Tales From Game One Repeated

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 October 2019.

The international break was over. Thank the Lord. I had found it a particularly tough fortnight; I had missed Chelsea much more than usual. Thankfully there is always “Chelsea stuff” to keep me as buoyant as possible. I have realised for a while that my brain must crave “Chelsea activity” of one sort or another to keep me as upbeat as possible, whether it is the planning of upcoming trips, away trips especially, or the sometimes difficult process of trying to procure match tickets, or even thoughts about where I can take the next match few reports. If I am feeling a little low – work, life’s problems or other serious stuff – I can often rely on Chelsea to lift my spirits.

As the preparations and plans for the home game with Newcastle United became overlaid with the dramas of getting Ajax away tickets, clarifying the final travel plans for Amsterdam, booking up – ironically – a weekend away on Tyneside in mid-January, and sorting out a few other Chelsea plans, it became a busy few days.

I had been working lates for the first time in almost two years, as holiday cover, and at 10pm on Friday, I was able to leave for home with thoughts of a fine week ahead; games in London, in Amsterdam, in Burnley.

But I’d need to be up at 6.30am on the day of the Newcastle United game; a long and busy day lay ahead, with plans to meet two sets of friends from the US, two sets of friends from Canada and one set of friends from Australia before the match.

I woke, typically – was it excitement? – early at 6am.

The day was beginning.

The most important news was that Parky was back among us for the first time since the cracking away trip to Norwich in late August, a gap of eight whole weeks. He had been missed by all of us. His hip-operation had resulted in a long, slow rehabilitation period. Parky will, unfortunately, be unable to join us in Amsterdam.

I collected PD and his son Scott at eight o’clock and Parky soon after.

London beckoned.

It was a cracking autumnal morning.

I live for mornings like these.

Because PD and Parky are unable to walk long distances, and because the District Line was closed, I drove right to the bottom end of the North End Road to drop them off. Their pre-match would be spent close to the ground at “The Oyster Rooms” at Fulham Broadway. I then drove back to park up at my usual spot off Lillee Road and then hot-footed back to reach Stamford Bridge at 11.30am.

I walked past The Shed Wall, topped with autumnal leaves, past the photographs and tributes of all our former legends. It is quite a sight.

I was really looking forward to meeting, for the first time at Chelsea, my mate Jaro from Washington DC, who was to see a Chelsea game at Stamford Bridge for the very first time. I got to know Jaro when we contributed to the much loved, and much-missed, bulletin board on the old Chelsea In America website, and where these match reports started to appear, on an ad hoc basis at first, in around 2006/7, and then regularly from 2008/9.

Jaro is originally from Poland – Legia Warsaw his team – but has been living in the US for over twenty years. I have bumped into him on a few tour stops in the US over the past few seasons – New York, Philadelphia, DC – and he has always been accompanied by his football-daft son Alex, who is well known by a few of the old-school US fans (in relative terms, I refer to those of c. 2006 vintage).

We met on the forecourt and I soon whisked them up to the foyer of the Copthorne Hotel, where they both met Ron Harris, although – sadly – most of the other ex-players had just left. But we sat in a quiet corner and chewed the fat, reminiscing on our respective childhoods in England and Poland, and how the working class sport of football was seamlessly woven into our respective cultures, along with the other staples of our youth, music and clothes.

Ah, clothes.

Clobber.

It may have started on the Scotland Road in Liverpool in 1977, but by the mid-‘eighties, it was to be found in little pockets all over Europe.

Jaro confirmed this.

“In Poland, it was Lascoste. Lacoste everywhere.”

There was little surprise that we were both wearing the little green crocodile on this sunny day in SW6. Alex was wearing a DSquared2 top. A relatively new addition. Something for the youth. But Alex also spoke of how fashionable it was in the more austere and isolationist era of those times for foreign football shirts and scarves to be worn at Legia games. He mentioned one fellow fan, who gained a few fashion points and added credibility, by wearing a jacquard Chelsea scarf at matches. I mentioned some Verona fans who I saw at a UEFA game in 1988 wearing a “You can’t ban a Chelsea fan” T-shirt. And I mentioned that I occasionally, maybe no more than once or twice, wore a Juventus shirt at Chelsea in the ‘eighties.

