. To say she was excited would be an understatement. She almost began crying with joy. Bless her.

What a lovely time we all had. In addition to being able to reconnect with many good Chelsea friends, including the usual suspects from the UK, we were treated to an hour or so of valuable insights into the four guest’s views on various subjects. Munich often dominated the questions. Frank was very gracious and answered each question carefully and with wit and sincerity. I loved the way that he listened attentively to the other players. Near the start, the New York crowd began singing :

“We want our Frankie back, we want our Frankie back.”

Frank smiled and responded :

“I’ll be back.”

It was these three words which would be reported all of the way around the world the next morning.

I took a few photographs, but could not get close to Frank. However, it was just lovely to be so close to a Chelsea legend. Frank signed some shirts and photographs, but he needed to shoot off to meet up with his former team mates later in the evening. As he slowly exited amid scenes of adulation, it did not surprise me to see Roma right next to Frank, with her camera poised.

Snap.

Roma and Frank, New York 2015.

Picture perfect.

A few of us stayed chatting until gone midnight. To be honest I expected a later night, but then I realised;

“Not everyone is on holiday.”

Tomorrow, game day, would be a normal working day for most.

I spent all of the Wednesday in New Jersey. I was not tempted, for once, by Manhattan’s many attractions.

I had, actually, only been in New York in June, on a joint fiftieth birthday trip with my two good friends Daryl and Neil. We had planned that particular trip, encompassing two New York Yankees games, a New York Mets game and a Brooklyn Cyclones minor league game, for five years. We had a lovely time. The back story is particularly amusing.

In addition to being Chelsea fanatics, Daryl and I follow the Yankees. For many years we had said that should Chelsea ever experience a decline in fortunes, and specifically a prolonged absence from European games – with all associated expenses – then we would be able to go over to see some Yankee baseball. This plan was spoken about for many years.

Well, Chelsea kept winning.

Damn it.

The baseball trip never looked like happening.

European trips to Champions League cities prevailed.

Typical Chelsea.

In 2010, we decided that “enough was enough.”

In June 2015, we eventually made it to The Bronx for some baseball. We loved every minute of it. We even bumped into a few New York Blues at “Legends” after one game. It was fantastic.

On the Wednesday morning, I drove up to Woodbury Common in New York State, where there is a huge outlet centre. Always on the lookout for suitable additions to my football wardrobe, I picked up a few snappy shirts.

“It would be rude not to.”

In the afternoon, at just after 4pm, Lynda and I walked to the local suburban train station near her home. I was flagging slightly and, appropriately, guzzled back a refreshing tin of Red Bull. At 4.26pm, we caught the train to Secaucus Junction.

Season 2015-2016 was about to begin.

We then caught another train to Newark Penn Station. Outside, at around 5.30pm, we popped into the oddly-named “mmmBello’s” pub, which is often frequented by those of my New York mates who are not only Chelsea supporters, but fans of the Red Bulls too. This would surely be an odd game for them. What would be my equivalent? Frome Town versus Chelsea I suppose. It seemed we could not escape football. The US versus Jamaica game from Atlanta was on TV. The US would eventually lose 2-1, much to the complete joy of T, who had joined us, who is from Jamaica.

There was football everywhere.

On the Tuesday, the Red Bulls had played a US Cup – their equivalent of the FA Cup – match against Philadelphia Union. However, this meant that in all likelihood the Red Bull team against us would be a weakened team. This also meant that, unfortunately, the attendance would not be so great. This immediately disappointed me. I wanted to see a full house, with cheering NYRB fan groups going for it. I wanted a “proper” away game. As I met with more and more familiar faces, I was surprised how quiet the pub was. I expected it to be buzzing.

The “Rolling Rocks” were going down well though. It was a mellow time. I spoke with a few about the exciting plans for the new Stamford Bridge. Expect a running commentary about that subject this season.

One sight made my heart miss a beat. At the end of the street, past a huge graffiti mural on an old red brick building, the street opened up with a view across the Hudson River. There, all alone in the distance, was the World Trade Centre, standing tall on the southern tip of Manhattan.

Welcome to New York.

We were – typically Chelseaesque – running late for the game. We bolted down last beers and quickly walked the mile or so to the impressive Red Bull Arena. It is one of the new breed of purpose-built stadia, ideal for MLS, which have been built in recent years. It is a fine stadium. The sun glinted off the curving roof panels as we hurriedly entered the turnstiles. Up and into the guts of the stadium, and I was again impressed. The navy blue seats contrasted well with the silver of the exposed steelwork. Making our way towards the Chelsea section high up in the far corner, I glimpsed down just as Loic Remy kicked-off our season.

I soon joined the massed ranks of the blue-shirted loyalists and tried to take it all in.

Camera poised, I took a few panoramic shots, before focussing on the line-up. All of this was rather rushed. I would have preferred more time to settle myself. We were wearing our new Yokohama shirts.

Blue shirts, blue shorts, blue socks.

Chelsea appeared to be on top in the first few exchanges. All around me were familiar faces from New York and beyond. However, somebody was missing.

Where was Roma? She was meant to be sitting alongside me. I hoped that she was safe.

We bossed the first-half, with Victor Moses looking particularly lively, and with Mikel and Fabregas dictating the midfield. It was our first sighting of the much vaunted Bertrand Traore who fitted in well. We dominated the early play, with a few chances drawing excited gasps from the fans around me. On twenty-six minutes, Oscar found an unmarked Loic Remy, who was able to steady both himself and the ball, and slot home.

Get in.

The Chelsea section, although predominantly seated – unlike at Chester in 2012, the high water mark in terms of noise at any Chelsea game in the US – were in good form. Cathy initiated a hearty “Zigger Zagger” and there were outbreaks of that song and others throughout the first-half. It was great to hear.

The loudest chant of the first-half was the US-styled “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” which used to annoy me, but I know accept it.

It is a US chant, not a Chelsea one, but so be it.

We continued to dominate the first-half, with only a silly blunder by Thibaut Courtois causing us any anxious moments.

At half-time, I descended down into the concourse and had a wonderful time meeting many Chelsea fans who it has been my absolute pleasure to get to know over the years.

Jon from Florida.

Karen from Connecticut.

Brian from North Carolina.

Tim from Pennsylvania.

Frank from New York.

Keith from New Jersey.

Brenda from Georgia.

Fantastic.

Behind the stadium, the night was falling and there were the bright lights of Manhattan. What a sublime view.

I missed the start of the second-half due to my prolonged hand shaking, hugging and suchlike on the crowded concourse. Thankfully, at the top of the steps were Roma and Peggy. They had watched the first-half from behind the goal. It was a relief to see them both.

Eliot thrusted a can of cider into my hands and I took my seat alongside Roma, Peggy, Tom, Samantha and Larry.

I could relax.

Jose had rung the changes at half-time and it took me forever to work it all out. Only Zouma, Oscar and Dave remained from the first period. However, in addition to my throat being rather sore, my mind was a little muddled. This pre-season is a work out for us fans too.

Roma joined in with the “Diego” chants. It was great to see him on the pitch. We need him to be back to his fearless – and fit – best throughout the campaign.

I won’t dwell on the events of the second-half. However, the equaliser set the pattern for an almost comedic array of defensive blunders which allowed the vastly under-strength Red Bulls team to surge past us.

1-1.

2-1.

3-1.

There was growing disbelief with each calamity. All around me, stunned silence. The home crowd, particularly quiet throughout the whole game, greeted each goal with woops of pleasure.

“Oh bloody hell Chelsea.”

The deficit was reduced when Eden Hazard cut inside and drilled a shot home.

3-2.

The Chelsea support was stirred. The songs began again. One song made me smile.

“One Bobby Tambling. There’s Only One Bobby Tambling.”

Bobby was watching among the New York Blues just a few rows behind me.

Sadly, our hopes were extinguished when the home team struck again and made our misery complete.

Ugh.

I quickly tried to explain everything to myself.

“Sigh. It’s only pre-season. Jose will not be happy though. Defensive blunders. Pretty good singing. The half-time social was magnificent. A defeat still hurts though. Ugh.”

No doubt some – hopefully not many – of our fans would be reading too much in to this surprising defeat. They ought to log on to Ebay and get themselves a life.

I took a photo of Bobby Tambling with Roma and Peggy with the quickly-emptying stadium as a backdrop.

We all then descended down and out into the New Jersey night.

I said some farewells to some. Sadly many were only watching this first game.

I would see others, many others, in Charlotte and DC.

After taking a while to exit the immediate area by the stadium, which like Stamford Bridge is rather hemmed in, Lynda drove us home.

All three of us were rather lost for words.

Then New York took over.

Heading north on I-95, that long and never-ending highway that hugs the US coast from Maine to Florida, we were treated to the bewildering and ridiculously photogenic sight of Manhattan, just a few miles away across the Hudson.

Scintillating blurs of reds, whites, yellows and blues fizzed and popped into view.

The sight was stunning.

All of a sudden, the football didn’t seem to matter.

Tales From Tinsel Town

Posted on May 29, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 24 May 2015.

This was it, then. The last game of the season. To be truthful, it was a game in name only. With the league already won, the day was all about one particular moment which would happen at around 5.15pm.

The sun glinting off the Premier League trophy as John Terry lifts it high above his shoulders.

In fact, there was a part of me that wanted to fast forward through the actual match in order to just reach that point. Sure, there would be friends to meet and memories of the season to share along the way, but I just wanted to see the trophy back in SW6.

Best not to wish my time away though. Surely it would be best to relax and enjoy the day as it unfolded before me. That was the plan.

However, it was perhaps inevitable in this most difficult of seasons for myself, what with the recent loss of my mother overshadowing almost everything, that even this most potentially joyous of all days should be tinged with sadness.

On Wednesday, we sadly learned that one of the Bristol group, Clive, had sadly passed away. Although Clive was not in my immediate circle of close Chelsea friends, he was one of the many acquaintances that I have enjoyed talking to over the years, whether it was in The Goose or at any home or away game. That Clive lived in Bristol, relatively close to me in the West Country, meant that there was an empathy with him. He was a fine man, a very loyal Chelsea supporter and, for the want of a better phrase, one of the undoubted “good guys.” He has featured in these tales over the years as one of the un-named members of “the Bristol boys” and, to be honest, his unexpected passing hit me for six. Although the Chelsea family has lost a few well known supporters of late, Clive was the only one that I can honestly say that I knew. That he passed away on 19 May is an irony that was not lost on any of his close Chelsea friends. In the packed beer garden of “The Goose”, I had a quiet few words – a difficult few words – with Clive’s sons Kelvin and Rich. We raised a glass to their father and to my mother.

I had travelled up from the West Country for the final league game of the season with Southern Parky and Northern Dean. At the Chelsea hotel, The Copthorne, we had joined forces with a few good friends from the United States – Kathryn and Tim from DC, Tom from Los Angeles – and had met a first time visitor to Stamford Bridge, Jim, also from the DC area, too. Jim was over with his son CJ, and was supremely happy that I had managed to sort out a spare match ticket for him. On the way to “The Goose” we had stopped off at a ridiculously quiet “Malt House” for a pint and a chat about all things Chelsea. In “The Goose” the atmosphere was predictably boisterous. The beer garden was rammed. Burger, Julie and Andy, veterans of many a Chelsea US tour, joined the celebrations. It was lovely.

The sun was shining and the championship was ours.

The beer tasted even better than usual. It was perfect, just perfect.

Sadly, we left the pub just a little too late for my liking. There was a typical melee at the turnstiles and I sadly missed the pre game presentation to the crowd of several members of the 2004/2005 championship squad. Alan, who was in early, was able to tell me that even William Gallas, probably the only ex-Chelsea player of recent memory who has received a tough time during his subsequent outings against us, was on show.

I was absolutely elated to see Tom alongside Alan. Tom is in his late ‘seventies and his health has not been too good of late. His presence was one of the high points of the day.

I noted that everyone had been given blue card mosaics and a royal blue flag to hold and wave before the teams had entered the pitch. Sadly, that infamous Chelsea tradition of “one last pint” had backfired further. I had missed all of that too.

Balls.

And so to the game.

Ah, the game. Yet again, all of the various pre match chats had managed to avoid the game itself. The first big surprise was that Eden Hazard, rumoured to be out due to the lingering side-effects of a dental operation, was playing. We had learned that this would be Didier Drogba’s last ever game for us and he was playing from the start. Also in was Petr Cech; would this be his last game, too? The back line in front of Big Pete was the standard four of 2014/2015, but Jose Mourinho chose Jon Obi Mikel – maybe his last game too? – alongside Nemanja Matic. The attacking three were Hazard, Willian and Cuadrado.

The traditionalist in me was just happy that the men in suits had not decided for our players to jettison the current playing kit for next season’s. It is always a pet peeve of mine. Dare I mention Moscow?

With the Chelsea support in fine form, I soon texted Jim from DC to see how he was doing.

“I’m in heaven.”

With the sun shining – perfect “Chelsea weather” – we began well and Drogba almost touched home a low Cuadrado cross at the near post. The crowd were vibrant and the party was on.

“We want you to staaaaaay. Petr Cech, we want you to stay.”

