Tales From Section 61

Posted on February 21, 2023 by Chris Axon

Borussia Dortmund vs. Chelsea : 15 February 2023.

There is no doubt at all that the Footballing Gods – Stadia Division – have been very kind to me in this season’s Champions League trail around Europe. Back in August, I craved a first-ever trip with Chelsea to the San Siro. I was granted my wish. In December, Borussia Dortmund’s Signal Iduna Park – I prefer Westfalenstadion – was my first choice in the first knock-out phase. Again, my wish was granted.

Happy days.

I would get to see the famous Yellow Wall in a stadium with a huge capacity.

Additionally, a trip to The Ruhr, that industrial heartland of Germany, would help to tie together a theme running through this season’s European match reports. I had best get explaining, or at least reminding everyone, of where I left it last time.

In the autumn of 1987, my two college mates Ian – Rotherham United – and Trev – Leeds United – and I visited a few countries on a three-week Inter-Rail trip.

On Sunday 27 September, the three of us travelled up from Rome on the overnight train to Venice. From there, we zipped across the Po flood plain to Milan to see Inter vs. Empoli in the San Siro. It ended 2-0 to Inter and it was my first-ever game in Europe of any description.

On Monday 28 September, we spent some time in Switzerland and then caught an evening train to Munich Hauptbanhof where, without accommodation, we just slept outside a waiting room; it was Oktoberfest, fellow travellers and revellers were sleeping everywhere.

On Tuesday 29 September, we spent all day in Munich, visited the Olympic Stadium to the north of the city centre, then spent around five hours at Oktoberfest to the south of the city centre. That night, the three of us inadvertently slept all night on a train at Munich Hauptbanhof, thinking that we would be waking up in Vienna; undoubtedly the train was supplied by the German authorities to provide extra sleeping accommodation for the revellers, a fine idea.

On Wednesday 30 September, we needed more sleep in the morning and so caught a train up to Stuttgart, arriving at 9.45am. We had a mooch around, and back at the city’s train station I picked up a copy of the renowned West German football magazine “Kicker”. We caught a midday train up to Frankfurt. In “Kicker” I spotted the week’s football fixtures, and I soon honed in on the Borussia Dortmund vs. Celtic game that was taking place that night. I asked the chaps if they fancied travelling further north to Dortmund to see the game. I was a little wary about asking Trev – he is from Northern Ireland, his brother Gary was a big Rangers fan – but the both of them were up for it.

Excellent.

Two impromptu European games in four days.

I was falling in love with European travel all over again.

It is worth stating that this would be a rare treat for anyone from England at the time since English clubs were banned from Europe for five seasons after the Heysel Disaster two years previously. I was certainly no fan of Celtic, I just craved football at the top level. My thought of attending my first-ever UEFA game – this game was in the UEFA Cup – was thrilling me to the core. I was well aware that former Celtic midfielder Murdo MacLeod was now playing for Dortmund. I remember thinking that it would be a cracking game with a crackling atmosphere. Fantastic.

So, we stayed on the train at Frankfurt and ended-up going to Hagen before our delayed train finally arrived at Dortmund Hauptbanhof at 7.15pm.

The game was due to start at 8pm. It was a frantic rush to locate some left-luggage lockers at the station and then to try to work out how to get to the stadium. I recollect myself barking out “fussball” to passing strangers while looking puzzled with arms pointing in all directions, while Ian took to miming the act of kicking a ball to illustrate our need for help. We must have looked ridiculous.

Anyway, with the clock-ticking, we scrambled on to a subway train and got off at Westfallenhallen around ten minutes later. We were running so late that there were no other football fans anywhere to be seen. On a dark night, we alighted at Westfallenhallen, and I was flummoxed that I could not see any stadium floodlights. We rushed around in all directions at once.

Finally, I spotted two old dears and – my only hope – I approached them.

“Wo ist der stadion?”

They typically replied in perfect English.

“The football match? It was yesterday.”

The three of us fell silent.

Yesterday? Oh bloody hell. We had been rushing around like fools to attend a game that had already taken place twenty-four hours earlier. Snot.

We sloped back to the city centre on a tram, tails between our legs, beaten. We collected our ruc-sacs and I grabbed the “Kicker” magazine to look again at the fixtures, furious that I had been misinformed.

For Wednesday 30 September, it listed Borussia Dortmund vs. Celtic (Di.) and I then immediately realised the error of my ways.

Di. Dienstag. Tuesday.

“Fackinell. Sorry lads.”

I still believe to this day that Trev wasn’t too bothered about not seeing Celtic play.

We had a giggle and wandered around Dortmund in search of food. Back at the station, a forlorn and inebriated Celtic fan from Glasgow spotted us and shared his tale of woe in an accent so thick that it needed subtitles. He had missed his bus and only had 2 DM to his name. I advised him to hitchhike to Zeebrugge. He approached a policewoman for guidance, and she looked at us and said :

“This man does not speak English.”

We had to interpret for him.

His passport was on all full view, poking out of his back pocket. I warned him to look after it. Ian and me gave him a few Deutschmarks, and he went on his merry way. We wondered if he ever made it home. Later that night, we boarded a train to Hamburg to continue our tour of European cities and German train stations in the dead of night.

My little tour from 1987 – Milan, Munich, Dortmund – was now being replicated in 2022 and 2023, but over four months instead of just four days.

It was time to go to Dortmund again.

When the date of the away game was confirmed, I was busy at work and so missed out on all of the cheap flights. I also found it difficult to get flights with good timings. I therefore decided to go about this European trip a little differently. PD, Parky and I would be going by train.

The only problem was that PD was unable to obtain a match ticket. He decided to travel along for the ride anyway. I booked an apartment in the Hafen – “harbour”, Dortmund has inland docks, a little like Salford – district near the city centre.

The days clicked down. West Ham United away on the Saturday, a middling performance at best, was followed by a busy day on the Sunday as I wrote up the match report and fine-tuned the packing and planning for our four days away. I enjoyed a good night’s sleep. I presumed that I would need it.

Monday 13 February 2023.

I was up at 6am and collected PD at 7.30am and Parky at 8am. We made our way up to London on the M4, stopping at Reading Services for a Greggsfast. I dropped the boys off at Hatton Cross tube station and then drove a further mile or so to my allotted JustPark bay outside a block of flats. Both PD and Parky walk with sticks these days; their mobility is always an issue on trips to football. I am in awe of how they cope with the pain that they endure on these football trips, bless them. Parky, however, in his rush to get in my waiting car, had forgotten his trusty stick. He would have to share PD’s.

The tube from Hatton Cross to St. Pancras was as easy as you like; twenty-three stations on the Piccadilly Line, no changes, within the hour, bosh.

Our Eurostar train left St. Pancras at just after 1pm. This was only my second-ever trip on the Eurostar; Paris St. Germain in 2004 was the first. The journey to Brussels took just two hours. We changed trains at Brussels Midi, a train station that has undergone a metamorphosis since I last visited it in the ‘eighties. The slower Thalys train left Brussels at 5.37pm and stopped at various stations en route to Dortmund. Both trains were decent. It was certainly a relaxing way to travel. I bought a couple of bottles of 8.5% Duval beer for the three of us. I had not had a single alcoholic drink since my weekend in Glasgow in early December, but I enjoyed every drop of this new beer. We arrived on time, of course, at Dortmund Hauptbanhoff at 8.38pm.

We hopped into a waiting cab and made our way to our digs on Gneisenaustrasse. I entered the numbers on the front door keypad but soon noticed the door was ajar anyway. We scrambled up two flights of stairs to our apartment, number four. I entered the number time and time again, but the lock wouldn’t release. While we were struggling to contact the owner by text message, six fellow-Chelsea fans that Parky recognised from The Shed came down the stairs from their apartment eight. What a small world. I then realised that our apartment was number ten – not four, the ghost of Dortmund 1987 haunting me again – and we had to mount another three flights of stairs. Bloody hell. At last we were in.

It was about 9.30pm, time for a drink. I had highlighted a bar that was a few minutes away – “Bar Wikinger”- and had passed this info on to some friends from Northampton. On the way there, we stopped at a small bar for a single beer, but the place was full of cigarette smoke and we sensed a bit of an atmosphere from some locals. PD chatted to a Serbian who was a fan of Partizan Belgrade and, of course, I mentioned Petar Borota. Further down Schutzenstrasse, we dived into the far more appealing “Bar Wikinger” and were given a far warmer welcome.

Pete, Brian and Dale – the friends from Northampton – were at a table, drinking glasses of “Kronen”, the local brew.

“Found it then?”

“Easy. Our apartment isn’t far away.”

“Oh right. Number 93?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s where we are.”

Yes, Chelsea World is a very small world indeed.

“Took us ages to get in. Problems with the key pad.”

“Us too. Mind you, we were trying to get into apartment one. Ours was actually four.”

“Four?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck me, I’ve just spent ten minutes trying to get into your flat.”

We all howled.

We spent around two hours in this cosy bar and it was a lovely relaxing start to the trip. It seemed that the Chelsea support was going to be split between Dortmund, Dusseldorf, Cologne and Bochum. I had tried my best over the previous few months to see if there was anything of note in Dortmund but it looked to be a rather dull city. Our view was always this though: “we’ll find a bar, we’ll be alright.”

We were at the eastern edge of The Ruhr, the huge urban area of over five million people that formed the epicentre of Germany’s industrial growth in the last century. Some cities are more famous than others – Dortmund is probably the most famous – but they bleed into each other from west to east.