It was part of the scene in those days.

Rare clothes. Rare labels.

Good times.

We then, probably to Alex’ disgust, had a “Moaners Five Minutes” as we vented about the ailments of modern football, VAR, the 29th Game and all that bollocks.

Jaro and Alex had, unknown to me, called in to Stamford Bridge – a squeezed visit on a brief layover from Poland back to the US – in the summer. They had managed to do an official tour of the stadium. It was hearing the two tunes – the pre-cursors to the match itself these days – “Park Life” and “Liquidator” being streamed through his headset that really hit a chord with Jaro.

“We had to come back. To experience the atmosphere. The steepness of the stands. We had to.”

They had arrived Friday morning and would be leaving Sunday morning. Let’s not all tar “foreign fans” with the same brush please. Some of the most devoted and inspirational Chelsea supporters that I have had the pleasure to meet do not live in SW6, London, the Home Counties, nor the UK.

We trotted over to “The Butcher’s Hook.” Sadly, the disruption of the tube during the day meant that the other friends from various places were severely delayed. Not to worry, they will all be back at some stage. The day was really all about Jaro and Alex.

Of course, there is a nice little bit of serendipity here. My first game at Stamford Bridge was against Newcastle United too.

I took Jaro and Alex down to meet Mark and Dave at “the stall” and the intention was then to have a drink with Parky, PD and Scott – you had forgotten about them, right? – but there was a strict “no kids” policy being enforced. Damn.

Jaro and Alex wanted to get inside to sample every last second out of their first game at HQ. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

“Hope to see you again soon.”

I meandered around the two forecourts, chatted to a few match day friends, and then took my seat inside The Bridge at a very early time, maybe about 2.15pm. It’s amazing how empty the place is until around 2.45pm these days. In the ‘eighties – “here he fucking goes again” – the terraces often used to be jammed for big matches by 2.30pm. This added to the atmosphere, the sense of anticipation, the sense of occasion.

These days, there is nothing warming about getting into a stadium full of empty seats at 2.30pm.

The stadium eventually filled.

My “missing friends” eventually made it in; Neil and Sammy from Adelaide down below me in the MHL, probably quite near Leigh-Anne and John from Toronto. Al and his son from Toronto were in the West Lower, the poor bastards, and Kim from Florida was, I think, in The Shed.

It would take me a while, but Jaro and Alex were spotted in the East Lower. It would be a section of SB where I watched all games from 1974 to 1980 with my parents.

The team news came through.

It was almost unchanged from the last match against Southampton, but with Ross Barkley in for N’Golo Kante.

Arrizabalaga.

Azpilicueta.

Zouma.

Tomori.

Alonso.

Jorginho.

Barkley.

Mount.

Willian.

Hudson-Odoi.

Abraham.

Overhead, a changing mix of clear skies, clouds, dark clouds, intermittent rain, bright sun.

A typical London autumn afternoon.

Newcastle United, with the two Longstaff brothers the talk of the toon since their lovely defeat of Manchester United, were wearing broad stripes this time, as opposed to thin stripes the previous year. Both look wrong to me. The away team didn’t create a great deal in the first part of the game, but neither did we. They caught us on the break a few times, but never really threatened. There were a couple of shots from the twin strikers Allan Saint-Maximin (not really a footballer, more a type of thermometer) and Joelinton, but Kepa was not troubled. He would be able to complete a few more pages from Thibaut Courtois’ Word Search book from 2016/17 as the game progressed.

The first real chance was created by some trickery from Callum Hudson-Odoi in front of the black and white hordes, but a weak Willian header was well wide.

It took until a few minutes after this chance for me to notice the first real, loud, chant of the game from the home supporters.

“CAN ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We noted that Marcos Alonso was getting dog’s abuse every time he ventured into the final third, right in front of the away fans.