Two pieces of action involved our rampaging full-back / winger / battering ram Ivanovic. Firstly he tumbled in the box after a challenge but a penalty was not given and then, with a shot mirroring a similar effort against a recent opponent at home, a blistering drive from distance.

Sadly, despite having the majority of the ball, we conceded on twenty-six minutes. A corner was played in to the box and the ball’s path seemed to confuse and bewilder our entire defence. The ball bounced up, just missing John Terry’s desperate attempt to intercept, allowing Stephen Fletcher to nod the ball down and in past Cech. To say we were stunned would be an understatement. The Mackems in the opposite corner, relatively quiet until that point, roared after a tantalising split second of silence; I suspected that they could not believe it either.

Bollocks.

Next, came a moment of pure theatre. Mourinho signalled for Diego Costa to replace Didier Drogba. The crowd began applauding our hero of Munich – and of course of many other moments too – but then we became aware of something strange. We saw Cech race out of his box and join the rest of his team mates in hoisting Didier up and carrying him, in a blue-shirted chariot, off the pitch. None of us had witnessed anything like this before. It was partly corny, partly magnificent. Didier turned, waved a palm to the stands, then took off his shirt once his chariot ride had finished. An embrace with Diego and Jose and his Chelsea career was over. I am still in two minds about his return to us, but here was a send off fit for a king. I have pictures of his last seconds as a Chelsea player on the Stamford Bridge pitch in 2012.

The pictures from 2015 seem more appropriate.

“Thanks Didier. You take care mate.”

Just after, Cuadrado tempted John O’Shea to lunge as he offered the ball as a prize. The lunge was ill-timed and the referee Lee Mason was left with no option. A penalty.

Diego Costa calmly stroked the ball in.

Unlike in 2005/2006 when our league campaign, after the title-clincher versus Manchester United, ended with two limp defeats, I was convinced that the 0-3 reverse at The Hawthorns would not be followed with another defeat here. We had, after all, another undefeated home record to defend. And there have been a few.

Sadly Cuadrado, enjoying his best game for us – “not hard” I hear you say – was injured and replaced by Loic Remy just before the break.

At the break, there was an air of disbelief around me when we heard that Stoke City were pummelling Liverpool 5-0. Oh dear, Stephen Gerrard, what a shame, never mind.

We began the second half well, with Remy looking interested. A rare shot from Gary Cahill took us all by surprise. Willian went close too. Then, forty yards out, Hazard turned on a sixpence and ran in that unfettered way of his at Larsson. He gained a few yards and then played in Remy. The ball was moved sideways, then struck firmly. The shot was not particularly hard, but there was enough on it to evade Vito Mannone. I caught this third goal of the game on film too. The crowd roared again.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at wor now like.”

Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds.”

With a win now looking more likely, the crowd toasted Chelsea legends past and present. There was also a wave from the bashful owner in the middle tiers of the West Stand.

We heard that Newcastle United had managed to win and so their presence in the top flight would be assured for another season. Newcastle fans have their detractors ( I wonder what they make of Alan Pardew’s fine spell at Crystal Palace) but the Premier League is not the same without them.

Andreas Christensen replaced Mikel. We were coasting now and a bright line of stewards began to line the pitch as the seconds ticked away. We sealed the win when Remy appeared unmarked at the near post to delicately touch home a low cross from Matic. Another goal – the last of the season – on film, captured for posterity.

At the final whistle, hugs from the players.

Another win.

Job done.

The players returned to the sanctuary of the dressing rooms, and we waited. It seemed to take an eternity to construct the special stage on which the trophy was to be presented. Lucky me; not only would this be at our end of the stadium, unlike in 2005, but the players would be facing my way too. My memory card was full, so I spent a few moments deleting some unworthy photographs.

A fair proportion of the Sunderland fans, to their credit, stayed on to watch the post-game pageantry. With their safety assured only within the past week, perhaps they looked on and took some sort of vicarious pleasure in our superbly choreographed celebrations. In the very first few moments of the match, the away supporters in the lower tier had tossed around – if that is the correct phrase in the circumstances – an inflatable penis. I couldn’t tell if an image of Mike Ashley’s face was added for good measure.

The wives and girlfriends walked on to a strange fenced-off area on the pitch in front of the West Lower. This gave Alan an easy laugh :

“That’s the John Terry area…”want, want, got, got, want, want, want, got…”

The minutes ticked by but eventually the stage was set. With Neil Barnett at the helm, players were announced, and cheers rang out. Although the Barclay’s corporate colour, and that of the stage and assorted props, is of a lighter blue than we normally see at Stamford Bridge, I was not too concerned.

I was hoping for a splash of red in the procedings, though. The presence of a smattering of Chelsea Pensioner scarlet always adds a sense of history and perspective to these occasions at Chelsea. Alas, the Royal Hospital was not represented.

As Jose Mourinho walked towards the platform, he looked towards Roman Abramovich and gave him a prolonged “thumbs up”and an extra wave.

“Thanks for having me back. Waitrose eggs never tasted better.”

There were extra-special cheers for Cech, Fabregas, Hazard, Drogba and Terry. Our captain, of course, was the last in line.

We waited.

With everything set, with the cameras poised, with 40,000 sets of eyes inside the stadium centered on the huge chunk of silver, with millions watching worldwide, with Kathryn, Tim, Andy and Jim watching too, our captain hoisted the 2014/2015 Barclay’s Premier League trophy high.

From above, royal blue and white tinsel cascaded down. There was tinsel in 2005, in 2006, in 2010 and at all of our Wembley cup wins too. It seems that where ever we go these days, blue and white tinsel is not too far away. Long may it continue. Great plumes of orange flame fired into the air from in front of the East Lower. Everywhere there were smiles. Soon, the players reassembled together for obligatory team photographs.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

And then, Neil Barnett spoke :

“Didier wants a word.”

The crowd hushed as Didier took the microphone.

“I don’t really know what to say…”

He spoke for a minute or so, about his two spells at the club, his thanks to Jose Mourinho, his love of his team mates and of us, the fans. There was also a kind and thoughtful word for Frank Lampard too. It was classy stuff.

I watched, with Dave, Alan, Gary and Tom, as the players walked past us. Their children accompanied them. I took special care in photographing John Terry and Didier Drogba with the trophy. Petr Cech too. Will we see him again in Chelsea orange or yellow or white? Probably not.

The players headed off to The Shed where Parky and others were dutifully waiting. It was a familiar scene this; for the fourth time in my life, the fourth time in eleven seasons, we were parading the championship trophy at The Bridge.

And yet, if I am honest, I was finding it difficult to fully embrace this particular triumph. This has been a tough period of my life. February was the toughest month of all. A lot of my focus over the past three months has been on other far more important matters. The football has been a backdrop to my life rather than the centrepoint. To be blunt, this championship season, running from Burnley in August – game one thousand – through the autumn and in to winter, then out the other side into spring, has been increasingly difficult for me to relate to. If it matters, this one has been the least enjoyable of the four championships that we have won in these past ten years. Yet I am sure that this is no surprise to any. Losing my mother in February has overshadowed everything this season.

But I am sure that I will come back stronger next season. I am already looking forward to a full pre-season in the US in July. There are games in New Jersey, in North Carolina, in DC. It will be the perfect start to a new campaign, with maybe slightly a different focus this time around. I am so looking forward to seeing some good – no, great – friends in all three American cities. I am also looking forward to reminding American fans that there is no real need to wear Chelsea scarves in ninety degree heat in the summer, nor is there any need to refer to Chelsea as “Chels” every five fucking seconds. It will be a great trip. Then there is the Community Shield at Wembley and a home friendly with Fiorentina. By the time of the opening league game of the season, I should already have five games behind me. This season, my mark was just forty-two games. From a high of fifty-eight in 2011/2012, this is a rather low total. Our early dismissals in two cup competitions clearly did not help. By the way, if it matters, our brief foray in the Champions League gave me my most treasured memory this season; drinking Morangoska cocktails in the packed side streets of Lisbon on a magical Monday night alongside some dear friends was truly magnificent, as was, in fact, the entire three days in that historic and charming city.

What of the future, then?

We are in a very strong position here. We have the best manager in England. We have an interested and involved chairman. We have a top-notch academy. We have a great youth team. We are Youth Cup winners again. We will strengthen the squad further in the summer. We seem to be keen to redevelop our Stamford Bridge stadium rather than move to a soul-less stadium elsewhere.

All is good.

What could possibly go wrong?

In closing my reports for 2014/2015, a few words of thanks to our players for keeping the desire to win throughout the season and, of course, thanks to many fantastic mates for supporting me through my dark days.

Thanks also for the support for CHELSEA/esque too.

It is appreciated.

See you in New Jersey.

Tales From The Hawthorns

Posted on May 21, 2015 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 18 May 2015.

The end of the season was nigh. It really did not seem so long ago that we still had ten league games left to play. And yet now there were just two games remaining. The Monday evening game at The Hawthorns seemed to conjure up mixed emotions. There was real sadness in the fact that this would be the last away game of the season. But happiness came with the realisation that we could bestow some love and appreciation on the team – the champions – once more. A trip to The Hawthorns is one of the easiest of the season for me. As I collected Parky from The Pheasant, I was relishing the chance to be among the tight little knot of three thousand loyalists in the away end later in the evening. There was a lovely buzz, growing with each passing hour, at the thought of a Chelsea game in the evening.

This would probably be the last time that The Pheasant gets a mention in these tales. Over the summer, my place of work changes from Chippenham to Melksham – same company, sparkling new premises – and we have already sorted out a new Parky pick-up point; a newly-built pub opposite my new place of work on the A350 called The Milk Churn. Parky had enjoyed a spirited send off at The Pheasant. He had already supped four pints while waiting for me to finish my shift.

There was an undoubted tingle of excitement, then, as we headed north to the trip to the stadium which sits on the boundary between Birmingham and the Black Country. I missed the match – another midweek fixture – at West Brom last season, but there were strong memories of the last three games that I had attended there. Four seasons ago, there was a 3-1 win under Carlo Ancelotti amid glorious self-mocking chants of “We’re Gonna Win Fuck All” from the smiling Chelsea contingent. Three seasons ago came a 1-0 defeat and chants of “Sacked In the Morning” from the home fans aimed at the fated Andre Villas-Boas (no wonder the home fans disliked him with a name like that). Two seasons ago, there came a 2-1 loss and the last league game for the much-loved Roberto di Matteo, who lost his job after the following game in Turin.

“The Chelsea manager’s graveyard” they called it, and with good reason.

Over the past three visits, we had endured two losses and a draw. The Hawthorns has clearly not been the happiest of hunting grounds at all. However, this season West Bromwich Albion have hardly set the world alight. I can’t think of another Premiership team that has endured such a nondescript season. There have been no relegation scares, only lower-mid table mediocrity. The both of us were confident of a Chelsea win.

“Two wins to finish off the season, ninety points surely” uttered Parky as he opened a bottle of cider as we headed through Gloucestershire.

Our pre-match at West Bromwich Albion is always the same; a few beers at the “Park Inn” hotel just off the M5. The hotel’s bar was over-run with Chelsea fans of a certain generation and it was lovely to see so many familiar faces. Parky and I found ourselves chatting to a little group of home fans as we downed some lager. One West Brom fan was the spokesman for the group. He mentioned the last time that he had ventured to Stamford Bridge – in the 1988-1989 season – when a last minute Graham Roberts penalty saved our skins. We bantered back and forth about that game – it was on New Year’s Eve – and he reminded me that Roberts later played for West Brom, though he was well past his prime. This link seemed to inspire the cheery Baggie.

“I’ve always felt, like, that – going back – West Brom were a bit like Chelsea. Flair players. Maybe not always winning much. But…”

I smiled, benignly, wondering where this was going. The standard comparison of my youth was more like Chelsea and Manchester City – ooh, the irony – but this was the first time that I had heard of this unlikely pairing. He continued on.

“And there’s a link with West Brom and Mourinho, you know.”

Now I was intrigued.

“Mourinho began as a driver didn’t he, for Bobby Robson, at Barcelona?”

I thought to myself “translator, not driver but keep going mate, I’m intrigued to see where this is going.”

“Well, Bobby Robson played here, at West Brom, in the ‘fifties. We played some pretty good stuff. I bet you that Robson mentioned his time at West Brom to Mourinho. The tactics, like.”

This was fantastic stuff. Expect a plaque to be erected at The Hawthorns over the summer stating that Chelsea’s success under Jose Mourinho was conceived and nurtured by Bobby Robson at West Brom in the ‘fifties.

The team line-up was shown on the bar TV.

“Diego Costa in, Loftus-Cheek playing, Remy in midfield, Izzy Brown on the bench.”

We left in good time for the 8pm kick-off, but the inevitable scrum at the turnstiles resulted in a delay. The rain had just started to fall. To my right was a large rainbow lightening the gloom. My enduring love of stadia – Simon Inglis calls it “stadiumitis” – flitted in to my mind.

“A rainbow over the site of the former Rainbow Stand, nice.”

As we waited in line, a familiar face at Chelsea was to be found singing songs to himself. A decidedly odd character at the best of times (I don’t think I have ever seen him sober), he was now putting to song every single thought that was entering his head.