Duisberg, Oberhausen, Essen, Gelsenkirchen, Bochum, Dortmund, plus other smaller cities such as Mulheim, Recklinghausen and Hagen.

I had only visited this area once before for a Chelsea game, a tedious 0-0 draw in Gelsenkirchen against Schalke in October 2007. For that trip, the five of us – Alan, Gal, Daryl, Rob and I – stayed in the fine city of Cologne and travelled up by train, free with match tickets, to the odd city of Gelsenkirchen. I remember that the main street in Gelsenkirchen resembled that of a small provincial town in England. We were then bussed up to the impressive Veltins Arena which lies just south of their old stadium. The game was nothing special but we would end that season’s trail in Moscow for the final. Gelsenkirchen was an enigma really. Schalke were a massive club in their prime, but the city itself seemed to be of no consequence. At the time, I likened it to Wolverhampton; its football club was and is still massive but the city itself is a nondescript part of a larger urban sprawl. We later drew Schalke in the Champions League campaigns of 2013/14 and 2014/15. I did not rush to return.

All five of us would be in Dortmund sixteen years later.

Chelsea also played Besiktas of Istanbul in Gelsenkirchen in December 2003. These are our only appearances in The Ruhr in recent memory.

I was itching to tick off this famous new ground.

The trouble with all the German stadia though, just like many modern stadia, is that they all tend to look the same these days, especially after the refits for the 2006 World Cup. I remember the huge variety of stadia on show for the World Cup in West Germany in 1974; the massive banks of terracing at the old stadium in Gelsenkirchen, the Bedouin-tented roofs of Munich, the huge curved terraces at Hamburg, the cramped Westfalenstadion in Dortmund, the oval stadia in Frankfurt and Stuttgart, the massive and historic Olympic Stadium in Berlin.

These days, everything seems two tiered and uniform.

But if I think of The Ruhr, and its cities, I always think of their football teams. Doesn’t everyone?

MSV Duisburg.

Rot-Weiss Essen.

Schalke 04.

Vfl Bochum.

Borussia Dortmund.

It felt like we were right in the heart of a football-mad region with local rivalries intertwining throughout the decades. I was certainly well aware of the intensity of the Borussia and Schalke derby, the most intense in Germany. This was a football heartland and we were balls deep inside it. The day had been fine. I slept well.

Tuesday 14 February 2023.

There was a gentle start to the day, which had only been loosely planned by myself. We all knew that we would be ensconced in a bar, or bars, for large parts of it.

Outside there were stunning blue skies. Tall dockside cranes were visible in the distance from our balcony ad the morning sun reflected off the painted walls of nearby buildings. We set out at just before 10am, and walked a few hundred yards to Hafen U-Bahn station. We bought day tickets for eight euros, but I couldn’t seem to operate the validation stamper next to the vending machine. One station along, a guard asked for our tickets and questioned why there was no date. Thankfully, he realised that we were visitors and asked us to exit at Leopoldstrasse to validate our passes. We narrowly missed out on a sixty euro fine apiece. Phew.

We alighted at Kampstrasse, right in the middle of Dortmund. A quick bite to eat and a much-needed coffee set me up for my next two hours. While PD and Parky had a mooch around the city centre, I flew down to the stadium, recreating the infamous “phantom match” visit of 1987.

The journey south only took eight minutes. I again alighted at Westfallenhallen, but now much modernised from the little halt of years ago.

I chuckled “wo is der stadion?” to myself.

Still blue skies, the air warming with each minute, I was in my element. I quickly spotted the yellow roof supports of the Signal Iduna Stadium and headed over. I turned a corner and gulped. Just in front of me was an ornamental garden, with a handful of gardeners tending some plants. But my eyes were set on an array of trimmed trees whose branches resembled, very much to my eyes, those of the Joshua Tree National Park in California, named after the prophet Joshua’s outstretched arms guiding his followers on their journey.

It seemed, quite honestly, too ridiculous to be true, especially after my aborted trip in 1987. Had I found my sacred ground? It certainly fucking felt like it.

In the back ground, a radio station played “Those Were The Days” by Mary Hopkin and I just wondered at the synchronicity of it all. Mary was my first-ever girlfriend when I was three; she just didn’t know it. And that song is my earliest favourite pop song.

It was just a nice moment in time.

With the words of my Welsh princess fading as I ventured south-west, I centered my attention on the stadium. It’s very photogenic from the outside; inside, I was sure of it, even more so.

I loved the old stone entrance building of Borussia’s old stadium, the Rote Erde, just to the east of the modern stadium. They switched in 1974. The Rota Erde still hosts Borussia’s second team. I was only really able to take photos of three sides of the new stadium as the South Stand, home of the Yellow Wall, was difficult to access. I snapped away, loving it all. I chatted to two Chelsea fans – familiar but names unknown – from Lyme Regis and to another fan, a young lad who was on our train from Brussels to Dortmund. Stickers were everywhere. I spent many a minute outside the North Stand, the one where almost four thousand Chelsea fans would be positioned the following evening. I had a quick look inside the club shop. It was impressive. The Borussia font is striking, bold and solid. It works well on many of their product lines. I spent an hour or so at the stadium. It had whetted my appetite for the game in Wednesday. It was now time to wet my whistle in the centre of Dortmund with Parky, PD and a cast of thousands.

I was back in Dortmund city centre at just before 12.30pm and I met up with PD and Parky. We soon bumped into Brian and he told us that he had just left a bar called “Wenker’s Brauhaus” in a square a few hundred yards away. We soon found it, nestled in a quiet corner of Markt Platz, right next to a BVB Fan Shop, and across the way from two other bars that seemed to be mainly serving food.

As I walked into the bar, I spotted a poster on the door that advertised the upcoming game. I photographed it and followed PD and Parky in. I did not come out until ten hours later.

“Once upon a time there was a tavern.

Where we used to raise a glass or two.

Remember how we laughed away the hours.

Think of all the great things we would do.”

We had a ball.

And with a cast that seemed like thousands.

Brian, Pete, Dale, Martin, Noel and Mrs. Noel, Andy, Maureen, Chad and Danny from Minneapolis, Yorkshire Mick, Julie, Burger, Rob, Leigh and Darren, Rob and Paul, Steve, Paul from New Jersey – last seen in Baku – Gareth, Shari and Chris from Australia, Ben and Kyle from Louisiana, Steve, Thomas from Vienna, Dessie.

Chelsea songs boomed out with greater frequency as the day, evening and night progressed. It was honestly lovely to hear “Vialli – Vialli – Vialli – Vialli” sung throughout the night.

Luca will not be forgotten.

We won the ECWC in Stockholm in 1998 with Luca at the helm.

To win another European trophy twenty-five years on would be a fine tribute, but I honestly tried not to think too much about the game on Wednesday.

“Think we might get dicked tomorrow.”

Songs for Tuchel too. This was his town for a while, after all.

At around 11pm we left. The ending is a little vague and I can’t honestly remember if this was the official closing time, if they had run out of beer or if they had decided enough was enough, but out into the streets we poured.

We found a late night café – “Zoros Tacos” – and I voraciously consumed a kebab and fries, with a side order of currywurst. We caught a cab back to our digs. I was adamant that after getting PD and Parky safely up to our apartment I would head over to “Bar Wikinger” for one last tipple. Thankfully, I saw sense and retired to bed.

We were all tucked up before midnight.

How very sensible.

Wednesday 15 February 2023.

I woke with no hangover, not for the first time after a night on the ale in Germany. It was a lazy start to the day, another sunny day, even if slightly cooler than on the Tuesday. Our first priority was to head into the city centre and for Parky and little old me to pick up our match tickets. We headed to the Hauptbanhof, then to the German Football Museum, and said tickets were collected with the minimum of fuss. Here we bumped into a few friends from near and far; Steve-O, Andy, Josh and Anthony from Los Angeles, Andy and Zippy from Trowbridge.

We returned to “Wenker’s Brauhaus” and stayed for another four or five hours. I had decided to stay off the beer this time though; a decision I would not regret. As the day developed, Markt Platz grew busier and busier. There was sulphurous blue smoke from flares and song after song. Paul from Reading bounded in and was happy that after standing equidistant between the three pubs in the little square, he initiated a Chelsea song that took over the whole area. The bar staff were so busy, serving beer after beer.

Duncan had arrived early with his “Weald Of Kent Elite” flag that was draped over the staircase. Ray and Gabi appeared. Fresh faces joined those from the previous day. There was a fine buzz in the bar. Mike from New York arrived, always a pleasure.

Face after face after face.

Alas, there was no lucky last minute ticket for PD, so Parky and I returned him to the digs and then set off again down to the stadium. On the last few miles we got talking to a family of four that were bedecked in the yellow and black of Borussia, but – like us – this was a first-time visit. They were from Brittany in France, and about to help the eldest son realise his dream to stand in the Yellow Wall for the very first time. I said in broken French that Borussia would win 3-0. Others were more confident, but not me.

My old friend Mario, from Italy but now living near Bergisch-Gladbach, has three sons. The eldest, Ruben, is a Borussia fan but was unable to obtain a match ticket. Mario – a childhood Juventus fan – has two season tickets to Bayer Leverkusen which he shares around with his other sons Nelson – on the Leverkusen books – and Valentin. Mario’s mother Hildegard was originally from Oberhausen, a woman of The Ruhr.

We reached a special station – “Stadion” – that was only open on match days and slowly made our way towards the away turnstiles. I noticed that the stadium was served by four stations, all within a ten-minute walk away. Additionally, there were many car parks close to the stadium. Just right.

It was around 7pm. There were two hours to go. I continued my photographic homage to European football nights and to the Westfalenstadion in particular.