Quick feet from Callum set up Mason Mount, but his quick turn was followed by a shot which was straight at Martin Dubravka.

As Newcastle attacked, Gary shouted abuse at Saint-Maximin.

“It’s Davey Crockett.”

The play deteriorated a little. Joelinton headed, stretching, wide.

The atmosphere was pretty dire. I felt for Jaro and Alex. I so wanted it to be a cracking atmosphere for them. The Geordies, unable to completely fill their allocation for the first time in ages, with a section of around two hundred in the Shed Upper unsold, were making all the noise. Willian cut in from the right but his shot missed the near post.

It was far from encouraging stuff.

It seemed to me that players and fans alike needed to be roused from the lethargy of the international break. There was a spell of stern challenges, free-kicks and the game did not flow. Tammy seemed to go too easily for our liking, but it is a part of his game he will hopefully improve upon. A free-kick from Willian failed to clear the wall. A few groans.

Just before the break, an injured Ross Barkley was replaced by Mateo Kovacic.

Ho hum.

It had hardly been a scintillating forty-five minutes.

I turned to PD.

“Well, that was shite.”

At half-time, I looked over to the front row of the East Upper, just above where a “Philly Blues” banner has been positioned for a while.

One seat was empty, and there looked to be a floral display – a wreath – instead. This was to mark the memory of Trizia Fiorellino, who so sadly passed away recently. Trizia worked steadfastly with the club on a matter of issues as chair of the Chelsea Supporters Group, and as a member of the often-derided Fans Forum, and often wrote Chelsea reviews in “The Observer.” Trizia always smiled and said hello when our paths crossed so many times in recent years. I always remember sitting next to her on the coach which took us to the San Paolo Stadium in Naples in 2012 and we excitedly swapped stories about football and specifically Italy. Trizia was a discerning and perceptive supporter of Chelsea Football Club. There was a lovely full page obituary, penned by Bruce Buck, on page nine of the match day programme.

She will be sorely missed by all those who knew her.

RIP.

At the half-time break, Ron Harris – playing in my first match in 1974 and at Jaro and Alex’ first match in 2019 – came down to the pitch and said a few words about how the team is playing at half-time.

Thankfully, the lethargy and lack of invention seemed to subside as the second-half began. Kovacic, the substitute, seemed to be one of the catalysts, driving on and playing in others. A lovely jinking run from Callum down below me created space but his shot was blocked. This stirred those around me and the noise started to, thankfully, increase. A weak Zouma header from a corner was soon followed by a thundering header from Tammy which crashed against the bar.

“Oh God, please not a 0-0 for Jaro and Alex.”

But we continued our improvement. There were a few lovely through-balls from Jorginho and our runners were being hit. Our pressure mounted.

Christian Pulisic replaced Mason.

More jinking runs from Callum. A free header from Tammy sailed over. He knew that he should have done much better. A deflected shot ended up at the feet of Pulisic, right in front of goal, but the young starlet appeared stage struck. His effort was swatted away by Dubravka, a fine save. A Willian shot saved at the near post.

Andy Carroll – “he always scores against us” – emerged from the bench.

Time was racing past.

Come on Chelsea.

With a quarter of an hour to play, Callum touched a ball out towards Marcos Alonso. A low angled drive followed. His shot was to perfection. My shot was blurred. But I caught his exultant run down towards us on film.

GET IN.

After the hysteria had died down.

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

Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds.”

Phew.

1974 all over again? Just maybe.

Kovacic set up Pulisic but as we were all expecting a shot on goal, the American right winger snowflaked it and instead played the ball to Tammy instead. His fumbled effort flew over.

Bollocks.

Virtually Newcastle’s first effort on goal in the second-half resulted in a shot from Willems ending up in The Shed Upper. A weak Geordie header soon flowed but floated over.

Reece James replaced Callum late on and we held on.

This was a much improved second-half and our win was deserved. I liked Kurt Zouma, who I thought played a little better than Tomori, who has been a little error-ridden of late. Callum was fantastic at times. Kepa was hardly tested at all. We solidified our place in the top four. There were Chelsea smiles all round at the end, and these will be remembered rather than the looks of concern at the break.