“We are the Chelsea, we want to go in.”

“Let us in, let us in, let us in.”

“Getting wet, getting wet, getting wet.”

Oh boy.

To my left were two touristy-types, looking quite out of place, adorned with Chelsea track-suit tops, Chelsea coats and Chelsea scarves, obviously hot-foot from the megastore. Everywhere else, Chelsea colours were at the bare minimum, as per normal.

I edged towards Al and Gal, right behind the goal. I had just missed the guard of honour. Bollocks. There was just time for me to join in with both sets of fans clapping and singing along to “The Liquidator.”

“We are West Brom.”

“Chelsea.”

Chelsea in all yellow. It always reminds me of our 6-3 win at Goodison way back in August. Good noise from both sets of fans at the start. At West Brom, the noisiest section is right next to us in the shared Smethwick End. The three of us were just yards away from them. I was surprised at the amount of empty seats in the corners.

After a few early exchanges, the ball fell to Berahino outside the box. With no Chelsea player able to get close and charge down his shot, the ball tantalisingly curved away from Thibaut Courtois and inside the post. I was, annoyingly, right in line with the flight of the ball.

After less than ten minutes, we were a goal down, and the baying home fans just yards away were letting us have it.

Groan.

Out came their colourful array of songs, but then one which made me chuckle.

“WWYWYWS?”

I turned and looked at one in the eye, pointing “here.”

He waved away my gesticulations.

Thoughts wandered back to the 1985-1986 season with me in the Rainbow Stand; a 3-0 win in front of just 10,300, including 3,000 Chelsea.

“Where were you when you were shit, mate?”

As the game developed, we struggled to find any rhythm. Overhead, the skies grew dark and dirty.The home fans were buoyant. Their chants rang out. They suggested that we’d all be Albion fans by next week, which was at least original.

Then, a few moments of craziness, which the viewing millions in Belgravia, Brisbane, Bombay and Badgercrack, Nebraska probably saw – and understood – better than the three thousand in the Smethwick End. At the other end of the pitch, with Chelsea attacking down the right, the play was stopped. Initially, I thought the play was stopped for an offside. There appeared to be an “altercation” in the penalty area. For some reason, Diego Costa was booked, although Gal was convinced that he saw an elbow aimed at our number nine. While that melee was just about to be resolved, I looked up to see Cesc Fabregas drive the ball back towards the crowd of players in the box. I can only presume that he had heard a whistle and was returning the ball to the referee.

It was struck too well. It bounced back off a player. We thought nothing of it.

Red card.

The away end went ballistic.

To be honest, nobody was sure what had happened.

I still don’t.

Down to ten men, we seemed to play with an extra drive and with extra spirit. We troubled the home defence, but not the home goalkeeper. At the break, there was a general consensus that we’d claw a goal back.

Our hopes were smashed after just a minute of play when, down at the other end of course, we saw a defender – John Terry – attempt to rob Berahino of the ball from behind as the dangerous striker advanced on goal. I could only hope, from one hundred yards away, that it had been ball before leg. The referee had decided otherwise.

Berahino scored from the penalty.

The Baggies’ stadium was in full on “Boing Boing” mode now.

Their unique club anthem, with Black Country affectations, boomed out.

“The Lord’s moy shepherd, oil not want.

He makes me down to loy.

In pastures green, he leadeth me.

The quiet waters boy.”

The Chelsea team, clearly frustrated, were struggling to create chances, but we were running up against a packed defence. The otherwise poor Loic Remy twisted into a little space and shot low, but his firm drive came back off the base of Myhill’s post. On the hour, Courtois tipped over a Morrison effort, but from the resultant corner, the ball fell at the feet of Brunt, who smashed a drive past everyone and in to our net.

Three fucking nil.

Oh boy.

The home fans could hardly believe it and, frankly, neither could we.

However, with the home fans still bubbling away with chants and taunts, the evening changed.

With thirty minutes of the game remaining, the Chelsea fans collectively decided to act. Yes, we were getting stuffed at West Brom, but we had enjoyed a magnificent season and we weren’t going to let one game stop our sense of fun. Harking back to an afternoon at Selhurst Park earlier in the season, out came a song from our recent catalogue.

“We’re Top Of The League.”

And it continued, like at Selhurst, and continued.

At some point, it morphed into “We’ve Won The League.”

At times, both versions were sung together.

After thousands of miles following the team all over England, Wales and Europe, this was the simple answer – an exhausted answer – to the people who mock us.

“We’ve Won The League.”

Diego Costa was replaced by Juan Cuardrado. Nathan Ake replaced Loftus-Cheek. Izzy Brown replaced Remy.

And still we sang.

I joined in at the start and tried my best to keep it going for as long as I could. After a few breaks, I re-joined the rendition…“think I’ll have a sore throat in the morning.”

We had a few chances, but the focus was now not on the players, the focus was on us.

And still we sang.

The home fans quietened. It is easy to say we left them dumbfounded by our noise, but they had sung well all evening. They were merely taking a break. I expect that they thought we might tire, but we kept it going. It was truly wonderful. I remember a “Chelsea, Chelsea” chant at Anfield – captured on TV, with a quick glimpse of me – from a 3-0 loss in 1986 going on for about fifteen minutes, and drawing a comment from the BBC commentator Barry Davies and boos from The Kop, but this one at The Hawthorns in 2015 went on for thirty minutes.

The result was simply brushed aside. I am sure that plenty of sweaty new fans in Nerdistan were getting all anxious about a surprising loss – “damn, Berahino isn’t this good on FIFA15” – but the three thousand foot soldiers in the Smethwick End were having a party.

At the final whistle, the home fans roared. Well done to them. Three losses and a draw in our last four games there now. The Hawthorns is indeed turning in to a private nightmare for us all.

I quickly spotted the lone figure of Jose Mourinho making his way across the wet grass of the pitch, his brown suede shoes pacing out in a strong path. It reminded me of his “chin up” walk at Arsenal in 2007.

With his players staying a respectful distance behind him, our manager simply walked towards us, signalling “number one” with his index finger pointing to the sky. He stopped by the goal line, and clapped us. He hasn’t always been our biggest fan this season; I always wondered if his well-publicised complaints about our home support were aired to inspire us or were they the mark of a manager who just wanted to vent? I don’t know. At The Hawthorns he wanted to just say “thank you.” Perhaps if we had kept quiet, with no thirty-minute serenade, maybe we would not have seen this iconic walk from our manager. We will never know.

For maybe thirty seconds or more, he stood in front of us, and we lapped it up. The players clapped too. It was a beautiful Chelsea moment. He turned and met his players.

We said our goodbyes to each other – “see you Sunday” – and exited amid a party-like atmosphere. Never has a three-nil loss been so widely ignored amid scenes of complete and proper joy. We walked down the exit ramp, leading down from the stadium and out in to the night, with songs continuing.

Football, eh?

With the floodlights piercing the sombre Black Country night, a West Brom fan bundled past and admitted to his mate –

“If they had to win, they’d have fookin’ spanked uz.”

I smiled. He was probably spot on.

I slowly walked back to the car. These trudges back to the Park Inn after a defeat are becoming common place, but this one was thankfully a little easier.

On Sunday, Sunderland, and the party continues.

See you there.

Tales From Title Number Five

Posted on May 4, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 3 May 2015.

There was a moment a few months ago when I was observing a conversation develop on “”Facebook” – it was one of the oddest things, I felt, about “Facebook” when I first joined, that online chats were now visible to everyone, should you so wish, rather than being kept to selected friends on a private email – between one of my oldest and dearest Chelsea mates and some of his non-believing friends. They were attempting to goad him into admitting that the race for the 2014-2015 title was not as cut-and-dried as was once thought.

My mate was having none of it, but then killed the conversation stone dead by saying :

“After Munich, nothing matters.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

After that most phantasmagorical – seems that this is a real word, my spell checker liked it – night in Germany, when even the most ridiculous dreams of a Chelsea supporter growing up and supporting the team in the grim years were met and surpassed, I have constantly wondered if anything would come close.

It is very unlikely.

Although the other two games which vie for affection in my long history of attending games – Wembley 1997 and Bolton 2005 – were magical moments, Munich blew them out of the water.

And so, there is – in some ways – a gnawing realisation that regardless of how many more pieces of silverware Chelsea Football Club might accumulate over the next decade or more, my enjoyment will sadly pale when compared to the scintillating climax to the 2012 Champions League Final. I remember that I felt the same way in Moscow, just before that miserable game seven years ago.

“This was it then – the zenith of my Chelsea-supporting life. I had thought on the importance of this match for days on end. I realised that, to an extent, there was a certain inherent sadness in this momentous trip. Should we be victorious, this would undoubtedly be the high point, the high water mark, of my Chelsea life…anything else which follows would be therefore of lesser importance, of lesser value…quite a chilling prospect and it haunted me throughout the trip.”

So, as I attempt to unravel the events of Sunday 3 May 2015, I am well aware that things might not turn out as might be expected.

Munich you see. It’s a bugger.

Football is all about journeys and the journey for the championship – er, Premiership – decider began with an alarm call as early as 6.30am. With the early-afternoon kick-off, I wanted to make time to be able to relax and soak the entire pre-match atmosphere up. I collected P-Diddy at just after 7.30am and Lord Parky at bang on 8am. All three of us were in good spirits but we were a little concerned that the weather outside was rainy and miserable. I drove through some depressing and dispiriting weather; it was pretty nasty and tiring driving conditions to be honest. I tried to remember back to 2010.

“Wasn’t it a bit rainy against Wigan five years ago?”

I was grasping for lucky omens. I am sure I was not alone.

As I drove towards London, Parky and I spoke about the game at Leicester. It had been a fine evening and one of the highlights of the season. The three of us then looked ahead to the match against Crystal Palace. Although Alan Pardew, fresh from his unloved tenure at Newcastle United, has managed to get his new team playing some excellent football, with Bolasie and Zaha an identifiable threat, I assured the others that Jose Mourinho would not let the day pass without the team attaining the desired three points.

“He won’t let this day slide by. He won’t let this slip.”

Without even realising it, I was referencing a game from last season.

I slid into my usual parking place on Bramber Road at 10am exactly. The inclement weather had gradually diminished and the roads had been clear of any substantial traffic. Jackets were selected. We walked to The Goose, though were not too sure if it would be open.

Thankfully, it was. The place quickly filled, and I was able to relax in a corner booth as others joined us. During the next two-and-a-half hours, I was able to chat to a few close mates, including Daryl who was sporting a magnificent T-shirt which paraded our Le Coq Sportif kits from the early-‘eighties with a nod to the much-loved Benetton rugby top of that era.

“United Colors Of Chelsea.”

I remember I once owned a “United Colours Of Chelsea” shirt many years ago – featuring English and British flags – but Daryl’s was much better. I’ll have to bag one over the summer.

Friends from the US floated in to the pub, too and they were, of course, filled with joy that their individual trips to London – most planned months previously – had aligned themselves with such a crucial date in our history.

“Lucky bastards.”

Again, a lot of our foreign fans – without boring everyone – come in for much derision, but please believe me when I say that folks such as Curtis and Karen from Pittsburgh, Brian from Chicago, and Mike, Matt, Brad and Frank from New York do not fit the hackneyed-stereotype of gormless friendship-scarf wearing dolts which some section of our support take great pleasure in deriding.

They know our history. They know our songs. They have heard of Micky Nutton.

It was lovely to see them all again.

The mood in the pub was upbeat and I was able to sink a few pints, knowing that I would not be driving home for hours upon hours.

On the walk down to Stamford Bridge, I was vaguely aware of grafters selling poorly-designed and poorly-printed “Chelsea Champions” T-shirts. There was an innate inevitability about all of this that I found slightly odd. This was not the Chelsea way of old, of lore, of ancient history, and it didn’t rest easy with me.

However, paradoxically, this was something that we have experienced before under Mourinho. The 2004-2005 title was won at Bolton glorious Bolton with three games left. Our win at the Reebok – magnificent and much-loved as it was – was on the back of a run where there seemed like a definite inevitability of triumph. The following season, the clincher against Manchester United, was won with two games spare. Again, it seemed sure that we would win the title from a long way out. The last remaining league win that I had witnessed in person, the Carlo Ancelotti double of 2009-2010, was more like a typical Chelsea triumph; behind for most of the season, a few patchy performances, but a magnificent canter past Manchester United in the final furlong with goals being scored with reckless abandon.

The current campaign has seemed a stereotypically Mourinho-type affair.

Calm, calculated, efficient.

To be honest, compared to our previous one hundred years – before Jose – it has been most un-Chelsea like.

From 1905 to 2005, there has been calamity, disaster, underachievement but also swashbuckling style, entertainment and intermittent glory. It has been anything but calm and calculated efficiency to be honest.

Since 2005, our history, our character, has been updated.

As I made my way to my usual seat, with maybe ten minutes to spare before the kick-off, there was a nice buzz in the air. With just five minutes to go, the sun suddenly burst through the clouds and began to bathe Stamford Bridge in warming sun. On the page devoted to the manager’s pre-match thoughts, there were just ten words.

“THREE MORE POINTS TO BE CHAMPIONS. LET’S DO IT TOGETHER.”