We decided to head in. I only had my smaller “pub camera” with me as I certainly did not want to risk my SLR getting confiscated. The steward waved me by. Our £16.50 tickets were scanned. In we went. I found it odd that home and away fans were able to mix on entry and in the wide concourse of the North Stand, so different to home.

It was time to say “hello” to a few folk that we had not yet met on the trip; Alan, Gary, Daryl, Pete, The Youth and Seb, Jonesy, Scott, Luke, the “South Gloucestershire Brotherhood & Sisterhood”, the two Robs plus a few others.

For some reason I was expecting our standing tickets to consist of safe standing. I was rather taken aback when Parky and I climbed the steps of the lower tier terrace to be met with old-style terracing with just an occasional crush barrier thrown in for good measure. We shuffled into a position a third of the way down, in line with the East Stand touch line. It was about 8pm. At the other end, the huge Yellow Wall of the South Stand, already packed to the rafters, looked ridiculously huge. Someone told us that it was packed at 7pm.

There were spasmodic chants from that home end, but nobody else really joined in.

Our terrace filled. I was a little concerned with how steep it all was. Whereas in the move from standing terraces to seated stands in the UK, very often seats were simply bolted onto terraces with a slight rake – and poor sightlines – on this occasion it was the opposite. Steeply-angled stands intended to house seats were now hosting standing areas. The tread of the terrace below me was rather narrow too. I had the feeling that should we score – or go close – we would start toppling over each other. I was a little concerned for Parky and his unstable pins.

But it certainly felt good to be on effectively a free-range terrace, without being hemmed in to one position. I knew that I would be able to shuffle a few feet to my left or right to gain a more advantageous viewing position as moves developed on the pitch. It was odd to see fences in front us though, missing in England since 1989.

At 8.20pm, the PA started to play the triumphal march from Aida and this signalled the start of the pre-match build up proper from the home areas. The noise boomed around the stadium.

Fans were allowed to bring their 2% beers onto the terrace. Our section filled further. We had around 3,800 tickets for this game, maybe split half and half between lower tier standing and upper tier seats. I had heard that many Chelsea were in various parts of the home areas. I think the feeling for many was that this might well turn out to be our last European away for a while, so we were going to show up in numbers and enjoy it.

The team was announced.

Kepa

James – Silva – Koulibaly – Chilwell

Loftus-Cheek – Enzo – Felix

Ziyech – Havertz – Mudryk

No Mason Mount, relegated to the bench. I had to blink to realise that three of these starters were not even Chelsea players a month ago.

The ground swelled and swelled but I managed to spot a few empty seats dotted around.

Next, a rather unpleasant echo from home. “You’ll Never Walk Alone” was played on the PA and was met with the home fans singing along, with thousands upon thousands of scarves being held aloft, and this was met with a torrent of abuse from us, not that the home fans heard any of it.

Then the “tifo” display.

Cameras were poised.

Thousands of yellow and black mosaics were held up in the Yellow Wall; impressive enough. At the base of the terrace, a huge banner :

“And jedes Mal war es wert au Deiner Seite zu steh’u. Die Reise wird fur immer Weitergeh’ni.”

Which translates as :

“And every time it was worth standing by your side. The journey will go on forever.”

Then, a vast topographical map of Eurasia and Northern Africa was pulled up the stand by the spectators. Next up, a vertical lift of an image of an unknown supporter with a “Sud Tribune Dortmund” back-pack and baseball cap, pockets holding beers and fire-crackers.

All pretty impressive stuff.

Fackninell.

The teams strode across the pitch, very Stamford Bridge until this season – I wish we still did that – and the anthem.

We all live for nights like this, eh?

What with my reluctance to be bothered with any international football these days, this would be the first time that I would be seeing Jude Bellingham play football. I had to gulp when I saw him go up for the coin toss, a captain at nineteen. Blimey.

I had spotted yellow and black striped shirts in the club shop the day before, but now Borussia were wearing a different shirt. I was struggling to keep up with it all.

There was a solemn moment of silence for those who lost lives in Turkey and Syria.

The game began.

We must have won the toss because Borussia were attacking the Yellow Wall in the first-half.

My eyes were on Bellingham at the start and he immediately impressed with an audacious flick and then a storming run from deep that had Chelsea defenders at sixes and sevens. But we began well, often threatening on the break, with Mykhailo Mudryk involved in a couple of energetic forays down the left. In fact, much of our play in the first-half involved passes into space down our left. There was space to exploit, but much of it was taken up by the colossal bulk of Niklas Sule. On the right, Hakim Ziyech began quietly.

Our counter attacks were a highlight of the early part of the game.

From a Reece James free-kick just outside the penalty box on fifteen minutes, Thiago Silva lept inside the six-yard box and everyone gasped as he connected. I was right in line with the trajectory of the ball as it bounced down and in.

Mayhem.

Beers were thrown wildly without care, bodies sparked into life, arms were thrust in the air, bodies jumped, we were soaked in “Kronen” and we were one-up in front of the Yellow Wall.

Or were we?

No, the goal was cancelled and we knew not why.

Answers on a postcard.

Fackinell.

I liked the look of the energetic Julian Brandt, the number nineteen for Borussia, whose blonde hair and endless running reminded me of our Conor.

Silva snuffed out a Dortmund attack with effortless magnificence. It was an absolute joy to see him glide over to the far side of the penalty box and calmly tidy up.

The home team managed a couple of shots, but could only hit the side netting.

If anything, Ruben Loftus-Cheek was having the better of a great little contest with the boy Bellingham.

I am still concerned about the amount of times I call him “Rubes” though.

The ball was played out to Ziyech in front of us in Section 61 and I was bloody convinced he would waste time by cutting back onto his left foot, but he surprised and shocked me by cutting the ball back with his right foot – his right foot, I tell ya – into the path of the on-rushing Joao Felix but we all groaned as his first-time effort missed the target.

It was the best chance of the game thus far.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

The dangerous Karim Adeyemi lazily shot over from a well-worked corner, but Chelsea came again. Kai Havertz, running well into space, set up Joao Felix, who advanced neatly but clipped the ball against the bar.

The best two chances of the game to us now.

“COME ON CHELS.”

One last chance before the break saw Marius Wolf’s effort fly wide.

This was a very decent game. We were playing much better than I had ever hoped. Even Kalidou Koulibaly was playing a blinder. There would good vibes at half-time, no doubt.

Off the pitch, the Yellow Wall were in fine voice, but the other three sides of home support were pretty quiet. As I looked around, yellow and black favours were everywhere. They love their scarves in Dortmund, the little darlings.

In contrast, our section was a zone of defiance to shirters and scarfers.

The second-half began and we were treated to a fine strong run from James from deep that resulted in a foul and a free-kick on our right back by Emre Can, who used to be a footballer. From the resulting free-kick – on film – James forced a great save from Gregor Kobel, flinging himself to his left in the Dortmund goal.

A rampaging Adeyemi down their left set up Brandt but Kepa was equal to it, saving low. Soon after, the darting Mudryk set up James whose snatched shot was saved well again by Kobel.

This remained a good game. I was involved with every kick.

On sixty-two minutes, a corner from our right was met full-on with a header from Havertz, but his effort was way off target and Felix headed it back, but Dortmund cleared. From here, the home team broke with the speedy Adeyemi collecting the rugged clearance inside his half. We all feared danger. He teased the last man, Enzo, for what seemed a lifetime, and clipped it past him. I immediately thought that Kepa would get to it, but no. Another touch took the ball past Kepa and the attacker brushed it in from an angle.

Bollocks.

On seventy minutes, two substitutions.

Mason Mount for Mudryk.

Marc Cucarella for Chilwell.

Although we had played well, there were still murmurings of discontent and frustration in our section as we lacked that elusive cutting edge.

Koulibaly capped a decent performance with a barnstorming run up field, and would see a shot cleared off the line by Can, who I wished Couldn’t. Later, a typically finicky run by Havertz into their box ended when he was cleanly tackled. One last chance fell to Enzo, centrally, but his rising shot was well saved again by Kobel.

It ended 0-1, but we all agreed that the tie was absolutely still alive.

The gate was 81,000 and it seemed implausible that it was so huge.

Parky and I quickly moved to the back of the terrace, and were soon out. We joined the end of a short queue at the U-Bahn and were soon heading back into town. We were the sole Chelsea supporters in a carriage full of young Borussia fans. They were making a racket, but were pleasant enough. We shook hands with a couple as we left. We grabbed some late night sustenance at the Hauptbanhof, inadvertently bumped into Foxy for the first time, then caught the U-Bahn back to Hafen. We were back at around 12.30am.

Thursday 16 February 2023.

I was awake before the alarm was planned to sound at 5am. This would be a long old day. We caught the U-Bahn at Hafen at 5.30am and were soon tucking into a coffee and a breakfast roll at the city’s train station. Unlike in 1987, this time it was an inebriated Chelsea fan to seek my assistance at the Hauptbanhof as I directed him onto the next train to Dusseldorf.

Our train left at 6.50am.

“A decent trip but you wouldn’t come back to Dortmund in a hurry would you?”

It was a relaxing three-and-a-half-hour trip to Brussels – the cathedral at Cologne never disappoints – and we then enjoyed a quick meal in a restaurant opposite the Midi train station. In the gents’ toilets, I spotted a “Weald Of Kent Elite” sticker.

Chelsea here, Chelsea there.

We reached St. Pancras at about 2.30pm, and we were back in sleepy Somerset at about 6.30pm.