Jaro and I swapped messages at the end. They had loved it.

It had been 1-0 for me in 1974 and it had been 1-0 for them in 2019, too.

That just seemed right.

So. Thoughts turn to Wednesday.

Ajax away.

Europe.

The Champions league.

Makes everything tingle doesn’t it?

See you there.

RIP

Tales From A Game Too Far

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 27 May 2017.

The F.A. Cup Final. The grand finale to the domestic season. Chelsea’s last game and my last game of 2016/2017. The final hurrah.

There is nothing quite like an F. A. Cup Final.

Or to be precise, there was nothing like an F. A. Cup Final.

Before we experienced wall-to-wall football on TV, before the Champions League skewed club priorities every season, back in the days of when the nation stopped as one and all the talk in the preceding week was about the game, the F.A. Cup Final was a truly magical event. When did the magic start fading? For me, it was when the game left the old Wembley Stadium, before it took temporary refuge at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff for six seasons, and then returned to the spanking new, but generally unloved, new Wembley.

The Cup still stirs emotions, but that magic – difficult to describe to anyone who never grew up in an England which only showed one club game of football live on TV each season – has long since gone.

But, after the season-long chase for the title which was undoubtedly the main focus – to the point of obsession – we were gifted the chance to end the campaign with further glory and further fun. Tickets were purchased, plans were made. This was going to be a fine end to the season.

And then, two events happened which changed everything.

Staying up late, as I often do, on Monday night, I watched – horrified – on TV as news filtered through regarding the atrocity which befell the proud city of Manchester. I felt sadness, pain and anger. I slipped into a disturbed sleep and awoke the next day to the news of the full extent of the carnage. What sorrow. Immediately, there was the realisation that the F. A. Cup Final would be under intense scrutiny as there was the risk for similar attacks on personal freedom. There was, of course, no way that I would not go.

However, there was more sadness. At work on the Tuesday morning, I received a message from my wonderful friend Alan. After the game against Sunderland on Sunday, we had said our goodbyes at “The Lillee Langtry” and as we headed home, he paid a visit to his dear mother in a South London hospital. Sadly, the message relayed the heart-breaking news that his mother had passed away that Tuesday morning.

I fell silent and felt a great deal of pain. I only met Alan’s mother once – in around 1996 or 1997 if memory serves – but she was a lovely South London lady, just as her son is a lovely South London man. I passed on my sincere condolences to Alan – an only child like myself, our friendship goes deep –  and our solid group of friends rallied support for Alan throughout the week. We hoped and prayed that he would be well enough to attend the game on Saturday.

There was a real feeling of relief, and happiness – if that is the right word – to hear on Friday that Alan would be attending.

This brought back some bittersweet memories for me of course. And it made me think. How very odd that my mother’s passing in 2015 was followed by a Chelsea Cup Final at Wembley Stadium, and that the first game after Alan’s mother’s passing would be a Chelsea Cup Final too. Two years ago, I needed to be around the greatest of friends to help me through the day. I am sure that Alan’s thoughts were along similar lines. And as he explained to me, his mother – who keenly followed all of our matches – would not have wanted him to have missed the game on behalf of her.

The football, at times, seemed irrelevant throughout the week, but as Saturday finally arrived, there was a new focus for all of us.

An intense lightning storm woke me at 3am during the night, followed by deafening thunder and a monsoon-like deluge. It was a dramatic start to the day for sure. I struggled to get back to sleep. Would Saturday be sunny, as forecast, or would the rain continue? With a Chelsea Football Club statement asking for no bags to be brought to Wembley in light of the terrorist threat, I pondered options for getting my camera into the stadium. Eventually I drifted back to sleep.

Glenn picked me up at 7.45am. He drove in to Frome to collect PD, who had also awoken amid the light show at 3am. On to collect Parky, a breakfast of champions at Bradford-on-Avon at 8.30am, and Glenn then headed east, London-bound for the last time this season.