There were rumours that Remy might be available, but Jose named Didier upfront. Courtois replaced Cech as expected. There was a late change however; Ramires was taken ill, to be replaced by Juan Cuadrado. I wondered if he would fill the role of Jiri Jarosik – a bit player and a surprise selection – who played at Bolton when we won the title in 2005.

[cue new fans typing in Jiri Jarosik in “Google.”]

[cue old fans saying “I’d forgotten him.”]

Three thousand away fans, Crystal Palace in yellow and pale blue, the sun overhead, the crowd nervous with anticipation, the wait for the referee’s whistle.

Didier knocked it to Willian and the game began, with Chelsea – unusually – kicking towards me in the first-half.

We began well, but the visitors also enjoyed a spell of dominance with a flurry of corners. We came back again and attempted to carve open the Palace defence. A raking shot from Cuadrado whizzed over. To my dismay, despite some degree of noise at the start, the Stamford Bridge crowd was outsung by the away fans, who took great pleasure in singing –

“Mourinho’s right. Your fans are shite.”

We responded with the dull and predictable :

“Oo the fackinel are yoo?”

Speroni was twice tested in quick succession. The second of two Didier Drogba free-kicks dipped maliciously at the last moment but Speroni was able to hack the ball away after momentarily dropping the ball at his feet. A fine block by John Terry kept Palace at bay on the half-hour . We weren’t playing particularly well to be honest and we waited for things to improve. I commented to Alan –

“We weren’t that special in the first-half at Bolton were we?”

A few half-chances came and went. Palace had certainly matched us. A draw would be a huge anti-climax, for all of us, but especially for Matt, Mike and Frank who were not staying around for any more games. Alan went off for a hot-dog just before the break. I spoke to PD about Eden Hazard, so often the main man, having a relatively quiet game. Within seconds, a lovely back heel from Willian was played in to the path of an advancing Hazard, just inside the box. A challenge, from possibly two defenders, it happened so quick; Hazard falling to the floor.

All eyes were on the referee Kevin Friend.

Penalty.

I was worried that Alan was not back at his seat. Thankfully, I spotted him a few yards away, entranced by the scene below. I waited and waited, camera poised of course, for Eden to shoot.

It was a weak shot. I clicked.

Speroni easily saved, but thankfully the ball flew up to a reasonable height and Eden nodded the rising ball past the hapless ‘keeper into the far corner.

BOOM.

The crowd roared and I was just so relieved. With my camera in hand, I calmly photographed the run of Eden down to the corner flag below me; how lucky I am to have such fantastic seats, perfectly placed for numerous goal celebrations. It often seems that I am eavesdropping on their private parties. I captured the ensuing huddle and the players’ screams and shrieks of joy. And I screamed too.

“COME ON.”

Altogether now…

“Phew.”

A little time to relax at the break. Michael Duberry on the pitch. Forty-five minutes to go. Forty-five minutes to our fifth league title.

A typical Mourinho move at the break; Mikel, the closer, replaced Cuadrado.

A rasping drive from Branislav Ivanovic flew wide, and then – that rare event – a Mikel shot was grasped by the ‘keeper down low. This seemed to inspire the Chelsea crowd, who for ten minutes serenaded some key personnel in our recent history.

“Roman Abramovich, Roman Abramovich, Roman Abramovich, Roman Abramovich.”

“Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho.”

“Oh Dennis Wise.”

“Born Is The King.”

“Super, Super Frank.”

“Gianfranco Zola, La La La La La La.”

“One Di Matteo.”

“Oh Jimmy Jimmy, Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink.”

“Vialli! Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”

“He’s Here, He’s There, He’s Every Fuckin’where, Frank Leboeuf, Frank Leboeuf.”

“Eidur Gudjohnsen, Eidur Gudjohnsen.”

Fantastic stuff. The place was alive, thank heavens.

No songs for Mineiro, though.

Then one more –

“WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED.”

After a docile period of play, chances came again, with Palace starting to threaten, but with our defensive five in imperious form. Didier and Willian spurned chances to make the game safe. This was getting to be a predictably nervy end to the game. I dreaded a Palace equaliser. It seemed that the away team had decided to pack all of their attacking punch in to the last five minutes of the game. They had crosses, they had corners, but our defenders stood tall. A block by Courtois near the end was the only real time that he had been caused to make a save of note.

Two minutes of added time.

Phew.

“Blow up ref.”

More Palace pressure. More Chelsea clearances.

The whistle.

Number five was ours.

We were 2014-2015 English champions.

I stood, quite numb, and if I am honest, a little flat. I think that the toll of the last two or three months, losing my mother and coping with the grief, had left me a little distant. On previous games, some quite recent, I had loved the cut and thrust of the title run-in. However, at that exact moment in time, I was just relieved and quietly contented. It was a similar feeling to that which I experienced at Wembley against Tottenham.

Streamers filled the sky, “We Are The Champions” boomed out on the PA. There were whoops of joy all around me, and I gave Alan a warm hug. I knew what he was thinking. The players soon ran down towards The Shed and dived headlong in to history.

There was another loud cheer.

Happy days.

The Chelsea trio of club songs…

“One Step Beyond.”

“Blue Is The Colour.”

“The Liquidator.”

The Stamford Bridge crowd slowly drifted off and out in to the afternoon sun. I knew that I had to have a little quiet time with my thoughts. I thought about my dear mother, who had watched alongside me from my seat on two separate occasions during the 2004-2005 and 2009-2010 seasons, but would not be there to greet me with her usual smile at the end of this victorious campaign.

The Chelsea PA played another song, but this just tipped me over the edge.

“Cos the blue tomorrow gets closer each day.
We will follow the Chelsea.
Til our dying day.”

Alan appeared from nowhere and we hugged again.

I decided to stay on my own for a further few minutes. Alan walked off to join the rest of my mates at the “Lillee Langtree”. The stadium looked a picture. I am often one of the very last to leave at the end of the final home league game each season. This was no different. I was one of the last still there. I sat alone with my thoughts. After another five minutes, I decided to move. I had a quick chat with Darren about my mother as we descended the stairs.

Mum was hardly an avid Chelsea fan, but she loved to see me happy when we had won. Even in the last period of her life, suffering from dementia, Mum was able to reel off the names of a few Chelsea legends.

“Ron Harris”, “Peter Osgood”, “Kerry Dixon”, “Pat Nevin”, “Gianfranco Zolo.”

Bless her.

Outside the West Stand, I pictured the – much-changed – scene that would have greeted me after my first-ever game, in the West Stand, in 1974. It all came back to me in an instant.

I loved this club then and I love it now.

Back at the pub, drinks were overflowing, and there was some singing and chanting going back and forth between those outside the “Lillee Langtry” and those drinking outside the “Prince Of Wales.” There was joy, but it was all very controlled and understated. It was not like the euphoria of 2005, nor certainly 1997 nor – of course – 2012. I was sober, but happy to stay for an hour as the lads continued to drink. I bumped in to a few good friends. It was lovely

Daryl, Simon and I spoke about the season. We spoke about us being off the pace in Europe and wondered if we could have a stab at the biggest trophy at all over the next few seasons. We then focussed on the league. I am sure I oversimplified things, but my take on it was :

“Diego Costa carried us for the first few months. Then Eden Hazard. Then Jose Mourinho.”

It has certainly felt as though this season would be ours from a few months ago, as Mourinho turned the screw and pragmatically reverted to a more conservative style of play. The difference in style in our play before and after the turn of the year has been very noticeable and – sigh – the media has surely salivated on reminding everyone of it. Our last real swashbuckling performance was at Swansea in January. Since then, our formidable defensive qualities have shone, though in some quarters it seems that the football world would wish us to lose the occasion game 5-4 rather than grinding out narrow wins.

I’ll be honest, the entertaining football of the autumn was a joy and it would have been nice to maintain this style throughout the season, but with Mourinho’s safety-first approach, it is no surprise that style gave way to substance as the season reached a climax.

I can almost imagine a brief conversation which might have taken place in Roman Abramovich’s office high in the Stamford Bridge stadium in January.

Roman : “Good morning Jose. Are you well?”

Jose : “Sure, but…”

Roman : “What is the problem?”

Jose : “Well. We spoke after Tottenham. It felt like it was not Chelsea playing that night. Five goals, you know? And we spoke, I am sure you remember, about the need to tighten defensively.”

Roman : “Of course. Of course.”

Jose : “I told you, no I asked you, if you would be happy for me to tighten. I need that reassurance.”

Roman : “It is no problem. This is your team. You win the league your way.”

Jose : “And then we score five at Swansea!”

Roman : “Ha. Yes. That mustn’t happen again.”

Jose : “Ha. No. “No, it won’t.”

Roman : “You see this shirt of John Terry from ten years ago?”

Jose : “I see it.”

Roman : “The team scored 72.”

Jose : “Yes.”

Roman : “But conceded just 15.”

Jose : “You remembered.”

Roman : “Do the same this season. Tighten. No problem.”

Jose : “Understood. Thank you.”

Outside the pub, with the sun now heating us all up, the drinks were being quaffed by others. The songs continued.

In a quiet moment, I whispered to Daryl –

“Of course you realise that our global fan base has just increased by a million the past two hours.”

He looked at me; no words were spoken but a lot was said.

At just before 6pm, I drove out of Bramber Road, and headed west with another league championship title to my name. The traffic was thin, the driving relatively easy. In the last few miles, with a drowsy Parky having been poured out of my car and no doubt asleep on his couch, PD and I reviewed the incredible path that our club has taken since 1997. We both remembered how delighted we were to reach the, ultimately disastrous, FA Cup Final of 1994. So much has happened to us all since then.

It has been a magnificent journey.

By 9pm I was at home and devouring all things Chelsea-related on the internet. At the end of a tough time for me, I could relax and watch “MOTD2” and enjoy a few peaceful moments of pride and joy.

We were champions.

No, it wasn’t as good as Munich, but – for the time being – it will do very nicely thank you.

We now stand seventh in the list of champions of England.

Manchester United – 20

Liverpool – 18

Arsenal – 13

Everton – 9

Aston Villa – 7

Sunderland – 6

Chelsea – 5

We are climbing nicely.

Who knows where this magnificent journey will end?

Tales From The Driving Seat.

Posted on November 3, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Queens Park Rangers : 1 November 2014.

With two consecutive away games at Manchester United and Shrewsbury Town behind us, the home match with Queens Park Rangers represented a fine chance for Chelsea to maintain a healthy gap at the top of the pile. Having driven over seven hundred miles to Old Trafford and New Meadow, I was back in the driving seat once again for yet another trip to Stamford Bridge. After collecting PD and Glenn, Lord Parky joined us. It didn’t take too long for me to share my growing frustrations with work with my fellow match-goers. For the past few weeks, my life has existed against a dull rhythm of “work/sleep/work/sleep/work/sleep/work/sleep” albeit with the occasional “football” excursion thrown in, perhaps like a lifebelt, to allow me to survive under increasing work-related stress.

I hoped that a trip to HQ would help to reduce the pain.

Within a few miles of leaving Parky’s home village, my car was rocking with laughter as we headed east and the problems of work soon started to subside. As we neared Reading, our sides were hurting so much from all of the giggles which were erupting in The Chuckle Bus that I had to put on some music – “Dexy’s Midnight Runners”, thank you Parky – in an attempt to settle us all down.

However, after the tedious traffic jams of Sunday and Tuesday, we were hit with yet more delays, this time on the M4. I was immediately reminded of a horrible trip that my parents and I took to Stamford Bridge in March 1979 when horrendous traffic on the M4 resulted in the three of us arriving very late for a Chelsea vs. QPR game. In 1978-1979, Chelsea were quite awful. Relegation was inevitable from before Christmas. I have to be honest and admit that the season was a tough one for me. I didn’t enjoy much of it. It seemed quite apt, then, that the QPR game, which I had been anticipating for weeks before, should be such a negative experience. I only used to go to two games per season in those days. The whole day was crap. We took our seats a few minutes before kick-off, which meant that the whole pre-match was spent nervously checking my watch to see if we’d be late, rather than relaxing and taking it all in. Chelsea lost 3-1, some mouthy QPR fans were sat in front of us in the East Lower, and we were dismal. I think that day ranks as one of the least enjoyable in all of my visits to Chelsea in over forty years. And it wasn’t that QPR were half-decent either; at the end of the season, they too were relegated. Yep, 1978-1979 was a tough one.

In 1979-1980, although we were in the Second Division, I regained my passion for Chelsea Football Club.

A very enjoyable pre-match (the antithesis of the March 1979 game) took place within the beer garden of The Goose. Yet more laughter, yet more banter, yet more silliness. Again, my general mood lightened considerably. The weather was bright and cheerful. This was going to be a fine day.

News broke through that Diego Costa was starting; excellent. There was also a Newcastle United goal against Liverpool to bring added cheer.

Although we all left the pub in good time, there were long queues at the turnstiles and so my first regret of the day was that I missed the minute of silence in memory of the fallen. I hated myself because of that. At least I will have the chance to pay my respects properly at Anfield next Sunday.