Another Chelsea European away completed, thoughts now focussed on a much more run-of-the-mill day out at Stamford Bridge for the visit of bottom-placed Southampton.

Saturday 12 February 1983.

This particular tale concludes with a mention of a game from forty-years ago. After three consecutive losses to Derby County – twice – and Wolverhampton Wanderers, we played at Blundell Park against Grimsby Town. Sadly, our fourth loss in a row followed. Kevin Drinkell scored twice for the Mariners with Alan Mayes scoring for us, all goals coming in the first-half. The gate was just 6,711. Things were getting desperate. Whisper it, but relegation was looking a ridiculous possibility.

Who knows, maybe if we had the much-maligned Alan Mayes playing upfront for us in Dortmund in 1983 we might have nabbed a point. Mind you, he’s sixty-nine now.

Onwards.

Tales From Home And Away

Posted on January 14, 2023 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 12 January 2023.

When I was driving home from Manchester City on Sunday evening, mid-way through the packet of Fruit Pastilles maybe, I realised that I had acquired a sore throat. In these days of COVID and an apparently vigorous new ‘flu strain, I was obviously fearing the worst. As I drove on, I thankfully didn’t experience any other ‘flu or COVID symptoms, and in fact the sore throat thankfully lessened as time passed. It soon dawned on me that it was all due to the singing that I had done during the game at the Etihad Stadium. In a way, it made me happy, it comforted me. It confirmed that my appearance at the game had not been merely passive. It meant that I had been actively involved in cheering the boys on.

It often used to be like this.

Sore throats after football.

Often at work after games the previous day, I would be ridiculed for my first few utterances. But it was part of football back then.

Turn up. Have a beer. Pay your money at the turnstiles. Cheer the team on. And on. And on. And on.

I suspected that many Chelsea supporters were experiencing sore throats after Manchester. What a show of force and resilience that indeed was.

Top fucking marks.

Next up was a game at Craven Cottage, down in deepest SW6, against our nearest rivals Fulham. This was a game from September that was postponed due to the death of Queen Elizabeth II, and would now take place on a Thursday evening in January.

My alarm woke me at 4.45am. I was to work a “flexi” shift from 6am to 2pm, then drive up to London with Paul and Glenn, PD and Parky, P Diddy and Lord Parky, my match day companions for much of the last five years and beyond.

During my shift at work I told a few football fans (sic) that I feared the result and that we’d lose. I may have said that I fancied Willian to score, just to rub it in. Fulham were faring well this season. This would not be an easy game. The previous evening, I had delved into the record books as I prepared some thoughts about what I should include in this edition of the blog. I knew that our recent record against Fulham – London’s oldest club – was excellent in recent times, but our dominance over them stretched back decades.

Since a 0-2 loss at Stamford Bridge in October 1979, we had played Fulham forty times across all competitions and lost just once. We had won our last seven games against Fulham. I saw all this domination and it made me gulp. Not only did I feel that a Fulham win was long-overdue I had a sixth sense of it happening later in the day. I explained these figures to a couple in the office and said “and I reckon tonight they will beat us for the second time” but their expressions suggested that I was being overly-dramatic.

I thought to myself…”mmm, they don’t know Chelsea like I do.”

I had pre-booked a JustSpace spot outside a flat in Putney, just south of the bridge. I made good time, the roads were relatively clear. I dropped PD and Parky outside “The Eight Bells” at around 4.45pm. My parking spot was from 5pm. I reached it at 5.05pm. I work in logistics.

Normally at Fulham – from memory, every time except once since 2004 – we drink at “The Duke’s Head” in Putney, but we would return to our local “The Eight Bells” on this occasion because it was just easy to meet others there to hand over tickets. We are pretty familiar with this particular spot now, the area both sides of the river, and as I donned my baseball cap – New York Yankees – and zipped up my rain jacket – Victorinox – it felt nice and secure as I walked north towards Fulham.

St. Mary’s Church was floodlit as I passed. The apartments at Putney Wharf were illuminated blue – pretty sure David Luiz used to reside here – and Putney Bridge itself was floodlit too. Craven Cottage was hiding behind a slight bend in the river.

I would soon be in the warmth of “The Eight Bells”, our home away from home at Chelsea, er Fulham – the borough, not the football club, confusing isn’t it? – the past four years. I always presumed that the pubs in this neck of the woods were Fulham pubs on their match days, but the landlady recently confirmed that the three nearest boozers nearest Putney Bridge – the tube station, not the bridge, confusing isn’t it? – were designated as “away” pubs. Thus, “The Eight Bells”, “The Temperance” and “The King’s Arms” were all Chelsea pubs on this night.

I reached the pub just at 5.20pm. It seemed odd, I must admit, to see an “Only Away Fans” sign on a window. It was crowded, lots of the younger element, virtually no colours, all Chelsea. PD and Parky were sat close to our usual table with a few other friends. As I squeezed out at 6.30pm to hand over tickets, a young chap entered and exclaimed “small, innit?” and I replied “and getting smaller.” There was no space anywhere.

The mood in the pub was mainly boisterous with a few songs being aired. For once, I wanted to reach Craven Cottage in plenty of time. It is usually a struggle to reach kick-off time due to the comforts of “The Duke’s Head” and a slightly optimistic guess of how long it takes to walk through Bishop’s Park. On this particular evening, it was just a few hundred yards less than a mile. As we walked through the park, the bright floodlights came into view to the north and I could not resist stopping to take a few atmospheric photographs of the gnarled silhouetted trees and the gnarled masses walking purposefully to the match.

The area outside the away turnstiles is by far the best part of Craven Cottage and, along with the narrow street adjacent to the main stand at Goodison, is my favourite away day location for photographs and ambiance. The red brick, the signage, the historic cottage itself, the hawkers, the Haynes statue, the floodlights. It’s magical but, I guess, in only a way that a football fancier would really appreciate.

This spot is the definition of the phrase “Fulhamish.”

I was in at around 7.20pm. I spoke with a few friends and some – the fools – thought that we would win. My mouth went dry and I found it hard to answer their obvious optimism.

This was my first visit since March 2019, a 2-1 win. Since then, Fulham have been relegated, promoted to a COVID-hit season, relegated and promoted again. They are the ultimate “yo yo” team, or if their much-derided middle class support might say, a “yah yah” team (Peter York, 1981, thanks for that.)

At last the new Riverside Stand is functional for match days, if not fully. I have been keeping tabs on its slow progress for years. On this night, the lower section and the outer flanks of the upper tier were able to be used.

My mate Nick, born in Battersea, called over to say that he saw his first-ever game here, back in the ‘fifties, when many Chelsea supporters used to pop over to Craven Cottage when we were away. Joe Cole and Gary Cahill, with huge BT Sport mics, walked past and were serenaded.

It was announced that our new loan signing Joao Felix was starting.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Koulibaly

Dave – Kovacic – Zakaria – Hall

Mount – Havertz – Felix

Chelsea in those crappy Tottenham navy socks. Why?

Willian was starting for the home team.

PD and Parky made it in just before the game began, PD having trouble getting in on a ticket that initially appeared to be null and void. There were six of us squeezed into five spaces; PD, Parky, John, Gal and Al, with me somewhere in the middle. It was our version of a high press.

Fair play to Fulham. As with Manchester City, they honoured the memory of Gianluca Vialli before the game – there was a minute of applause – and I thank them for that. Previously dry, the evening’s only rain thankfully came and went very soon into the game.

It felt odd to be attacking the Putney End in the first period.

We started so well, with Joao Felix involved in most of our attacking thoughts. He had started the game so positively and his touch and urgency shone like a beacon in those first moments of the game. I counted three efforts on goal in the opening fifteen minutes alone. He also drew fouls from two separate Fulham players who were both booked. This was some debut. Shots from him, and others, flew at the Fulham goal.

Halfway through the first-half, this was an open game, and the Chelsea crowd were buoyant.

As with Cucarella at Goodison Park, though, I was a little picky with a song for the Portuguese signing being aired so soon in his Chelsea career. Others wait years.

“He came from Portugal. He hates the Arsenal.”

This was a remake of the Tiago chant from 2004; I suppose it is better than nothing. There is no doubt that Felix was the spark in our team and it was so good to see a player with a constant willingness to go forward. It was a jolt to our system. Other players – I am talking about you Mount, Ziyech, Havertz, Pulisic – must have looked on and thought “oh yeah I remember now.”

We had enjoyed most of the attacks on goal. Fulham had been neat but mainly on the defensive, with only an occasional attack worthy of the name.

Out of nowhere, a shot from Bobby Decordova-Reid smashed against our bar. Soon after, on twenty-four minutes, Willian wriggled inside the box and I spoke to John next to me.

“You know he’s going to bend one in, there you go.”

Sadly, I had a premonition about a Willian goal before the match but found myself calling the goal in real time too. It is a habit that I need to get out of. Maybe I should stay stony silent all game.

Willian wheeled away but did not celebrate. Top man.

Soon after, my phone lit up with images of myself being featured on BT’s coverage of the game.

I looked depressed, eh?

We kept attacking with shots from Felix, again, and Hall causing concern for Bernd Leno in the Fulham goal.

There was a piece of sublime skill from Thiago Silva towards the end of the first-half, a cushioned caress of the ball and a prod to safety, that only I seemed to spot. In the ‘eighties, it would have drawn applause, I am sure, from everyone in our end.

Late on in the half, a shot from Dave was deflected over after good combination play involving the new man Felix and a seemingly revitalised Havertz, and then Havertz set up Felix – yet again – but his shot was blocked from my view by a bloke in front of me. I had not got a clue how it avoided the goal.