We wanted to continue a theme for this season; a little pub-crawl in previously virgin territory. Yes, we knew that there would be songs and chants and revelry at a number of watering holes throughout the capital, but we opted for a little tranquility before joining forces with Alan and others later. From 11.30am to 2pm, we nestled ourselves within the borough of Kensington and Chelsea, and sampled four pubs within a few hundred yards of each other; “The Wilton Arms”, “The Nag’s Head”, “The Star” and “The Grenadier.” We were in Belgravia, one of the most expensive pieces of real estate going. It felt right that we should be starting our day in Chelsea, although of course Stamford Bridge itself is in Hammersmith & Fulham. Each pub had hanging baskets outside, wooden interiors, tons of character, lots of history. The sun was out, LP’s and PD’s shorts were on, and the beer was certainly hitting the spot.

At “The Nag’s Head” we chatted to a Russian Chelsea fan from Moscow, living in London since 2004, and off to the match too.

Just as we arrived at “The Star”, two US Arsenal fans, wearing replica shirts – shocker – were just leaving. I reminded them of the Arsenal way : “remember to beat the crowds, stay until the end.” They laughed, but I’m not convinced they understood what I meant.

Four pints to the good, we headed up towards Paddington, where the London-based lads were waiting at “Fountains Abbey” on Praed Street.

A hug for Alan, and I was pleased to see that he was full of smiles. We chatted away and it was lovely to see that he had made the right decision. His dear mother, although probably in a little pain on Sunday night, had enquired how Chelsea had fared in our last game of the season. That simple question – his mother asking about the team – had probably swayed him further. There was no way that Alan would miss the Cup Final.

Ah, the final. Throughout the week, when the game flitted in to my head, I remained confident. I hadn’t been more confident leading up to a major final since the 1998 trip to Stockholm. It seemed that everyone shared similar thoughts. I chatted to Ed, who was one of the few who were mentioning the game itself. He had been confident, yet was beginning to worry as kick-off approached. I calmed him a little.

“Nah, we’ll win. We’re too good for them. No doubt. And there is no point feeling guilty about being confident. Listen, it’s what Liverpool fans in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties were, and what United fans around fifteen years ago were. They were great teams and their fans knew it. Nothing wrong with being confident.”

After five pints or more, I was even beginning to convince myself too.

In another moment – maybe when I was less confident – I spoke quietly to Glenn.

“Of course, you realise that if we lose to these fuckers, our next two games will be against them too; in July in Beijing and in August at Wembley.”

Shudder.

In light of the call to be inside the stadium an hour before kick-off, we headed off for the tube earlier than normal. No last minute flit to Wembley this time. In previous finals, we have often arrived just in time for the last few formalities. No chance of that this time.

We tubed it to Marylebone and caught the train north. Our carriage was mainly Chelsea. The few Arsenal fans spotted were wearing replica shirts in the main. Of course, many Chelsea were too – it’s a Cup Final tradition, I wore a 1970 replica in 1994 – but there was a noticeable difference before the two sets of fans. Of our group of ten, only Gary and John were wearing club merchandise.

Lacoste Watch :

Parky – white.

Ed – chocolate.

Chris – pale blue.

(Incidentally, I was wearing blue all over : blue shirt, blue jeans, blue trainers, blue rain jacket and even my aftershave came from a blue bottle. And there was blue language too of course.)

We arrived at Wembley Stadium station at around 4.30pm. Chelsea were all around. I suspect Arsenal were using the more traditional Wembley Park option. The sun was beating down. There was not much of a queue to get in. My camera, slung around my neck, was waved in, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Up the escalators and inside. Wembley looked vast and we were in with plenty of time to spare, located in the upper tier, above the “Frank Lampard corner flag.” Alan, Gary, Ed and Neil were about thirty seats away. There were a few familiar faces nearby. It is amazing how we always seem to find ourselves among friends. At each seat, there was a Chelsea flag and a Chelsea bar scarf. A young lad appeared in the row in front and he was wearing an authentic Benetton rugby top from the mid-‘eighties. If ever there was a garment which is much desired to this day from that golden age of football clobber, then this was it. It is the holy grail of casualdom. I once owned one, albeit for only a few weeks, and that is a tale which I will eventually tell when the mood takes me, and originals now fetch ridiculous sums. I told the kid that I wanted to kill him and he smiled.