During the past few days, there were internet rumours flying around that QPR had not sold all of their tickets – something I found surprising – but their section of 3,000 was full.

Blue skies overhead. An eager crowd. Chelsea in royal blue, QPR in Tottenham white.

Let’s keep winning, boys.

We began with a flurry of corners, but the first real chance fell to Oscar after a nice flick from Diego Costa. His shot was scuffed and QPR escaped. Soon after, an incisive move down our right resulted in Branislav Ivanovic hitting the side-netting from close in. These were positive signs.

Only a Charlie Austin looping header threatened Thibaus Courtois’ goal.

On 32 minutes, Cesc Fabregas – quiet at Old Trafford on Sunday – drove forward and spotted Oscar to his right. With an impudent flick with the outside of his right foot, he bent the ball out and then in to the goal.

We screamed. We shouted.

Get in.

Alan and I – in the guise of two famous inhabitants of Oil Drum Lane – reverted to our tried and tested routine.

Albert : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Harold : “Come on my little diamonds.”

There was every reason to think that more goals were on the agenda. We had enjoyed the majority of the ball, as is so often the case, and the visitors had shown little attacking aptitude. Just before the break, a sublime twist by Eden Hazard, down in the far corner in front of the travelling fans, made me gulp in astonishment. It was a stunning piece of skill, but I was amazed that his 180 degree turn, leaving his marker stranded, did not warrant any applause or cheer. Were we too stunned to clap or were we too spoiled to appreciate it? I had the feeling that if it had happened in the dark days of 1978-1979, maybe by Duncan McKenzie or Clive Walker, it would have gone down in Chelsea legend.

At the break, my second regret of the day; I missed my childhood hero Ian Britton on the pitch with Neil Barnett.

A lightening break down our right by Willian ended up with a teasing cross in to the box, but Eden Hazard was just unable to reach it. A second goal then would have opened the floodgates, surely.

Then, calamity struck. On one of a very rare number of Rangers excursions into our box, Vargas forced Courtois to make a stunning block. However, the rebound was smashed goal wards by Fer and was diverted past Courtois with a deft flick of Austin’s boot. We groaned. The Rangers fans celebrated wildly, but I was pleased to hear the strong reply from the home support, which immediately rallied to the cause.

To be honest, it hadn’t been a particularly noisy match, certainly not for a London derby. One peculiarity that I had noted throughout the game was that it often took a song or chant from the travelling support to rouse the home sections.

A “Hey Jude” of “la, la, la, laaa – Rangers” soon morphed into a “Hey Jude” of “la, la,la , laaa – Chelsea.”

A “Sit Down Mourinho” soon morphed into a “Jose Mourinho.”

A song ridiculing John Terry from QPR elicited “The Double” song from Chelsea.

I wondered if we were now relying on away supporters to be our cheerleaders.

Sure, there were songs and chants from the Matthew Harding, though I hardly heard The Shed. There certainly wasn’t one moment when I could honestly say that the whole stadium was united in song.

On the pitch, Mourinho went for the jugular and replaced Willian with Didier Drogba. He immediately stood close to Diego Costa. I was warmed at the thought of two strikers playing up front together for the first time in a while.

Didier and Diego.

Phew.

Chances came and went for both sides, although the quality of play never lived up to the highs of previous weeks. Oscar lifted a free-kick over the Rangers wall, but Green saved. With a quarter of an hour remaining, Eden Hazard accelerated into the box, and Vargas clumsily checked him. Hazard went tumbling and the referee immediately pointed towards the spot.

Phew.

Eden Hazard nonchalantly stroked the ball home, but there was not a wild outpouring of emotion from any of our players. Although, the Chelsea fans all around me were overjoyed, I sensed that the players on the pitch were just relieved.

Andre Schurrle then replaced Diego Costa, who had started to tire. The substitute came close. A trademark near post header from John Terry then drew another save from Green.

We held on.

It hadn’t been pretty.

But three points are three points.

We were back in the driving seat.

We listened to Radio Five Live just as I was caught up in the usual slow procession out of the area near Queens Club, my car edging slowly away, alongside other match-goers. We caught a few of Jose Mourinho’s irritable words concerning the team’s performance. It was obvious that his had been a frustrating afternoon. Perhaps his meticulous game plan had not been followed. There was tiredness to his tone. He seemed extra-ordinarily grumpy.

He then turned his attention to the home spectators. On a day when he had praised the away support at Manchester and Shrewsbury during the previous week in the match programme, Mourinho made a sarcastic remark about the quietness of the Stamford Bridge support; it was only when we scored did he realise that the stadium wasn’t empty.

I have written thousands of words in these match reports bemoaning the declining atmosphere at home games, and it is no secret that many Chelsea supporters feel the same way. It is also evident that this has not happened at Stamford Bridge alone. At virtually all stadia in England, fans complain about the dwindling atmosphere in home areas. There are a few exceptions to this rule; step forward Stoke City and Portsmouth in recent years, both solidly working class clubs with no pretensions of global branding and suchlike. But these are rare exceptions. And yet, away support thrives. It is seen as the last bastion of the good old days. I’m just desperately sad that I have noticed the buzz at home games deteriorate over the past ten years; it sadly shows no signs of abating. The usual reasons for this are instantly recalled; high ticket prices forcing the young and working classes away from the game, a gentrification of support, an aging of support, larger proportions of corporate tickets, over-zealous stewards, fans being displaced so that “singers” are never in the same stand together, an increasing number – at Chelsea especially – of visitors from abroad who decide to take in a Chelsea game while in London, the onset of “day trippers” and the over-riding feeling that the club has a real desire to attract a different class of fan. There is, at Chelsea, the added problem of expectation. Long gone are the days when a simple win was met with unbridled joy. With our continued success, there is an expectation to always win. We, as a club, have become bloated and spoiled. All the reasons are well known. Why did Jose decide to utter publicly what many think privately? I am not sure. Surely it wasn’t an attempt to mask a poor team performance? I’d hate to think that. Maybe Mourinho had thought this for a while and had just decided to “get things off his chest”? He certainly seemed in a foul and irritable mood.

To be honest I think I found his tone a little distasteful; rather than talk openly about the atmosphere being a little quiet and a few words of encouragement, his comments were riddled with sarcasm

He has, however, certainly got us all talking.

Maybe the singing will come later.

Tales From Super Bock City

Posted on October 4, 2014 by Chris Axon

Sporting Lisbon vs. Chelsea : 30 September 2014.

Monday 29 September 2014.

This was a long-awaited trip to Lisbon in Portugal for our first Champions League away game of 2014-2015. Of course, there were many reasons for this; relaxation, travel, football, comradeship and all of the standard words and hackneyed phrases could be thrown in to the mix. But there was one distinct reason why this “European Away” would be a little bit special; it would be Parky’s first Chelsea away in Europe since the ECWC Final in Stockholm in 1998. Of course, I never knew him then as our paths would cross a few years later. But we’ve become solid mates over the past five or six seasons. It hurts me to say that Parky missed Moscow, Munich and Amsterdam and all other cities too since that memorable night in Sweden over sixteen years ago. This would hopefully be a thoroughly enjoyable trip for him.

I woke at 3am – truly the dead of night – and, in an hour, I was off on another adventure over land and sea. It would be my twenty-ninth away game in Europe with Chelsea.

It was a foggy drive through the dark Somerset and Wiltshire countryside on the twenty-five minute trip to collect Parky. I had decided to call him “Parkao” for this trip and this trip only.

I soon sent a text to Alan in London to let him know that I was on the road.

“Jak Kerouacao.”

He replied “Reg Varney.”

He was on a night bus in order to catch a coach up to Stansted Airport.

Parkao was buzzing as I collected him at 4.30am. We drove through Bath, and then headed up to Bristol Airport for our 7.05am Easyjet flight to Faro. The check-in process was delayed a few moments as Parkao’s metal leg brace set off the security alarms. After several attempts, he was successfully scanned.

He cost £1.72.

Once on the plane, I texted Alan again :

“Freddy Laker.”

He replied “Al Murray.”

He was obviously in the bar at Stansted. We would be all in the same hotel later in the day.

There was a slight delay as we waited for the food for the flight to arrive. The steward lost some credibility when he claimed that they needed the food on the plane to help balance the load. I remarked to Parkao “I’ve never heard a plane crash ‘cus it was missing a few sandwiches.” Eventually, we were up, up and away over Somerset, Devon and then over the channel, France, Spain and Portugal. We grabbed a little sleep. The time soon passed. The only surprise was that there was no other Chelsea on it. We were headed to Faro, on The Algarve, because the only option out of Bristol to Lisbon involved a Sunday to Thursday stay. The plane touched down at a sun-drenched Faro at around 9.45am. We caught the 11am “Vera” coach to Lisbon and we could relax.

I first visited Lisbon on the third of my Inter-Railing trips around Europe by train in 1987. I and two college mates – Ian and Trev – had graduated in the June and had worked a few jobs over the summer in order to get away for three weeks in September. We arrived in Lisbon’s Santa Apolonia station after an overnight train from Madrid. My memory is that we only stayed a couple of hours in the Portugal capital – just passing through on the way to The Algarve – but my diary entry for Tuesday 15 September 1987 informs me that we arrived at 9am, and caught the 2.10pm ferry over the River Tagus to Barreiro, so were in the city for longer than I thought. There was time for a stroll around the streets – the weather was very hot – and also time for a couple of beers in a street side café. I remember being taken aback by the sad sight of beggars without limbs at the station, and several people tried to sell us some hash. I also remember fake Lacoste polo shirts on sale by the ferry terminal, which abutted the main square. The city looked fascinating, with ornate architecture, wide piazzas and there were hints of a rich history. It felt horrible to be only in town for four hours. As the ferry took us over the massive river, I vowed to return one day.

I believe that Chelsea played Benfica in a friendly around fifteen years ago and also – for certain – in the 2011/2012 Champions League season, but I did not attend those games in Lisbon. Of course, our defeat by Atletico Madrid last April meant that there would be no Chelsea trip to Lisbon in May 2014, either. However, I had already booked a flight to Lisbon and hotel in Albufeira and so decided to go over for a few days’ break anyway. Hundreds of other Chelsea fans had exactly the same opinion. My stay in Lisbon in May was even shorter than in 1987. Before catching a train south, I just had time for a few beers in a quiet bar near the slightly run-down area around the Entre Campos station.

As I sat, alone, in that small bar it felt like I should be there for a Chelsea game. It was a very odd sensation. I kept expecting friends to poke their heads around the door to join me for a brew. Little did I know that I would be back in just over four months and that the hotel I would choose would only be half-a-mile away from that very bar.

It was a fine, relaxing trip north. The coach was air-conditioned and the scenery – at first the white villas of The Algarve, then the green hills, then the arid farmland – was excellent. We caught up on yet more sleep – maybe an hour at most – before we eventually noticed the suburbs around Setubal. We soon saw the deep red supports of the April 25 Bridge, which majestically spans the River Tagus, then the formidable statue of Christ the King which looks down on humanity from the south bank of the river. It is very similar to the Christ the Redeemer in Rio. We were soon heading over the bridge and our welcome to Lisbon could not have been any more dramatic. The city centre, kissed by a hot afternoon sun, and shimmering to our right, looked magnificent, with hills rising up from the river to the suburbs in the distance. I spotted the iconic Monument to the Discoveries, on the river bank, to my left. With an eye for such things, I soon spotted the spindles of the Belenenses floodlights too. They are the city’s third football team, and if we are to believe, Jose Mourinho’s first love. He played for them many years ago, though not to any great standard. Ahead, was the aqueduct, which I photographed from the train in May. The city was quite beguiling. It was fantastic.

“What a welcome, Parkao.”

We soon located our hotel and had a little chat with the receptionists.

“Are you over here for the football?”

“Yes…Chelsea.”

“Tomorrow, we are with you.”

They were the first of the many Benfica fans that we would encounter during our stay.

A helpful lady assisted in our fumbling attempts to buy metro tickets and we soon alighted at Restauradores in the heart of the city. The sun was beating down and everything looked perfect. We spotted Alan and Gary outside a bar in the corner of Praca Dom Pedro IV. The steins of Superbock – around two pints apiece – were just seven euros. A few familiar Chelsea fans – Brighton Tony and his mates – joined us, then a few others.

“And relax.”

The only negative part of all this was the ridiculous amount of flies which kept buzzing around.

“Maybe there’s a Spurs fan nearby.”

We spent the best part of three hours sat outside in the afternoon sun and it was just brilliant. On the subway back to the hotel, we were a giggling quartet of silliness.

Parkao was in his element.

From Gary and Alan there was an array of double-entendres. The ensuing ribald laughter from all four of us caused a few glances to be aimed our way.

“I hope none of you can speak English” I begged to the others in the compartment.

After a quick shower, we were out on the town at 8.30pm. We headed south again, but had no idea where we would end up. We decided to go for a meal in an Italian restaurant on the large piazza which overlooks the river, and where I undoubtedly visited, albeit briefly, in 1987. We were soon joined by my mate Foxy, who I first met in Tokyo for the 2012 World Club Championships. He was with his good lady Ashley and also Kev, a Hearts and Chelsea supporter from Edinburgh. The banter began again. The restaurant was superb, though quite quiet. It was, after all, only a Monday.