So, the first-half, Chelsea with decent attacking, five efforts or so from Felix, but we looked naïve at the back. Grumbles at the break? Oh yes.

In that chat about Chelsea’s fortunes at work during the day, a work colleague had mentioned that someone on “Talk Sport” had mentioned that Chelsea were third out of three in the “West London League” and I mentioned that we were bottom of the same league in 1982/83 too.

Right, 1982/83, let’s go.

On Wednesday 12 January – forty years ago exactly – Chelsea played Huddersfield Town in an FA Cup third round replay at Stamford Bridge, just a mile and a half away from the current location of Chelsea Football Club’s first team. We won 2-0 with two late goals from John Bumstead, who didn’t get many, and Mike Fillery, who got more, in a match watched by a decent enough gate of 14.417. My diary that evening was surprisingly gung-ho, predicting that we would go to Derby County in the next round and win. I must have been light-headed and delirious.

Two minutes into the second-half at Craven Cottage in 2023, I captured the lone figure of Mason Mount taking aim with a free-kick against the backdrop of the inhabitants of the Hammersmith End. I watched the ball sweep goal wards. There was a mighty kerfuffle in the six-yard box as there appeared to be a save, a shot, a save, but then a goal given. I had no idea if the ball had crossed the line directly from Mount or via another player.

We were level.

I looked over to spot Alan’s face, a picture of determination and involvement. Loved that.

The Chelsea choir were suddenly in a playful mood.

“We are staying up. Say we are staying up.”

Sadly, Denis Zakaria fell to the floor in front of the dugouts and looked in considerable pain. He would play no more and was replaced by the less-than-appetising sight of Jorge Luiz Frello Filho, who currently has more names than fans at Chelsea right now. Zakaria – yet another injury, we must be experiencing our worst-ever run – looked utterly dejected as he limped around the pitch.

Worse was to come. Barely a minute or so after, Kalidou Koulibaly struck a firm ball at Felix’ upper body – “fuck was that?” – and the Portuguese player lost control. In attempting to rob Kenny Tete, he scythed him down, and a red looked likely.

Yes, a straight red.

A debut to remember for Joao Felix.

Collective brains whirled back forty years.

Chris : “Al, didn’t Joey Jones get sent off in his first game in 1982?”

Al : “Yes mate, Carlisle away.”

A little later.

Rob : “I bet Joey Jones didn’t have six shots on goal before he got sent off at Carlisle.”

Now we were up against it alright. A man down, I really wondered where our attacks would originate. But we kept going. There was a chance for Havertz breaking on the left but his shot was somehow blocked by Leno.

On seventy-three minutes, the former Manchester United winger Anders Pereira sent over a teasing cross that had Kepa beaten all ends up.

More commentary from me : “Kepa’s nowhere.”

Our ‘keeper came but misjudged the flight of the ball completely, leaving Carlos Vinicius to head into an empty net.

The vitriol aimed at Kepa was intense.

Immediately after, the away end sent out the equivalent of a “thumbs down” to the current ownership.

A Roman thumb, if you will.

“Roman Abramovich. Roman Abramovich.”

At the break, I had moaned to a friend who was standing behind me that I honestly wondered if the new owners have a clue about football. There are certain aspects about this new lot that shouts desperation. And maybe naivety too. Hopefully the season will improve and I will be completely wrong.

Then, a chant that has been heard sporadically over the years.

“We want our Chelsea back.”

I wondered which Chelsea this was.

The 1905 to 1954 Chelsea that won fuck all?

The 1971 to 1996 Chelsea that won fuck all?

Or maybe just the last twenty years of Chelsea that have won rather a lot?

Regardless, the mood in the Putney End was a feral one now, with shouts and chants raining down from behind. But amidst all of this, “Three Little Birds” made a very surprising appearance.

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

On seventy-nine minutes, Graham Potter changed things.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chalobah.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Marc Cucarella for Hall.

Then, just after.

Hakim Ziyech for Mount.

We conjured up a couple of late chances for Havertz, but I think it is safe to say it was no surprise that we could not find the net.

For Fulham, our former player Nathaniel Chalobah came on in the last few seconds, thus missing his brother by around twenty minutes.

The final whistle blew.

Fulham 2 Chelsea 1.

I had sadly been right all along.

There were boos at the end, not from many, but from enough to make themselves heard.

“You’re not fit to wear the shirt.”

I was inwardly grimacing.

I’m still not a fan of booing after all these years.

At the end, I was keen to race back to my car. Both PD and Parky had struggled with walking the mile to the game and I did not want them to have to walk a mile and a half back to the car. I tried to leave quickly. I wasn’t able to pay too much attention to the interaction between players and our supporters. I was aware that a stern faced Mason Mount had the balls to come over to face the ire of some of our support. I believe, from comments that I would later hear, only Silva and Dave joined him. Many of my fellow supporters were yelling abuse, indiscriminately, though just as may were clapping the players off.

To boo or not to boo?

To clap or not to clap?

Answers on a postcard.

I raced back to Putney, walking close to the icy chill coming off the river. Walking over Putney Bridge, I overheard a middle-aged chap say to his friend :

“I guess I have seen some players down here over the years, but I think Willian is the best I have seen.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I thought back to Fulham’s last win against us, in March 2006, and walking over the exact same bridge, surrounded by jubilant Fulham fans – more so than in 2023 – and the memories were strong. Jose Mourinho oddly took off both Shawn Wright-Phillips and Joe Cole on just twenty-six minutes. Luis Boa Morte – who I had spotted on the touchline during the evening’s game, now a coach at Fulham – gave the home team their first win against us in twenty-seven years. Thankfully, the loss didn’t stop us winning the league in 2005/6.

Our eventual fate in 2022/23 is not certain.

My parking slot was to end at 10.30pm. I reached my car at 10.25pm. I work in logistics.

My car was pointed north once more, and I headed over Putney Bridge for the second time of the day. What a strange old evening it had been. An evening at home, but away, in this little part of SW6. Within ten minutes, I was able to park up on Finlay Road as it cut across Fulham Palace Road. PD and Parky soon found me. I edged up towards the A4 and we were away.

It had been an eventful evening for sure. What with the sending-off for Felix, the injury to Zakaria, the Kepa miss-hap, and the ultimate defeat, contrasting chants in the away end, it had been a typically chaotic Chelsea night of pain. There were half-serious concerns about relegation – “no, we have too much quality” – and I openly question those who yearn for a year in the second tier (mainly to flush out certain demographics in our support it seems) because as many clubs have seen over the years, promotion is never guaranteed.

Well, promotion is never guaranteed unless your name is Fulham – but not necessarily for all clubs that play in Fulham, confusing isn’t it? – of course. Those buggers seem to get promoted at every opportunity.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am, but I am never the best for dropping off to sleep straight away. It was while I was at home in the small hours that I learned that our scorer was given as Kalidou Koulibaly. I would eventually drop off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

It had been a fucking long day.

On Sunday, we head back to SW6 for a home game with Crystal Palace with the “Eight Bells” as a home pub once again.

See you there.

Tales From Our House

Posted on August 17, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 14 August 2022.

Without any delay, let’s get something out of the way early on. Everyone would have taken a draw from our home match with Tottenham before the game started, right?

Right.

I must have spoken to fifty or more fellow Chelsea fans before the match and all bar two – Mike from New York and King Kenny from West London – agreed with my thoughts.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

Mike, to be fair, didn’t exactly say we’d win but merely answered my statement with a “why not a win?” but Kenny said he fancied us for three points.

We may be Chelsea fans – supporters – but we are also realists. Our play against Everton the previous weekend was off-kilter, a struggle. Tottenham had started the season with a flying win.

“As long as we don’t lose” I kept saying.

I also kept mentioning that our only league defeat at home to Tottenham since early in 1990 took place in the Spring of 2018 – April Fool’s Day, I kid you not – with Antonio Conte in charge of us.

For it to happen again with the same man involved would be horrific.

This was a typical pre-match and one that I won’t hinder you with for long.

There was an early morning start at 6.45am even though the kick-off was at 4.30pm. There then followed a heady spell twixt car and bar with friends from near – PD, four miles – and far – Pete, almost five thousand miles – before I settled into my seat in the Matthew Harding Upper.

My God the heat was ridiculous. On my walk to Stamford Bridge at around 10am, I made sure that I crossed over from the sunny side of the North End Road to avoid the sweltering heat. England’s green and pleasant land had recently been scorched and the temperatures being predicted in London bordered on the scary.

Even more scary was the sight of me in some linen shorts. Thankfully no photographic evidence exists; you are spared.

I loved the “Chelsea Football Club” lettering on the East Stand, mirroring that of the old Leitch stand’s lettering from all those years ago. There is a similar copy on the wall between The Shed and West Lower.

In the pub – “The Eight Bells”, we are creatures of habit – there was a gathering of the clans and some typically boisterous chit chat. Talk veered from memories of last season to thoughts of our chances in 2022/23. I aired a few opinions.

“I reckon we’ll finish between third and fifth.”

“Will be bloody good to see the stadium at full capacity again.”

“Not sure if Tuchel really likes aggressive box to box players like Gallagher.”

“He loves his legion of scurrying and slight attackers. Not so sure he wants a more robust spearhead like Broja.”

The pub became packed and there was a hefty overspill outside. Thankfully, a large fan circulated cold air above our heads. I overdosed on Diet Coke.

The game against Tottenham would mark our first appearance this season in the latest Nike kit. Again, from a long way off, it looks reasonable, though the collar is nasty. I don’t mind the light blue band halfway up the socks, but it would have been ideal to have a similarly thick white stripe down the shorts. None of us tend to buy replica shirts of course.