At the Eastern end, a huge Arsenal banner hung from the rafters :

“History. Tradition. Class.”

I think they left out “pomposity.”

At our western end, a simpler message :

“Pride Of London.”

As the minutes ticked by, the stadium filled. Our end appeared to fill quicker. Glenn noted a new feature, a thin section of obviously corporate spectators in the upper deck above the Royal Box; no colours on show there. In the corporate middle tier, I reckoned that there was just as much blue as red, a positive sign. Wembley has recently tightened the rules on bringing flags and banners into the stadium and the arena looked less football-like because of it. It’s as if they are saying “leave the atmosphere to us.”

A huge FA Cup mosaic adorned the pitch. Young dancers sprung on to the pitch waving bar scarves.

“It wasn’t like this in 1997.”

Of course, the team picked itself. It was the team that I would definitely have chosen.

Courtois.

Azpilicueta – Luiz – Cahill

Moses – Matic – Kante – Alonso

Pedro – Costa – Hazard

The minutes ticked by.

The next part of this FA Cup Saturday was about to unfold. And it is quite a story. Over a year ago, my good mate Rob took part in a short film which followed two football fans on a personal journey into the once elitist world of opera. Rob and Harry are Chelsea fans of a certain vintage and were not into opera at all. They were coerced by their pals Mike and Adam to attend various operatic shindigs, culminating in a performance of Giussepe Verdi’s “La Traviata” at the Royal Opera House, all the while being filmed along the way. It is a lovely film and won awards at the London Film Awards in 2016. Adam and Harry recently attended a film festival in LA too.

London.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QxaLMiHsUU

Los Angeles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEI1PmgMLVA&t=328s

To cut a very long story short, Rob and Adam – Harry was on a family holiday so could not attend – were to join twenty other football fans from around the country in the singing of the traditional Cup Final hymn “Abide With Me.” I promised Rob that I would capture the moment with my camera; it is why I was so worried about getting the long lens inside the stadium. I spotted the group walk onto the pitch. My camera was ready.

Just before their moment, a montage appeared on the huge TV screens. As Eddie Newton and Sol Campbell were chosen to bring the FA Cup on to the pitch, a grainy clip of Eddie’s goal against Middlesbrough in 1997 was shown. An echo of a different era really. How time flies, eh?

The crowd quietened. I have noticed how “Abide With Me” seems to play less and less a role in the FA Cup Final these days. On my first visit in 1994, with my father having passed away the previous year, the words drew tears from myself as I sang along. Since then, on all subsequent visits, I have noted fewer and fewer fans joining in. Whether or not it was because of the events of Manchester or not, and the need to show a sense of community and shared kinship, on this occasion I sensed more than usual joining in.

As the words flowed, I joined in, and clicked away.

My thoughts were with Alan, just yards away.

Next up, the national anthem. Another show of solidarity. It was as loud that I can ever remember at Wembley.

The stadium was full now. A red-half and a less prominent blue-half. The two teams assembled on the centre-circle. Thoughts were now centred on the events of Monday night. At first there was applause but as the announcement continued, everyone hushed. I was very impressed. There followed a minute of complete silence in memory for those slain in Manchester.

RIP.

The game began. We stood, high up in row 22 of the top deck, for the entire game. Not everyone was stood, though. A fine long ball from David Luiz found Pedro but we failed to capitalise. For the next few minutes, we struggled to get a foothold. Arsenal looked livelier and more focused. N’Golo Kante struggled to keep the ball and we watched as an Arsenal move developed. A ball was slung in to our box. A clearance was knocked towards Alexis Sanchez who raised both arms and appeared to pat the ball down with his hands.