I politely enquired what factors resulted in Kev becoming a Chelsea fan. Foxy supports Dundee United – fine by me, I’ve had a soft spot for them since Peter Bonetti and Eamonn Bannon signed for them in 1979 – and his Chelsea roots are well known to me. I was just intrigued to hear Kev’s story. I’m well aware of the Chelsea/Rangers link, and also the Chelsea/Hearts partnership. You often see Rangers and Hearts flags at our away games. I suppose I wanted to know what inspired Kev to choose us as his other team. His reply pleased me; he mentioned Eamonn Bannon, who we signed from the Jambos in 1979, but also mentioned the name of Tommy Walker, a famous Hearts player, manager and director, who also played for us in the immediate post-war years. Additionally, for seven successive seasons in the ‘forties and ‘fifties, Chelsea played friendlies against Heart of Midlothian at the behest of Tommy Walker; at Tynecastle one year, at The Bridge the next. I mentioned my two visits to Tynecastle – the first way back in 1982 – and we became misty-eyed with the thoughts of those deep terraces, maroon stands, claustrophobic setting amidst the Gorgie tenements and the odorous fumes wafting over the spectators from the nearby brewery.

After another beer with a few more Chelsea fans outside another bar, we decided to take a cab to the lively Bairro Alto to the immediate west of the centre. The cab turned and twisted up steep and narrow streets until we reached the summit. Small sets of traffic lights allowed single-file cars to drive small sections of narrow roads. We peered in to an Irish bar as some Chelsea fans were singing “Willian.” The area was jumping. For a Monday night, it was amazing. Street vendors tried to sell us all sorts of tat. We took refuge in a small bar as it pumped out some dance music. I began with a mojito, and then got stuck into three morangoska cocktails, which were just unbelievable. These were made with strawberries, blackberry juice, sugar and vodka. They were beastly black. They tasted magnificent but were undoubtedly evil.

As the night grew older, there were more giggles bouncing off the buildings of Bairro Alto.

“Having a good time, Parkao?”

“It sure beats Trowbridge on a Monday night, son.”

There were back-packing types, international students, and locals milling around the cobbled streets, filling the night air with alcohol-induced merriment. My memories are unsurprisingly vague…

However, rather disappointingly, the bars closed at 2am and we shuffled along, past a posse of chanting Chelsea fans, towards a cab rank. We reluctantly returned back to the hotel. It will surprise nobody to hear that we did not discuss the game once the whole night.

One photo, sadly deleted in error, showed all four of us in the hotel lift, pointing our tongues out; all were blackberry black.

It had been a top night in Lisbon.

Tuesday 30 September 2014.

At 9am my alarm sounded just as I had dreamt that Andre Schurrle had raced past an opponent, reached the goal-line and pulled back a cross for Bobby Isaac to head home.

Morongoskas will do that to you, I guess.

Surprisingly, I was only a little, er, “delicate” in the morning. I was – thankfully – able to join the boys downstairs for an excellent breakfast. We decided to take Alan’s advice to utilise a hop-on / hop-off Lesbian (sorry – Lisbon) sightseeing bus tour. It only took a few minutes of Portuguese sunshine and fresh air for the last lingering remnants of a hangover to disperse.

Flies.

For the next two hours, we toured Lisbon and relaxed. We were driven down majestic streets, flanked by houses of various shades, some with tiles and mosaics, and some with gables and delicate balconies. We were driven through wide piazzas with statues, obelisks and fountains. We were driven up ramps which afforded stunning views of the city centre, baking in the September sun, and equally pleasing vistas of the wide, fast flowing Tagus. Out at Belem, having been driven under the momentous April 25 Bridge, we were driven past the ornate monastery, the quaint Belem Tower, then the piece de resistance; the Monument to the Discoveries. This is a stunning sculpture, depicting the various leading lights from the time when Portugeezers ruled the waves, and it is a statue that I have wanted to see in person for years. We decided there and then to return to Belem on the Wednesday. The bus returned us to the city centre, passing yet more fine houses, but also a funky mixture of more modern buildings, the type of which we never seem to get in the UK.

Flies.

To be truthful, I only half-heartedly listened to the audio guide during the tour – I was too busy taking photographs and chatting to Parkao – but the overly cheerful Englishman’s voice did not mention sport during the entire two hours. This is a pet peeve of mine. Why do city guides – books, video, audio – continually neglect sport in their range of topics covered? Only a few days before the trip, I had bought a fine guide book on Lisbon, but within the 192 pages, there is just this pathetic entry about football :

“Lisbon’s main football stadiums, built for the 2004 European Football Championships, are Estadio Jose Alvalade and Estadio da Luz. The Portuguese football cup finals are held at the Estadio Nacional-Junior.”

There was no mention of Benfica, nor Sporting Lisbon, nor Eusebio, nor Luis Figo and the golden generation, nor Cristiano Ronaldo, nor Jose Mourinho. Yet two whole pages about music and three whole pages about bloody shopping. For many in Lisbon, football is at the centre of their lives, and the two – sorry, three – clubs within the city are surely worthy of more attention than this.

Flies.

Parkao and I split up from Alan and Gary and we slowly walked down through the centre, stopping off for a bite to eat and a drink at a café, before finding ourselves at the water’s edge, just south of the grand Praca Do Comercio. From here, there is a stunning view of Christ the King, arms outstretched. I wondered if anyone has attempted to put a Benfica or Sporting scarf around the neck. In Glasgow, you can be sure of it…

During the entire day, I had seen just one green and white hooped shirt of Sporting Lisbon. We returned to our hotel to freshen up, and then hopped on to the subway bound for the stadium. At last, there were now some football colours on show. We reached Campo Grande – the stop adjacent the home end of the stadium – and decided to try to get a drink in a nearby bar. Unlike other parts of Europe, there doesn’t appear to be a significantly violent underbelly in Portuguese football, and we were not met with any animosity throughout our stay. Lisbon, it seemed, was proving to be a near perfect city.

We began making our way across a dusty car park, when we stumbled across a chap with an ice box selling cans of Super Bock for 1.5 euros.

“Get in Parkao, son.”

“Superb.”

This was perfect. We then found another vendor selling them for one euro each.

“God bless the black market Parkao, let’s buy two more each.”

Sporting fans drifted past us wearing a variety of shirts, from various vintages. The main two stadia in Lisbon are within a mile of each other and, in both cases, were built adjacent to the original stadia of each club. I suspected that the car park where we were stood once housed the previous Sporting ground.

Estadio Jose Alvalade is brightly coloured outside, with green roof supports, multi-coloured panels, green-tinted windows, and plenty of space for non-football activities. Whereas Benfica’s stadium resembles The Emirates, though slightly bigger, the Sporting Lisbon stadium is only two-tiered, yet seems huge from the outside. We walked around, buoyed by a quick intake of Super Bock, and entered the stadium at the away turnstiles. Sadly, I had to hand my telephoto lens in, but I was assured it would come to no harm. All of the stewards were pleasant. Inside the concourse, both Chelsea and Sporting fans were able to mix, which was a new one on me. Here was another clue that hooliganism wasn’t particularly rife in Portugal.

It was “sit where you want” and so we squeezed in alongside some friends. Gary and Alan were four rows in front. We were behind the corner flag. It was an impressive stadium, the fans in the lower tier were tight behind the goals, but the stands stood way back at the sides. Below, underneath, was a massive moat. The ultras in the home end were already in full voice and many flags and banners were being waved. Hanging from the roof on the far side were large banners depicting the starting eleven of the home team.

As the teams were read out, Nemanja Matic received loud boos, since he of course played for the hated Benfica.

A couple of friends texted me to say that they had spotted Parkao and myself on the TV.

Flies.

As the anthem played, a huge banner was unfurled from the top tier opposite :

“We Are Sporting.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cz9NbHv7Qs&feature=youtu.be

The teams entered the pitch and we were wearing the all yellow kit of Goodison Park. I ran through the team; Filipe Luis in for Dave, Schurrle for Willian. Oh, and a start for Parkao.

After just one minute, Oscar put Diego Costa clear. We held our breath as he stroked the ball low. Surely we would get off to a dream start. Alas not; we saw the ball deflected wide after a block by the Sporting ‘keeper Patricio. Not to be perturbed, we continued to attack and were clearly on top in the early stages. We were in fine voice too. The lower tier was packed at the front, leading to some great “togetherness.” Copious amounts of Super Bock and Sagres helped too. I kept looking across at Parkao and he was loving it.

In the build up to the game, I wondered if Sporting’s new signing from Dundee United – yes, them again – Ryan Gauld, might play a part during the evening, but there was no place for him neither in the team nor on the bench. Instead, Nani was the one familiar face and it wasn’t long before he was serenaded –

“You’re just a shit Michael Jackson.”

The Ultras – Torcida Verde – at the other end were in good voice too and their chanting was relentless. At one stage, I counted twenty flags being frantically waved, though others appeared and then disappeared throughout the evening.

Andre Schurrle then missed three good chances in three minutes. First he rounded the ‘keeper but hit the side netting from a tight angle. A tame header was then fielded easily by Patricio. Then, a low shot, again easily saved. After his 184 wayward shots on goal during the Bolton game, this was getting all too familiar. A few fans nearby wanted to see him subbed already.

I rolled my eyes.

Next, it would be me rolling my eyes. A great run from Hazard set up Diego Costa, who rolled the ball towards Schurrle. We all growled as he pushed the ball well wide of the Sporting goal.

“At least get it on target.”

Ugh.

Soon after, a free-kick on our left was played deep towards the leaping Nemanja Matic, who rose purposefully and sent a looping, dipping header over the stranded goalie and into the net.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.

GET IN MATIC!

THE BENFICA BOY!

Almost immediately, a few fans behind me got going with a new song, at first a quiet murmur, but then growing stronger with each rendition.

“Matic.

In the middle of our pitch, Matic.

In the middle of our pitch, Matic.”

I loved that. Suggs would too.

Nice one.

Then, soon after –

“Super Frankie Lampard.”

There were a few half chances for Lisbon, but we were well on top. A handball appeal against Gary Cahill was waved away and the first-half ended with boos ringing in the ears of the referee as the players and officials left the field.

Boos welcomed the referee back on the pitch at the start of the second-half. The natives were clearly restless.

Down below us, we spotted Rob, who came to spend a few minutes with us. He told a warming story. He pointed down at Chelsea fan Charlie, who was with four Benfica ultras. They had been given tickets in our end as an act of thanks for what they did in honour of a Chelsea fan that sadly passed away ahead of the Chelsea vs. Benfica Europa Cup Final in Amsterdam last year. They had spotted on a Chelsea chat site that Blind Gerry, known to many at our club, had passed away just hours after a game at Stamford Bridge. In his honour, they created a banner in memory of Gerry and flew it in Amsterdam before gifting it to Gerry’s friends.

Class.

It was great to have those four among us.

Nani threatened with a curler, but then wasted a great chance when he flicked the ball to…er…nobody, allowing us to clear. The game was remarkably open. Mourinho must have hated it.

Then, a firm shot from Diego Costa which was blocked. Just after, Filipe Luis dropped a ball over the square Sporting back line and Oscar raced through with just the ‘keeper to beat. He appeared to have too much time, and seemingly froze. The keeper foiled us again.

Nani again was involved at the other end, having two shots on goal, but Courtois was largely untested. We begged for a second goal. This was becoming tense.

Diego Costa, with a tremendous burst of pace, flew past Mauricio, but the Sporting defender cruelly blocked him. Costa looked hurt, but it was the defender who was stretchered off. It was a moment which seemed to derail Lisbon for a few moments. However, their fans still sang heartily throughout the second-half. At one point, with them singing their version of “Fields of Athenry” and with their fans holding their scarves aloft, you could easily be mistaken for thinking the game was being played in the East End of Glasgow. I even saw a U2 “Boy” flag.

Willian replaced the hard-working but wasteful Schurrle, then Mikel took over from Oscar. With Mourinho now using Matic and Mikel as a shield, surely our defence would hold firm. Fabregas pushed up.

Diego Costa hit the side netting, and then shot wide after a delightful defence-splitting ball from Matic had set him free. Filipe Luis broke free down in front of us, but his ball into the six yard box evaded everyone. How we begged for another goal. Sporting had a curler which went just wide. In the final five minutes, the Chelsea support roused itself magnificently with the loudest rendition of “Amazing Grace” that I can remember hearing at a European Away. It was stirring stuff. The home team kept the pressure on us as the minutes ticked by.

“Come on Chels, hang on.”

On ninety minutes, Fabregas fed Mo Salah – who had replaced Hazard – and he advanced on the ‘keeper. Yet again, Patricio made a magnificent save to deny us.

“Oh, those three one on ones, Parkao.”

At the final whistle, I roared. This was an enjoyable game of football – thankfully not defensive and dour like so many European aways – and the relief that came with the win was immense. After the draw with Schalke, it was so important that we came away with a win. We soon heard that Maribor, bless ‘em – had eked out a draw in Gelsenkirchen.

Nice one.

Jose slowly walked over to shake the hands of the Sporting goalkeeper who had kept us from winning 4-0. We then clapped as our players walked towards us.