“Kids and tourists.”

But PD took a fancy to the alleged third kit that has been doing the rounds.

“What colour is it?” asked Kim.

“Muted beige” I replied.

“Muted beige” repeated Parky “I like that.”

“Like our play at Goodison last Saturday” I muttered.

At around 2pm, we were visited by three or four of London’s constabulary. The OB stay out of our way all season down in deepest Fulham but usually appear for a few minutes against Tottenham and West Ham to check on things. Make of that what you will. One policeman in full regalia was holding court on the next table and I heard him proudly state “now your oligarch has gone, your boys are going to struggle this season.”

He was roundly booed.

“Go on, hop it mate. You’ve outstayed your welcome” I said as he sidled past us.

He was Arsenal apparently. He smiled and exited stage left.

We left for the game at 3.30pm.

PD, Parky, Andy, Sophie and little old me made our way to Putney Bridge tube station and all was well with the world. The bright sunlight and strong shadows of the earlier part of the day had subsided. But everything was still sultry and humid.

This was another two game weekend for me. On Saturday afternoon, a few friends and I assembled to see Frome Town play Evesham United in a first league game of the season. A ninetieth minute winner had given the home town Robins a well-deserved 1-0 win in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 359.

The weather in Somerset had been red hot. The temperature in London didn’t feel quite so intimidating.

There was a boisterous atmosphere on the Fulham Road. Just past the “CFCUK” stall, I spotted a Tottenham fan wearing a pair of Lonsdale slip-ons.

I smiled.

My pre-match was complete.

I skipped past the bag-check, and thankfully all turnstiles were fully functioning for game one of the home campaign, a rare event these days.

I was inside at around 4pm.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. No parched earth here. The green sward looked pristine. The kick-off soon approached. I spotted some new graphics on the hotel and apartment walls above The Shed. The players were down on the pitch in our corner going through some pre-match routines and wearing – not training gear – but the new “pre-match gear” which has obviously caused a typical reaction from me.

I am sure a Proper Chels fan in Badgercrack Nebraska will purchase one, to augment his 571 other Chelsea shirts, and then wonder why a trip to SW6 is financially beyond them.

By the way, I could go on, but so many football shirts just don’t look like football shirts these days do they?

Minutes to go before the game was set to begin, we were then treated to flames in front of the East Stand. With that, the supporters in The Shed got going with a Madness-inspired display. I am sure the lads and lasses in The Shed offered us a “House Of Fun” graphic a few years back – I remember drolly commenting that it should be “House Of Pain” for away fans – and here we are again. The Chelsea love affair with the mod revival and Two-Tone era of 1979 to 1982 shows no signs of abating.

A huge banner depicting the “One Step Beyond” line-up – updated to include players and Todd Boehly – surfed over the Upper Tier while “House Of Fun” was hung over the balcony.

After the mention of a China Crisis album from 1982 to accompany my match report from last weekend’s match in Liverpool, here was a single from that very same year featuring in our first game in London a week later.

Music and football. Music and football. Music and football. Music and football.

Suggs will be hosting an evening of personal recollections in Frome in October and I am sure this will become the seventh musical event for me this year that has an echo of 1982. Throughout the coming season if you eat your vegetables and tidy your bedrooms I will be treating you all to a smattering of Chelsea-coloured memories from 1982/83.

A Fortieth Anniversary Special of our Worst Ever Season?

You bet.

Proper Chelsea.

In the MHL, there was a Star-Spangled flag with an image of Todd Boehly.

Really?

Ain’t this going over the top a little?

I wondered if Marc Cucarella might play inside and mark Son Heing-min, hopefully out of the game.

“I’m sorry, Son…”

But instead Reece James was in the back three.

Our line-up?

Edouard Mendy

Reece James – Thiago Silva – Kalidou Koulibaly

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – N’Golo Kante – Jorginho – Marc Cucarella

Mason Mount – Kai Havertz – Raheem Sterling

The first interchange between the two tribes did not take long.

Tottenham : “Antonio – Antonio – Antonio, Antonio, Antonio.”

Chelsea : “You’ve won fuck all.”

One-nil to us.

There was a slight flutter of apprehension when Jorginho lost possession on the half-way line but the resulting Tottenham counter-attack withered in the summer heat.

On eight minutes, a fine move from us and a lovely cross from King Kante that hit the danger area of the six-yard box, but floated past everyone.

I smiled at Al : “Lukaku would have headed that in.”

Many a true word is said in jest and all that bollocks.

The away fans bellowed “Y Army” and I tutted.

Kante, like at Everton, was the early star. He and Loftus-Cheek found lots of space – sorry “pockets of space”, I must remember to use as many shitty buzzwords as possible this season…”pockets of space”, “between the lines”, “transition”, “the press”, “high press”, “trouser press”, “Caxton press”, “recycling”, “game management”, it goes on and on – and balls were whipped into the feet of Sterling and Havertz.

Compared to Everton, here was a much more cohesive way of playing. Tottenham appeared on the back foot after a few early jaunts up field.

Koulibaly shot wide from distance.

“A sighter” I said to Al.

After a quarter of an hour played, I was relieved and happy. This was a fine start.

Havertz tested Hugo Lloris who saved well. From the corner that was taken in front of the rather quiet Tottenham fans, Cucarella sent over a great ball into the middle of the box. Miraculously, it avoided all apart from Koulibaly.

I snapped just as he was adjusting his limbs to volley home. His shot was perfection. My shot wasn’t. The net bulged…we watched aghast, amazed at its execution.

He spun away towards a certain corner flag in front of a certain three thousand and the deja vu was astounding, what with the number 26 on his back.

I remembered a JT scissor kick at the same end and – surely? – a slide on his knees, although not in the same game, right in front of some away fans.

It was some goal, some celebration and some noise.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

This felt good. It felt so good to be 1-0 up against the old enemy. But chances were exchanged. Ryan Sessegnon forced a save from our man Mendy. Koulibaly had his third shot in ten minutes but only troubled those in The Shed Upper.

There was a water break hallway through the first-half. At Frome the previous day, there were two breaks in the second-half.

Tottenham’s fans were dead quiet.

I loved the energy seeping through the team. It really was top stuff. We broke in waves. A shot from the neat swivel-hipped Sterling from the inside-left channel was blocked. Tottenham rarely threatened.

“Al, were we as negative as this under Conte?”

A couple more chances came our way. A riser from Mount. A long cross from Jorginho just evaded the leap from the impressive Loftus-Cheek.

At the break, all was rosy.

My good friend Pete – now Seattle, formerly South London – appeared with his son Calvin, witnessing his first-ever Chelsea game. Both had spent time with a few former Chelsea players before the match and I’d imagine these memories will stay with Calvin forever. They’ll certainly stay with Pete forever.

It was Chelsea Smiles in The Sleepy Hollow at the break.

The second-half began with us attacking the Matthew Harding.

Ten minutes in, I noted that there was a lot more of a physical presence from Havertz in this game. After the 2021 Champions League Final in Porto, he didn’t really push on last season. I am unsure of his best position, as I suspect are many.

Shame I don’t play FIFA; then I’d know.

Sadly, Tottenham’s performance looked a little more co-ordinated. There was a fine stop, down low, from Son that Mendy executed perfectly. A Mount effort narrowly missed the goal, dropping just over the crossbar.

Richarlison appeared for Tottenham. I had forgotten that they had bought him.

The ball was worked to Sterling but his studied approach and footwork didn’t result in an equally fine finish; his shot was blasted high and wide.

On a break, Harry Kane was one-on-one but his shot was tamely scuffed wide.

How we laughed.

Halfway through the second-half – much more evenly contested now – we broke with Havertz rushing past the half-way line. He appeared to be chopped down but the play was waved on. With boos cascading down from the home areas at the loathed Anthony Taylor, Tottenham moved the ball forward. Jorginho made a hash of clearing and the ball fell invitingly to Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg whose low shot evaded a dive from Mendy and crept into the goal’s far corner.

Bollocks.

In front of the benches, all hell broke loose.

(God, that could be a sentence from 1985…)

A substitution : Cesar Azpilicueta for Jorginho, with Dave going into the middle three to allow James to push on as a wing back.

Not long after the switch, we caught Tottenham on the hop and a central Sterling played an absolutely perfectly-weighted ball to James who was steam-rollering in to view to his right. I clicked just as Reece let fly but again my shot didn’t match the player’s. The ball crashed past Lloris.

Pandemonium in South West Six.

Screams of joy from me, just as there was when Frome got the winner on the Saturday but louder and more intense, to a factor of one billion zillion.

GET IN YOU FUCKER.

But then my veins turned to ice to capture the mad celebrations in the opposite corner.

Phew.

We were back on top, 2-1 up and I thought of King Kenny, watching on in the front row of The Shed.

The noise had been decent all afternoon and now Stamford Bridge was on fire.

Some more substitutions followed.

Conor Gallagher for Kante.

Christian Pulisic for Sterling.

Armando Broja for Havertz.

Gallagher looked all action as soon as he entered the field of play. One run to stifle a Tottenham break was textbook. He then set up Mount who fired weakly wide and then shot himself but saw his effort blocked.

Into time added on for stoppages and it all got messy.

There was a delay after a Tottenham effort was deflected high for a corner. The scoreboard flashed “VAR REVIEW POSSIBLE RED CARD VIOLENT PLAY” and all of the 40,000 in Stamford Bridge were none the wiser.

Was it against one of our players? Was it against a Tottenham player? We had no clue. The watching millions at home knew. It’s them that matter, eh?