“Handball” thought everyone.

There was no referee’s whistle, nothing. Our players appeared to momentarily stop, but play continued. Sanchez slotted home.

“Well, that was good of you, you prick. It was handball, knobhead.”

But there was still no whistle.

The referee, oddly, raced over to the linesman.

“Not sure why he is doing that. He was only a few yards away from the handball.”

The referee and linesman chatted for a few seconds. I was absolutely adamant that the goal would be disallowed. It wasn’t. The referee pointed to the centre-circle. Disbelief all round. The Arsenal players seemed to not celebrate as if they were shocked too. Bollocks. Barely five minutes were on the clock.

During the first quarter, we really struggled and it was a huge surprise to us all. Where there had been fight and togetherness during the league campaign, here we looked listless and disjointed. We were slow in closing Arsenal’s attacking threat, and I lost count of the number of misplaced passes. As our play failed to live up to the standards set by the team this season, our support quietened. We were all in shock.

Sanchez set up Ozil, whose touch took him a little wide. His shot beat Courtois, but Gary Cahill’s nimble back-heal on the goal-line saved us from going 2-0 down. Then, Welbeck headed down and onto the post from a corner, and an Arsenal player was thankfully unable to follow it up.

We could have been 3-0 down. Heads were shaking all around me.

“When have we played as bad as this?”

“Arsenal away.”

We tried to rally.

“Come on Chelsea.”

We tried moving the ball into dangerous areas. To be truthful, Pedro was his usual energetic self and was our biggest threat of the opening period. Diego Costa had a couple of half chances. Eden struggled to get involved; I had hoped that this would be his final. Moses out on the right had a lot of the ball but struggled with the final ball. But it was our defensive frailty which caused us more worry. Matic was especially slow in covering ground and blocking.

Arsenal threatened further with Sanchez a huge threat. Courtois saved well from Xhaka.

With the first-half moving on, we improved slightly. Hazard fed in Pedro, but his shot from only fifteen yards out flew high over the bar and in to the packed Arsenal lower tier, full of jester hats, and face-paint too, no doubt. That was our best chance of the game thus far. But we were clearly second best.

Just before the whistle, we won a free kick on the edge of the box after Pedro’s heels were clipped. It was a perfect position for the left foot of Marcos Alonso. His effort sailed over, knocking the jester hat off an Arsenal fan in row Z.

At the break, neighbouring fans passed on news that the Arsenal goal should have been disallowed for offside in addition to the obvious handball. The ghost of David fucking Elleray lingers on.

Only one phrase dominated my thoughts at half-time :

“We can’t play as badly in the second half.”

I would have like to have been a fly on the wall inside our changing room during the interval. Thankfully, we started the second period a lot more positively. It roused the Chelsea support, who had been generally quiet as the first-half passed. A few shots from Pedro, Kante and Moses hinted at a fine reaction. The Chelsea support roared.

“Carefree.”

Pedro continued to be our biggest threat. We watched as he curled a fine effort just past the far post.

PD wanted Pedro to drop back and replace Moses at right back with Willian being brought on. I concurred. The manager had a different idea. On the hour, Conte replaced the very poor Matic with the much-lauded Cesc Fabregas. “The Magic Hat” reverberated around our end. He was met with boos from the the Goons of course. The Wembley pitch looked huge and we seemed unable to exploit its spaces. Bellerin tested Courtois from just inside the box, and our ‘keeper made the save of the match, pushing the ball out with outstretched arms. We roared our approval.

Down below us, Cesc shot wide. The minutes were ticking by.

With about twenty minutes remaining, Moses – who was having an up and down game – fell weakly inside the box. The referee judged a dive. It was his second yellow. Despite much protest, he left the field.

Twenty-eight thousand fans inside the stadium thought the same thought : “that’s fucked it.”

Willian replaced Pedro, who had arguably been our best player. He was soon involved down our right. Strangely, we looked more effective. A rare corner amounted to nothing, but then Willian crossed in to the box. For the first time all match, the Arsenal defenders were sloppy and indecisive. Diego took a touch and volleyed past Ospina.