I had thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

In fact, the drama made the game. Had we won by a greater score line, the sense of relief would not have been so great. The support wasn’t massive – maybe 1,600 or so – but it was loud and passionate. Who needs thousands more when we can get by on 1,600 loyalists.

As Alan remarked : “Quality over quantity.”

I soon collected my camera and we walked off, with a quasi-police escort, to Telheiras tube station. There is always something quite joyful, yet eerie, about being given the streets of a foreign city to walk through, all to ourselves, especially after victory. It didn’t quite match Camp Nou in 2012, but it wasn’t bad.

We were deposited in the centre of town – the subway train did not stop until the last three stops – and we met up at our “local” in Praca Dom Pedro IV for two more steins of Super Bock. Foxy, Ashley and Kev joined us, then Brighton Tony, then Charlie with two of the Benfica lads. Parkao was smiling.

“Although it’s been a great trip, the win made it, mate.”

“Yep. Bloody brilliant, Parkao.”

Wednesday 1 October 2014.

We were up, bright and breezy, for breakfast at around 9am. We said our goodbyes to Alan and Gary, then headed down to Belem once again. We spent a few moments at the Belem Tower, which was once positioned in the River Tagus itself, but which is now adjoined to the riverbank after extensive land reclamation. We made our way to the Monument to the Discoveries, built to commemorate the five-hundredth anniversary of Henry the Navigator’s death in 1960, and I was in photographic heaven. The white of the stone contrasted well with the blue sky above. The figures depicted in stone – Henry the Navigator, Vasco de Gama, Fernao Magellen and others – were wonderful subjects for my trusty camera.

Snap, snap, snap.

The floodlights of Belenenses were just a mile or so away. Mourinho entered my head again.

In my Lisbon guide book, I read with interest that Henry the Navigator – the one at the front of the statue – never actually sailed the seas during Portugal’s age of discovery. I drew a parallel with Jose Mourinho, who hardly set the world alight as a player, but who has successfully navigated many teams to success as a manager.

Mourinho as navigator?

“You bet. Hey, listen, after three morangoska cocktails on Monday night, you’re lucky to get that as a footballing paradigm, I’m telling you.”

We relaxed down by the river with a few drinks. It was a calming end to our short spell in delightful Lisbon.

The coach then took us all of the way south to Faro once more, where Parkao and I enjoyed a meal in a restaurant overlooking the town’s marina. The sun slowly dropped behind a palm tree to the west – a palm tree on a Chelsea away trip, whatever next? – and the setting sun turned the sky orange and then lavender. We raised one final Super Bock to one of the best Chelsea European aways yet.

Obrigado, Portugal.

Tales From An Alcoholic Afternoon

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Norwich City : 4 May 2014.

The Gang of Three was on the road again, aboard “The Chuckle Bus” for the last home match of season 2013-2014. With Parky sitting in the rear of Glenn’s VW camper, and yours truly alongside the driver in the front, we were all looking forward to seeing how the day’s events would unfold.

For once, chat between Glenn and I was all about football. This might seem a strange statement, but it is of course one of the great contradictions about our football life that although Chelsea is the reason why we have all found each other, very often it is all of the other things in our lives which dominate our conversations on match days.

Maybe it was our exit out of the Champions League on the previous Wednesday which stimulated our desire for footy chat; defeats and losses always seem to generate debate rather than victories and triumphs.

Glenn posed the question : “Looking back over the season, what is your main memory?”

I thought for a few minutes and answered.

“Apart from the wins at Manchester City and Liverpool, plus the wins against Arsenal and Tottenham, I think it was trying to fathom out Jose Mourinho throughout the season, trying to see where he is taking the club, trying to analyse his comments, trying to get inside his head.”

Although we admire the current batch of Chelsea players and although Roman controls the purse strings, this season it has felt that this is Jose’s club once again. From his initial “happy one” statements in the summer to his controlled reticence in the autumn, downplaying our chances throughout, to his occasional barbs at foes in the media, to his sudden outbreaks of surliness, to his comments about his players, his presence has been the overwhelming feature of this season. Sometimes he makes me cringe, sometimes he makes me smile. He is the master of the scripted sound bite, the whimsical aside, but also of the petrifying stare at those who have crossed him. He is fascinating character to have at the epicentre of our club.

Parky commented too.

“Just glad to be back, after missing so much of last season.”

Indeed. It seems like ages ago, but Parky hardly accompanied me on any away trips last season. It has been lovely to have him back in the fold.

It was Glenn’s turn.

“It’s our club again…after last season. There was fighting in the stands. Unrest. Jose has created unity.”

There is no denying that. Although the football hasn’t always been exciting to watch, there has been a genuine feeling of some sort of linear growth in 2013-2014.

So, we were back in SW6 yet again. With Glenn taking care of driving duties, I was able to relax and enjoy a few bevvies. In essence, I was Parky for one day. Shudder. Our first port of call was the bar in the Copthorne Hotel. Dennis, living life to the full during his week in England, joined us for a pint. The bar area was relatively quiet. I tut-tutted at the sight of a couple of Chelsea supporters wearing Star Wars face masks…well, no, I was rather more forthright.

“What the fcuk is that all about?”

Dennis quickly explained…”today is May the Fourth.”

I shook my head…”oh bloody hell.”

As we left the hotel, Glenn spotted Roy Bentley being ushered out in to the sunny May afternoon. He was with his family, celebrating his 90^th. birthday a week or so early as a guest of the club. As Roy is originally from Bristol, I briefly mentioned the sad news about the relegation of Bristol Rovers from the Football League. A photograph of Roy with Dennis, Parky and Glenn was taken and we wished him well. I love the fact that Chelsea plays host to many of our ex-players each week.

Our next destination was “The Pelican”, but we were shocked at how quiet the place was. It was about 1.30pm, but the large bar only had around twenty customers. It is so strange how pubs wax and wane in popularity.

Next up “The Malt House” (aka “The Jolly Malster”) and this was dead, too. This established Chelsea boozer underwent a makeover – like many more in the immediate hinterland of Stamford Bridge – a few years ago, but now seemed to be full of diners rather than drinkers.

“The Goose” was a completely different story. The large bar and beer garden were crammed full of Chelsea supporters. Outside, the usual suspects were mid-session. The drinking continued under blue skies. A round of amaretto brought the inevitable “Alouette”

“Amaretto – Chelsea Amaretto.”

On the walk down to the ground, Parky, Dennis and I popped into “The Barrow Boy” (previously “The Hobgoblin” and “The Victualler” and “The Fulham Tap” – where the inaugural start-up meeting of the CST was held last season) for another shot of the almond-scented liquor.

As we walked past the entrance to the Fulham Broadway tube station, I happened to spot another Chelsea old-boy. It was Paul Canoville. The three of us have an evening with Canners – plus Pat Nevin and Doug Rougvie – lined-up in a couple of weeks down in Raynes Park and so it was lovely to see him ahead of that, to tell him how much we are relishing that night. We may not have a European final this season, but that will be a wonderful evening to see off season 2013-2014.

Inside Stamford Bridge, there seemed to be a post-Champions League hangover among the assembled masses. Even before the game began, there was a soporific air to the afternoon. The apparent fall-out between Mourinho and Hazard had resulted in our number seventeen being relegated to the bench. Demba Ba got the nod in attack.

Schwarzer, Ivanovic, Terry, Cahill, Cole, Lampard, Matic, Schurrle, Willian, Salah, Ba.

This was an altogether tedious affair; at least what I remember of it.

In the first-half, Andre Schurrle struck a firm effort against the far post, but all other chances are lost in the mists of time and fumes of alcohol. I remember being dismayed about the lack of support for the team in a game which we had to win to stand any chance of winning the league should both Liverpool and Manchester City falter in the final run in.

At the break, Mourinho replaced Frank Lampard and Mohamed Salah with David Luiz and Eden Hazard. Soon into the second-half, Brana tee’d up Luiz, who took aim at Ruddy’s goal. The Brazilian’s shot dipped and swerved, only for the ball to come crashing back into play off the bar. Soon after, Hazard appeared to be taken out of the game inside the Norwich box, but an offside decision was given instead. With each passing minute, there was growing concern that we wouldn’t be able to break Norwich down. The frustration among the fans must have filtered down on to the pitch. Despite overwhelming possession, we found it difficult to get behind the Norwich defence. At the other end, on a very rare break, a sublime block from Gary Cahill came to the rescue as Snodgrass shot.

Mourinho added Fernando Torres in to the mix; he replaced Matic. A few late chances were exchanged in the final few minutes, but almost out of sympathy for the watching thousands. It had been a very flat afternoon of football.

There had been a few boos as the teams left the pitch at the interval and, sadly, there were more at the final whistle too. Worse was to come. After a pause of around ten minutes, the Chelsea players returned for the usual “lap of appreciation.” I had stood and watched, with sadness, as thousands upon thousands of supporters decided to leave; as the players emerged, I felt so sad. I wanted to apologise. It was a horrible sight. There were row upon row of empty seats. The players, with their replica-kitted children following on, clapped us and although I returned the favour, I felt disjointed, apart, unsettled, and adrift.

Sigh.

Outside, Glenn and I met up with Parky and Dennis.

We dipped into “The Harwood” – where we used to do our drinking from 1995 to 2000 – and the game was soon forgotten. Dennis was in line for more Chelsea history.

“After the F.A. Cup Final in 1997, we all came back to Fulham Broadway for a celebratory drink, but the police had closed virtually every pub. This place was one of the very few open. Thankfully, we were served. There’s a photo of us – exhausted, euphoric, blissful – right where we are stood now. Fantastic memories.”

We joined up with the others for one last hurrah at “The Lillee Langtry.” One final beer, one final laugh, one final moan…

For some, this would be the final get-together of 2013-2014.

For a few, one game remains.

Over the bridge to Cardiff.

See you there.

Tales From The Storm Chasers

Posted on April 28, 2014 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 27 April 2014.

Here was a match that I had been dreading for some time. As our league campaign has spluttered and faltered over recent weeks – defeats against the combined talents of Aston Villa, Crystal Palace and Sunderland perhaps convincing all of us to believe the manager’s comments of us being likely championship bystanders – the Liverpool juggernaut continued at a heady pace. How grateful I was that a Manchester City win last week meant that a defeat for us at Anfield would not hand the title to them.

We are not friends.

The mild dislike of ten years ago seems like a distant era; another time and two different clubs. Since then, the increasing animosity between Liverpool and Chelsea has grown. I was once ambivalent to Liverpool to be honest. Their glory years were in the past. As our stock gradually rose, theirs appeared to stagnate. Then came Mourinho, the ghost goal in 2005, a chant about “history” and one of modern football’s newest and most bitter rivalries.

Liverpool, confidence high after a stretch of winning games, were now championship favourites. To some in the media, the title was already won. As I prepared for the trip to Merseyside – sandwiched between the high drama of Champions League dates with Atletico Madrid – my whole body was filled with dread. Our team would be weakened. Liverpool were on fire. The momentum was with them. In addition to concerns about the football side of things, there was also the worry of going into the cauldron of red noise of Anfield and the jibes between both sets of fans. I wondered if the atmosphere would be blighted by the “H” words of Hillsborough, History, Hooligans, Heysel and Hate. I missed the game at Anfield last season; I wasn’t sorry.

On this occasion, though, I was drawn in like a moth to a flame. This was a game I had to attend; despite my concerns about a possible mauling and the horrendous mocking that would accompany it, there was an unquenchable desire to attend. Regardless of the outcome, I had to be there. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted the buzz, the thrill, the risk of danger, the chance of sweet success. I likened my desire to attend the game at Anfield to mirror that of storm chasers in the United States; lured by the awesome strength and power of a tornado, regardless of the threat to human life, like sailors swept up against rocks answering the song of a siren.

We were the storm chasers.

The Scousers sing about walking through a storm.

On the morning of Sunday 27 April 2014, as I left my sleeping Somerset village at 7.45am, I wondered if it was our turn to walk through a storm.

I collected Oscar Parksorius just after 8am, then diverted back to Bristol to collect Dennis from his hotel in Clifton. Dennis is one of the many fine American Chelsea fans who I have made friends with over the past ten years. He was in Bristol with work for a week but, what luck, was able to attend three Chelsea games during his spell in the south-west. As I drove north, we chatted about all sorts. I was, however, keen to give him a couple of facts about Liverpool Football Club which, I am sure, he was not familiar.

“Dennis…let me tell you this. Liverpool fans, along with many others, always harp on about us having no history, no past…that we are a small club with money. Well, let’s talk about attendances. If Liverpool’s highest ever gate at Anfield was ranked among Chelsea’s highest ever gates at Stamford Bridge, where would it come?”

Dennis : “I have no idea.”

Parky : “Eleventh?”

Chris : “At number sixty-seven.”

Dennis : “Wow.”

Yes, it’s true.

Stamford Bridge – 82,905.

Anfield – 61,905.

And sixty-six gates at The Bridge between the two figures.