Anyway, the review was over and play continued. I had a brief worry about us losing our concentration.

On ninety-six minutes, a corner was swung in.

My eyes were steely focussed.

I saw a leap of some players at the near post.

The ball fell away, it fell down, it fell forward, it fell into the goal, my heart sank.

Pre-Match

First-Half

Half-Time

Second-Half

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms

Posted on August 10, 2022 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 6 August 2022.

My summer had been quiet. I never fancied another CFC tour to the US during the close-season, and there was no holiday abroad to excite me. It was simply a case of staying at home, saving pennies and attempting to relax from the burden of work which was as busy as ever. The highlight of my summer season was a little burst of gigs involving some music from my youth; Tom Robinson, Tears For Fears, Stiff Little Fingers and China Crisis. Waiting in the wings in September are Altered Images and Toyah. It will be 1982 all over again and that is never a bad thing.

The summer was also short. The gap between the last game of 2021/22 to the opening match of the new season was a brief ten weeks. As time passed, I became increasingly bored with the constant tittle-tattle of rumour and counter rumour regarding our transfer targets. I realised how much I disliked the mere mention of the name Fabrizio Romano; nobody likes a smart arse. I again squirmed every time fan after fan, supporter after supporter, FIFA nerd after FIFA nerd used the phrase “done deal” without transfers being completed. Once players sign, then we can talk.

Maybe it’s an age thing but sometimes I feel that I am from another footballing planet compared to a lot of our support.

Our season would open up in a grand fashion. To start, my favourite away stadium with a trip to Everton’s Goodison Park and then what I would class as our biggest home game with the visit of Tottenham. Two absolute belters. Early on in the campaign there would also be visits to Leeds United, Southampton and Fulham. These are three cracking away trips too. But the downside of this opening burst of away games is that we only just visited Everton, Leeds and Southampton very recently. Could the league computer not have spaced the buggers out a bit?

As the new season approached, I was inevitably concerned that my enthusiasm levels weren’t at especially high levels, but this is so often the case. I often find that I need the season to begin for me to get fully back into the swing of things. But my indifference to the new campaign actually shocked me this summer.

I was faced with the age-old question: was my love of the game waning? It’s a strange one. Many aspects of the modern game leave me cold. So cold. Yet I lap up the chance to attend live matches. There is the old cliché about football – Chelsea – being my drug and I can’t dispute this. Perhaps I should add that my summer season included four Frome Town friendlies, my most ever.

Football, eh?

I hate you but I love you too.

The alarm was set for the new season at 5.30am. By 7.30am I had collected the Fun Boy Three – PD, GG and LP – and we were on our way once again.

I made good progress. After picking up PD at 7am, I had deposited the three of them outside “The Thomas Frost” boozer on Walton Road just south of Goodison only four hours later. It was surely my quickest-ever journey up to Merseyside.

While my fellow travelling companions settled down for five or more hours of supping, I began a little tour around the city, one that I had been promising myself for ages. It was also time for a little more introspection.

This would be my fiftieth consecutive season of attending Chelsea games – 1973/74 to 2022/23, count’em up – even though my fiftieth anniversary will not be until March 2024. Additionally, this would be the fifteenth season that I been writing these blogs. Long gone are the viewing figures of when these were featured on the Chelsea In America bulletin board, but these are such a part of my match-going routine now and I can’t give them up. However, over the summer one of my close friends, Francis, suggested that I should take a year out of match photography and blogging. Just to give myself a rest. An average blog takes four hours of my time. But the look that I gave him probably shocked him to the core.

“Nah. It’s what I do mate.”

I will be honest, I did go over the options in my mind though.

But here I am. Writing away. Taking photos.

I hope that I still maintain the will to keep doing this for a while yet. With the rumours of us partaking in a partial rebuild of Stamford Bridge under the new Todd Boehly regime, I have to continue on until that is finished surely? The success of the Roman Abramovich era might never be matched but there is always something to write about at Chelsea.

On we go.

On my own now, I edged my car south and west towards the River Mersey. Within five minutes, I was parked up a few hundred yards away from the construction site of the new Everton Stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. Camera in hand, I set off to record the progress being made.

I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.

Snap.

On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.

Splat.

The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.

The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.

One photo taken and carnage.

Ha.

I limped further along Boundary Street and spent a good twenty minutes or so taking it all in. I found it rather funny that a bold sign warned against site photography and sharing images on social media. During my spell there, around fifteen other lads – not being sexist, they were all lads – called by to take some photos too. I am not ashamed to say that I have recently subscribed to two YouTube channels that provide drone updates of the construction sites at Bramley Moore and also Anfield.

I love a stadium, me.

So, the scene that I was witnessing was indeed pretty familiar. The skeletal shell of the new stadium is rising with the two end stands – the south and north – being the first to pierce the sky alongside the murky grey of the famous river. There are seven cranes covering the site. Maybe those lads were just crane spotters.

I must admit it looks a glorious setting for a new stadium. Evertonians – like me, no doubt – will hate the upheaval of moving out of good old Goodison in a couple of years, but the move represents the chance to level up the playing field with their more moneyed neighbours at the top of the hill up on Stanley Park. I had a fear that last season’s visit to Goodison would be my last. I believe that the new stadium is slated to open up during the 2024/25 campaign.

There was a chance – with Everton likely to flirt with relegation again perhaps – that this day would mark my last ever visit to Goodison.

I hoped not.

I have a personal history with this stadium that I have often mentioned.

I marched back to the car and then drove south towards the city centre. I immediately passed a huge derelict warehouse – a tobacco warehouse I believe – and I had visions of the red brick structure being upgraded to a hotel to take care of the new match day traffic that the new stadium would attract.

But I then heard a voice inside my head, of my mate Chris, a staunch Evertonian.

“Chris lad, all our support comes from Merseyside, The Wirral, the new towns, out to the North Wales coast, we don’t have any day trippers, la.”

I continued on. I have driven around the city centre – or at least the area by the Albert Dock – on many occasions but the scale of the Liver Building knocked me for six. What a building. It’s magnificent. But I drove past it – I spotted a massive bar called “Jurgen’s” – and headed up the hill inland. For many years, ten or more, I have wanted to visit the two cathedrals in the city. This was as perfect a day as any to get this accomplished.

I parked outside the massive Anglican Cathedral on St. James Mount. The sandstone used immediately reminded me of the stone used on the tunnels approaching Lime Street – and the “Cockneys Die” graffiti – and of Edge Hill Station on that first-ever visit to the city for football in May 1985. The building is huge. It is the longest cathedral in the world. I popped inside as a service was taking place. The visitors – there were many – walked around in hushed tones. A few photographs were inevitably taken.

I then headed north and then west and aimed for the second of the city’s great cathedrals, or the fourth if the cathedrals at either end of Stanley Park are included, the Metropolitan Cathedral. This Roman Catholic cathedral – made of concrete in the ‘sixties – sits at Mount Pleasant.

Hope Street links the two religious buildings. It looked a very lively place with theatres and eateries. I dived into the granddaddy of all Liverpool’s pubs, The Philharmonic, famous the world over for the elaborate porcelain fittings in the gents. More photographs followed both inside and out of the funkier of the two cathedrals – nicknamed “The Mersey Funnel” and “Paddy’s Wigwam” – and I was lost in my own world for a few moments.

The art deco Philharmonic Hall looked a magnificent site. The TV tower in the city centre was spotted between a canopy of green leaves. There were blue skies overhead. The Liver Birds could be seen peaking over some terraced rooftops. A few hen parties were making Hope Street their own. Maybe on another visit to the city, I will investigate further.

But it was time to move on. I dabbed a CD on as I pulled out of the car park – China Crisis’ Gary Daly’s solo album “Luna Landings”- a 2020 issue of some synth tracks recorded in the ‘eighties – and it was just perfect.

My route took me past some old, and grand, Georgian houses no doubt once owned by the cream of Liverpool’s entrepreneurs, businessmen and traders when a full forty percent of global trade came through the port of Liverpool. But it then took me past Edge Hill, and onto Tue Brook – past the drinking dens of “The Flat Iron” and “The Cabbage Hall” of match days at Anfield in previous years – and everything was a lot more down-at-heal, the Liverpool of hackneyed legend.

At around 3pm I was parked up in Stanley Park. Up to my left, the extension of the Annie Road Stand at Anfield was in full flow. It will bring the capacity up to 61,000. The new Everton one will be just under 53,000.

Ouch, la.

I popped into “The Thomas Frost” – my least favourite football pub – and located the lads, who had been joined by Deano and Dave, plus a cast of what appeared to be thousands. A friend, Kim, had not been able to attend due to COVID so her ticket was passed on to another pal, Sophie. The chaps had witnessed the Fulham and Liverpool 2-2 draw, and PD was shocked at the hatred that the watching Evertonians showed their local rivals.

Heysel robbed Evertonians of a tilt at European glory and it is not forgotten by many.

A song for Marc Cucarella was aired by the younger element. It would become the song of the day.

I excused myself and squeezed out of the boozer.

This particular corner of Liverpool, along the Walton Road, is a classic pre-match location for Everton home games. “The Thomas Frost”, “The Clock”, “The Party Pad” and “St. Hilda’s” are close, and drinkers from both clubs were inside and outside all of them. At just gone 4pm, my friends – and brothers – Tommie (Chelsea) and Chris (Everton) approached “St. Hilda’s” and it was glorious to see them again.

Here was the reason why we go to football.

Lads enjoying a laugh, a catch-up, a bevvy.