“GET IN YOU BASTARD.”

Our end exploded. A moment of pandemonium mixed with real disbelief.

“How the bloody hell are we back in the game?”

Less than a minute later, that bearded knobhead Giroud sent over a cross which Ramsey headed in, past Courtois, a gaping goal an easy target.

Despair.

The Pompous Ones boomed with joy at the other end, and probably spilled their popcorn.

“Fuck.”

With time quickly disappearing, we tried to counter. David Luiz, who had supplied the attackers with a couple of excellent long passes, and who had been well-placed to head away several Arsenal efforts, went close with a header from an angle.

Bellerin, breaking with pace, could have sealed our fate but brushed a low shot wide. I turned around and sighed. This was too much.

In a position which mirrored his goal, Diego volleyed at Ospina. A yard either side of the ‘keeper and we would have miraculously levelled it again.

The clock ticked on.

Conte replaced Diego with Michy Batshuayi. Ozil hit the post at the other end. Luiz spent a fair portion of the last few minutes as a spare attacker.

It was simply not to be.

As the last few seconds ticked by, we slowly edged our way out.

The final whistle blew. We just wanted to leave, to get ourselves on the train back to the city centre. We should have, in hindsight, stayed to applaud the team, but we just wanted to get home. This was my forty-seventh game of the season and I felt exhausted.

Bizarrely, there were a few Arsenal fans in the line for the train. We wondered why they did not want to stay to see the trophy lifted. The magic of the cup, eh? In that line for the train – gallows humour to the fore, jokes helping us through – it appeared that we were in brighter spirits than the victorious Gooners. What an odd bunch they are. Maybe it was dawning on them that this would not be Wenger’s last game at the helm after all. How we laughed.

On the train, there was a fair bit of mainly good-natured banter between both sets of fans. A little knot of Arsenal kept singing in praise of Petr Cech, and it got boring. There was nothing malicious. However, they then decided – oh, you fools – to sing “WWYWYWS?” at us and this was met with a far more prickly response. The message was clear; you can take the piss out of our players, our club, but do not take the piss out of us, the fans. And do not, ever, sing that song to us.

Our support has never weakened. We have always shown up.

One Chelsea supporter stood up, and ranted at them, and it was powerful stuff. Although I can’t condone violence nor the threat of it, it certainly shut the fuckers up.

Very soon we sang :

“It’s gone quiet, over there.”

They had no answer.

Fuck’em.

We made our way back to Barons Court. The last tube journey of the season. We chatted to a few fellow fans. There was the briefest of post-mortems. One chap advocated using Cesc from the very start to open up the vast Wembley spaces. But, in hindsight, I would not have altered the starting eleven that the manager chose. It just seemed that it had been one game too far. Regardless of the farce of the first goal, we knew that we were well beaten. It had been a long day. At a service station on the A4, where Glenn and myself once bumped into Mark Hughes after a Chelsea game in 1998, we had an impromptu feast. The last food had been at breakfast. My mouth was as dry as a desert; a bottle of Coke has never tasted better. We were exhausted. I fell asleep on the drive home. Glenn made good time and I was back home before midnight.

It had been a long old day and a long old season. It ended with a poor performance, but we must not focus on that. It has been an exceptional campaign, hasn’t it? I must say that I have loved every damn minute of it; from the excesses of the US in the summer to the biting tundra of Ice Station Burnley, from the pubs of Sunderland and Liverpool to the bars around Chelsea, from the many highs to the few lows, from the Chuckle Bus and beyond, one step beyond, it has been one of the most rewarding seasons ever.

2016/17 : the numbers –

650 miles by train.

8,000 miles by plane.

12,500 miles by car.

115,000 words.

7,500 photographs.

1 league championship trophy.

We went to work, didn’t we? Too bloody right we did.

Grazie mille Antonio.

Have a great summer everyone – and many thanks for your continued and precious support.

In memory of Eileen Davidson : 28 July 1931 to 23 May 2017.

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