“And here’s another one, Dennis. All-time averages. These figures are from 2004. Chelsea’s all-time average home gate in the league, dating back to 1905, was around 31,000. In that time…1905 to 2004…one league championship. Liverpool’s average all time…with a mighty eighteen championships, was around 34,000. That is just three thousand more. So tell me – doesn’t that suggest to you that it is our fans that are more loyal? In ninety-nine years, one title. Yet in in 2004, we were the club with the fifth-highest lifetime home attendance. I know we were blessed with a big ground, but we still had to fill it.”

We stopped at Strensham for a McBreakfast and then headed north through Birmingham. We dipped into Stafford to collect Dave The Hat, newly arrived on a train from The Smoke.

“The train was full of Scousers. Ugh.”

We drove on, the weather brightening with each mile. The laughs were roaring. The others supped on lagers, ales and ciders while I concentrated on the road.

“Dennis – this will be my nineteenth trip to Anfield with Chelsea. In all that time, just three wins. The 2-1 in 1992, the 3-1 in 2009 and the 2-0 in 2010. Hardly rich pickings.”

This would be both Dennis’ and Dave’s first visit.

Lacoste Watch –

Dennis – Brown.

We spoke briefly about the game. Dave and I both foresaw an early goal and a potential gubbing. We were, of course, going to be without key personnel. I inwardly groaned. In the back of mind was another piece of trivia. Our last really heavy league defeat against any team was the 5-1 loss at Anfield in 1996. By itself, that is a rather astounding statistic; in almost eighteen years, we haven’t conceded a heavier loss. In that period we have beaten other teams by mightier scores; Tottenham (6-1), Arsenal (6-0) and Manchester United (5-0) to name just three.

As we drove over the Manchester Ship canal, we were diverted by a barrage of Madonna / food puns and it took our mind off the game.

“Hollandaise.”

“Poppadom Preach.”

“Like A Pear.”

“La Isla Fajita.”

“Like A Gherkin.”

As I slowed at traffic lights before sweeping north on Queens Drive, Dennis exclaimed –

“Oh look at that.”

Over on the side of the road, just by the pavement, was a hubcap, welcoming us into the city.

Too funny.

On previous visits to Merseyside – and certainly in the hooligan era of the mid-‘eighties – trips to either Goodison or Anfield could be tense affairs. On one occasion I was chased by a few Liverpool scallies around Lime Street. On other occasions, the threat of physical harm was never too far away. Although I didn’t expect the same level of danger in 2014, I did warn the others that a visit to a pub would be silly in light of the animosity twixt Liverpool and Chelsea. There is no love lost. The idea, once I had parked up a mile to the south of Anfield, was for us to keep our heads down, avoid the locals and then let our hair down in the bar in the away end.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Dave – who is a man of Kent – bounced towards two locals, leaning back, arms all over the show, doing his best Micky Flanagan impersonation, and enquired –

“Owright mate – gotta liiiiiight?”

Dave couldn’t have given the game away more easily if he was wearing hob-nail boots, a Pearly-King suit, eating jellied eels, singing a Tommy Steele number and doing a Cockney knees-up.

Good grief.

We walked up Utting Avenue towards the grey steel of Anfield at the top of the hill. The streets were full of red favours. A gaggle of local women in onesies walked past; surely the perfect item of clothing for the city of Liverpool. There were three police vans outside “The Arkles.” Once inside the away end on Anfield Road, we could relax.

A pint of lager for the driver.

My mood was still sombre, though. I still had visions of a defeat. And possibly a heavy one.

5-1, 1996.

We chatted to four lads from Trowbridge who had been involved in a head-on collision at some lights at 8am. Thankfully, despite the car being written-off, they were OK.

The storm chasers were in town.

I pulled a face as Big John walked past.

“It’s all about Lisbon, mate.”

And I guess it was.

The general mood among my friends in the crowded bar was that we would be very grateful for a 0-0 draw. The team flashed up on the TV screen.

Schwarzer, Dave, Brana, Kalas, Cole, Mikel, Matic, Lamps, Schurrle, Ba, Salah.

I didn’t flinch. It was as I thought it might be. It was hardly a team of youth players.

For a change, I was watching the game alongside Lord Parky. Our seats were in row two. As I edged in to seat 80, I looked down at a carrier bag in front of a middle-aged chap; in it was a Manchester United logo’d match ball.

…mmm.

I didn’t recognise the people immediately around me, except Cathy who was sitting five seats along to my right. Like me, her camera was at the ready. I was hoping for some nice photographs in this game. Thankfully, my large lens was not garnering too much attention from the match day stewards. Behind me – five rows back – was Dennis. Dave was sitting – OK standing – with Alan and Gal, further towards the rear. Our end was packed. There wasn’t a spare seat in the house. There was an over-riding feeling of nervous tension.

The flags and banners were being waved with gusto in The Kop. Ah, The Kop. On one memorable occasion, I watched Chelsea from the old, vast, unruly and unregulated old Kop; the 1992 game, the 2-1 win. I have in fact, watched Chelsea from all four sides at Anfield. I’d guess not many Chelsea fans can claim that.

The stadium then sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and I took it all in. The benchmark for me was the infamous Champions League Semi-Final in 2005. Anfield was electric that night. In 2014, it was loud, but not as loud as in 2005. I remember the European-style whistling in 2005, too. It was one of the noisiest atmospheres I have ever experienced. By contrast, when we went to Anfield four years ago and virtually set up the championship with a 2-0 victory, I have never known Liverpool’s stadium to be so subdued.

The game began and after one minute, I was already watching the clock high up between the Centenary stand and The Kop. It always gets my attention. I have become obsessed by the clock at Anfield.

Let’s keep them out. One minute, five minutes, ten.

The stadium was rocking during the first twenty minutes as Liverpool dominated possession. An early shot from Ashley Cole was not followed up with any other real Chelsea chances and we dug in. Coutinho blasted over right in front of me. This was torrid stuff. Cole cleared off the line and Sakho shot over. I watched him as he shouted in despair. Being so close to the pitch was wonderful, though. I was able to marvel at the speed and skill of both sets of players. Liverpool kept finding players out wide, but cross after cross was either blocked or headed away. I was unhappy with our time-wasting and was worried that it would end up with bookings or worse.

As the minutes edged past – twenty, twenty-five – the noise quietened and I was more hopeful. Chelsea began to cause the home team problems, especially from set pieces. On more than one occasion, corners were whipped in. Our presence was increasing. The Chelsea choir responded. In the home areas, a new song –

“We Are Liverpool – Tra La La la La.”

We responded –

“Oh Dennis Wise.”

Thirty minutes.

A third of the way there.

“Come on Chels.”

Ba was toiling well, and we began to enjoy periods of possession, moving the ball around, making Liverpool chase. The noise was definitely lessening. I don’t often sit/stand with Parky and his fervour was astounding. It seemed that every time a Liverpool player had possession for more than two touches, Parky would bark out :

“Hit him, stab him, hit him with a brick.”

My eyes picked out Luis Suarez – I’ll admit it, my eyes hurt each time I saw him, such was his prowling presence and threat of danger. His one real chance was spurned though; his shot flashed over.

In front of The Kop, another corner flashed in and the leaping Tomas Kalas – the debutant – headed wide when he really should have tested Mignolet.

Thirty five minutes, forty minutes.

Then, a miracle. A slip from a Liverpool player and Ba pounced. He ran untroubled from just inside the Liverpool half. What a daunting sight if he dared look; twelve thousand steely eyes on The Kop praying for him to fail. Ba kept his composure and shot. The ball was struck low. I kept my composure and snapped just as the ball crossed the line. Twelve thousand Liverpudlians in The Kop looked on aghast. Three thousand Chelsea fans in the away corner erupted.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

I turned to my left in order to hug someone, anyone, but was met by four stony faces. There had been warnings of Scousers somehow – how??? – getting tickets in our area, and here was proof. I smiled at one chap, and pointed –

“Sussed.”

He looked worried, but I was in no mood to grass anyone up. The mother and daughter next to me…mmm, half-and-half scarves, surely a telling sign…were quiet too. I just smiled at them.

“Get in Chelsea!”

A song swept our end –

“Steven Gerrard – You’ve Done It Again.”

Oh boy…so it was his slip. I simply hadn’t noticed who was involved, being so low. After his back-pass to Didier Drogba in 2010 on the same ground – and the same end, too – he had done it again. I may be hung, drawn and quartered for saying it, but Gerrard is a great player; I love the way he pings long passes around, knee over the ball, textbook. On this occasion, though – with thoughts of the premature celebrations and his protestations in the Liverpool huddle a few games back – I could only laugh.

There was a sense of huge bewilderment in our end at the break; we had weathered the storm. We had defended heroically. We just might do this.

We just might do this!

The second-half followed along similar lines. There was much possession from Liverpool, but simply magnificent and resolute defending from the entire Chelsea team. The second-half of Chelsea at Anfield in 2014 will be remembered by these few motifs…

The sight of Steven Gerrard, alone, in acres of space at the centre of every Liverpool move. I was surprised how much room we gave him, but I think it was decided that we would simply defend deep and repel all of his prods into the runners ahead. He resembled an NFL quarterback, but whose wide receivers kept running into blocks.

The Liverpool finishing; so poor. On not one occasion did I feel that our goal was under threat. There was not one single expectant hush from The Kop, as so often happens before a goal is scored. Even the “oohs” and “aahs” after each wayward shot were quiet.

The performance from Mark Schwarzer was magnificent. He kept on coming and claiming cross after cross, then scrambled down on a few occasions to foil Allen and others. Seeking extra confidence ahead of the return leg with Atletico, this game was a Godsend.

Willian replaced Salah. As the sun beat down on us in the away end, it was our turn to play. Runs from Willian and Schurrle caused panic in the home support and Mignolet reacted well to deny Schurrle. A Matic shot skidded wide. Ba held the ball up so well and proved to be quite a handful for the Liverpool defence. Behind him, everyone had run their proverbial socks off.

Gary Cahill replaced Schurrle, and Jose went with three – no, five – at the back. I am not a fan of changes to shape late on, but – there again – I know fcuk all about football. The Chelsea fans seemed too nervous to sing. It was excruciating. The minutes ticked by.

That bloody clock.

More wayward shots from Liverpool.

With the end in sight, Mourinho acted as chief cheerleader, beating his chest, pointing at the watch, scowling at us, demanding more support. It was an incredible sight.

To be honest, I felt myself bracing for an equaliser in the last fifteen minutes. This was my game plan. I remembered my pre-game thoughts; an equaliser, though tough, would be “OK.”

Into four or five minutes of added time, we were tested at a corner but Schwarzer saved from Suarez. Thankfully, space had been at a premium all day long in our box and those intricate through balls from Gerrard into Suarez had been noticeably missing.

Space, however, took on an extra dimension in the last minute. Chelsea won the ball just inside our own half and the ball was played to Fernando Torres.

“Oh my God, son – go on…do it.”

I had time to raise my camera and photograph his run at Mignolet, his pass to Willian and the walking in of the ball into the empty net.

Game. Set. Match.

The Chelsea end exploded once more.

It was time for a few crazy, magical photographs of the players celebrating just yards from me. I probably heard their voices, but it is a beautiful royal blue blur. I scrambled up on to the seat in front. Arms outstretched. I yelled until I could yell no more.

At the final whistle, complete bliss.

From behind, came a raucous chant –

“We’re Gonna Win The League…”

I joined in, but I was far from convinced, despite our magnificent performance at the home of the champions-elect. Another song brought me greater cheer :

“Portugal, Portugal – We Are Coming.”

I shook hands with Cathy, our smiles wide. Parky was going mad, as per normal. Dennis, the Anfield virgin, was beaming. I could only begin to imagine his emotions. Then, Dave, arms wide, lapping it up.

I was now 4 wins in 19, but Dennis and Dave were 1/1.

There had been a storm and the storm was caused by us.

Walk on now, Liverpool.

As we sidled out into the evening sun, we roared once more. I looked at the reactions of a couple of grizzled Liverpool stewards, maybe veterans of Rome 1977, Wembley 1978, Paris 1981, Rome 1984 and Istanbul 2005. I think I caught one of them smiling as we sung once more. England’s new European specialists were taking centre stage now –

“Portugal, Portugal – We Are Coming.

Portugal, Portugal – I Pray.

Portugal, Portugal – We Are Coming.

We Are Coming In The Month Of May.”

We kept quiet on the steady walk back to the car, save for a few knowing winks with some Chelsea faces. Once inside the sanctity of my car, we roared. We were soon met with a dilemma of the game taking place at Selhurst Park, though. Really, we should have wanted City to drop points, but we just wanted the whole day to be remembered as the day that Liverpool were knocked out of the title-race.

“They won’t come back from this. I think its City’s now.”

“Unless Everton can beat them…”

“Nah. We’ll probably finish third.”

“Just like Jose says.”

“And who can argue with him?”

It was a gorgeous drive south. Dennis, especially, was just so happy. We smiled as we heard Brendan Rodgers and then a few Liverpool fans on “606” blaming Mourinho and Chelsea for their defeat. It was just like old times…Liverpool blaming Chelsea…

Jog on.

I had whispered to Dennis, walking back to the car in Liverpool –

“This could be the best week of your life.”

On Wednesday, let’s make sure it is.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Jose Mourinho

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