I was welcomed by the Evertonians that I met outside the pub. I loved it.

This is football.

Chris was in the middle of a punk festival – “Rebellion” – up the road in Blackpool and so was now mixing up his twin passions. The brothers are off to watch Stiff Little Fingers together in Dublin over the next few weeks. That 1982 vibe again. Both of the brothers helped me plan my Buenos Aires adventure a few years back and we all love our travel / football addiction.

We briefly mentioned previous encounters. This was the first time that we had begun a league season at Everton in my living memory, though there had been opening games at Stamford Bridge in 1995 – Ruud Gullit’s league debut, a 0-0 draw – and also way back in 1978. The earlier game – a 0-1 home loss – was memorable for two of my pre-match friends in 2022. It was Glenn’s first ever Chelsea game and he still rues a miss by Ray Wilkins. It was also Chris’ first visit to Stamford Bridge with Everton. I spoke about it with him. It has gone down in Chelsea folklore as being the “High Street Kensington” game, when Chelsea ambushed Everton’s mob at that particular tube station. This inspired the infamous “Ordinary To Chelsea” graffiti outside Lime Street, aimed at uniting both sets of fans to travel together to Stamford Bridge for the Liverpool league fixture later in the season. The graffiti is so iconic that sweatshirts are being produced featuring the image almost fifty years later.

Time was again moving on.

Chris and I sauntered off to opposite ends of the Bullens Road.

I left him with a parting shot.

“Up The Fucking Toffees.”

He smiled.

“Up The Fucking Toffees.”

The kick-off was at 5.30pm and I was inside at around 4.45pm or so.

At last, I had a seat that wasn’t tucked way past the goal-line. In fact, it was right on the goal-line. Compared to previous visits my seat 38 felt as if I was watching from the royal box. John from Paddington now sits with Alan, Gary, Parky and little old me at away games now; the Fantastic Five. I looked over at the Park End; Everton had handed out tons of royal blue flags for their fans to wave. I heard Chris’ voice once again.

“Typical Kopite behaviour.”

I hoped that the ground would be full of shiny unhappy people by the end of the game.

John asked me for my prediction.

I thought for a few seconds and went safe : “0-0.”

It was time to reacquaint myself with more than a few friends as the kick-off time approached. I had recently seen Julie and Tim at the SLF gig in Frome. And I had shared a fine evening with Kev in Aberdare at the recent China Crisis gig.

“From Abu Dhabi to Aberdare” anyone?

Kev, in fact, was wearing a China Crisis T-shirt. I had joked on the night that I would wear my exact same copy to the game too, but I had forgotten all about that. Probably just as well, eh Kev?

We could work out the starting line-up from the drills taking place in front of us. The confirmation came on the twin TV screens at opposite ends of the ground.

Mendy

Dave – Silva – Koulibaly

James – Jorginho – Kante – Chilwell

Mount – Havertz – Sterling

In light of our former chairman’s departure, I am surprised that nobody else but me did the “$ out, £ in” joke over the summer.

The PA ramped up the volume with a few Everton favourites, and then the stirring “Z Cars” rung out around Goodison.

It was unchanged as it has been from around 1994.

The rather mundane and bland single-tier of the Park Lane to my left. The still huge main stand, double-decked, sloping away in the top left corner. St’ Luke’s Church peeping over the TV screen in the opposite corner and then the continuous structure of the Gwladys Street bleeding into the Bullens Road, the Leitch cross-struts on show for decades but not for much longer.

A couple of large banners were paraded in the Gwladys Street.

To the left, an image of The Beatles with an Everton scarf wrapped around them all. Were they really all Evertonians? Well, they weren’t day trippers, that’s for sure.

I hoped that their team would be The Beaten.

To the right, there was an image of our Frank on a banner. Gulp.

The teams lined-up.

A shrill noise.

Football was back.

Alas we were back in the odd away kit. From a long way away, it looks reasonable, but up close I can’t say I am too fond of the stencilled lion nonsense on the light blue / turquoise hoops. This overly fussy design, which is mirrored in the collar of the home kit, resembles a great aunt’s frock design from 1971 far too much for my liking.

Me, bored rigid on a family outing, stifling yawns :“Yes, I’d love another piece of fruit cake please auntie”…but thinking “your dress looks ridiculous.”

To be honest, in the pre-release glimpses, the colour looked more jade green than blue. Eck from Glasgow, sat to my left, must have been having kittens.

Both teams were wearing white shorts. I think that ruling has changed only recently.

The game began. I was immediately warned by a sweaty steward to not use my camera. In the ensuing moments, Eck leant forward and shielded my illicit pursuits. It worked a treat.

As the game started to develop, the away crowd got behind the team, but with the lower tier of the Bullens outdoing the top tier. I must admit I didn’t sing too much during the whole game; I am getting old, eh? Soon into the game, I experienced chant envy as I couldn’t make out the Koulibaly song being sung with gusto in the lower deck.

Goodison has been an awful venue for us of late. Our record was of four consecutive losses.

But we began as we often began with the majority of possession.

The first real incident involved Kai Havertz who picked up a wayward clearance from Jordan Pickford after a poor back pass from Ben Godfrey. Rather than pass inside, he lashed the ball against the side netting. Attempting to tackle, Godfrey injured himself and there was a delay of many minutes before he was stretchered off.

There was a swipe from Mason Mount that Jordan Pickford managed to claw away. At the other end, a deep cross from Vitaly Mykolenko was headed goal wards by James Tarkowski but Edouard Mendy did ever so well to tip it over.

Everton occasionally threatened, but our defence – the veteran Dave especially – were able to quell their advances. N’Golo Kante, right after a Chelsea attack, was able to block an Everton shot back in his own penalty area. He had no right to be there. The man was starting the season as our strongest player.

Next up, Thiago Silva – the calm and cool maestro – cut out an Everton break down our right, and this drew rapturous applause.

A shot from Kante was fumbled by Pickford but although Raheem Sterling pounced to score – a dream start? – he was ruled offside. It looked offside to me, way down on the other goal line. Who needs cameras?

To be truthful, despite corner after corner (or rather shite corner after shite corner) that resulted in a few wayward headers, it wasn’t much of a half. The home fans were quiet, and the away section in the upper tier were getting quieter with each passing minute.

But corner after corner were smacked into the Everton box.

“More corners than a Muller warehouse.”

I noticed that the movement off the ball was so poor.

I chatted to Eck : “Without a target man, our forwards need to be constantly moving, swapping over, pulling defenders away, allowing balls into space.”

There was sadly none of it. I couldn’t remember two white-shirted players crossing over the entire half.

I had visions of a repeat of the dull 0-0 at Stoke City that began the 2011/12 campaign.

In injury time, Abdoulaye Doucoure manhandled Ben Chilwell on a foray into the box. It looked a clear penalty to me.

Jorginho.

1-0

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds, like.”

It was the last kick of the half. Phew.

As the second-half began, the sun was still beating down on us in the upper tier. I was getting my longest exposure to the sun of the entire summer. But the game didn’t really step up. The noise continued to fall away. If anything, Everton threatened much more than us in the second-half.

A shot from Demarai Gray – after a mess up between Silva and Mendy – was thankfully blocked by our man from Senegal.

Celery was tossed around in the away section and some local stewards looked bemused.

Some substitutions.

Christian Pulisic for a very quiet Mount.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Chilwell.

Reece swapped wings and Ruben played wide right.

It was pretty grim and pretty tepid stuff this. A tough watch.The practised attacking patterns needed more work. It just wasn’t gelling at all. And during that second-half we allowed Everton a little too much space in key areas. It is early days though. But I have to say it as I saw it.

I could lose myself in this honesty.

More substitutions from Thomas Tuchel.

Armando Broja for a weak Havertz.

Marc Cucarella for Koulibaly.

I wasn’t too happy about us singing Frank’s name during the game.

It took bloody ages for us to get an effort, any effort, on goal. It came on eighty-one minutes, a James free-kick, tipped over. Then, just after a pass from Cucarella to Sterling and a shot deflected for a corner.

To be fair, Pulisic looked keen when he came on and added a new dimension to our play. Cucarella looked mustard too. He looked neat, and picked out a few lovely passes, zipped with pace.

“He’s from Marbella, he eats Bonjela” wasn’t it?

And it was a joy to see Broja on the pitch, charging into space, taking defenders with him, a focal point. I hope he is given a full crack of the whip this season.

In the eighth minute of extra time, Conor Gallagher made his debut and I caught his first touch, at a free-kick, on camera. I see great things for him.

It ended 1-0.

Outside, I bumped into Sophie, with Andy her father, and remembered that she was soon off to Milan, with a side-visit to Como after talking to me in the pub at the end of last season.

“Did you know Dennis Wise is the CEO at Como?”

It made Sophie’s day. Dennis is her favourite ever Chelsea player.

We walked back to the waiting car and shared a few thoughts about the game. It was no classic, but we were all relieved with the win. Tottenham, our next opponents, won 4-1 at home to Southampton and I admitted to PD :

“I’m dreading it.”

“I am too.”

Out

I made good time on the way south, only for us to become entrenched in a lively conversation about all of the players’ performances just as I should have veered off the M6 and onto the M5.

“Isn’t that the Alexander Stadium? Bollocks, I have missed the turning.”

A diversion through the second city was a pain, but I was eventually back on track. As the three passengers fell asleep, I returned to the ‘eighties and Gary Daly.

And I wondered what I should call this latest blog.

Some people think it’s fun to entertain.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Kalidou Koulibaly

Tales From Section 61

Tales From Home And Away

Tales From Our House

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms