Tales From Sunshine And Schadenfreude

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 12 May 2019.

It seemed quite apt that Chelsea Football Club should end its domestic travels in 2018/19 in a city in the East Midlands which is situated on the River Soar, with a population of 330,000, which hosts cricket, rugby and football teams and is home to the world’s largest crisp factory. Where else could we end up? Our visits to away cities throughout the league campaign, chronologically listed, mirrored the words of a certain song.

“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea: Huddersfield, Newcastle, London, Southampton, Burnley, London, Wolverhampton, Brighton, Watford, London, London, Bournemouth, Manchester, London, Liverpool, Cardiff, Liverpool, Manchester and Leicester.”

This season, although certainly not the most-loved, has zipped past at a ridiculous rate of knots. Our first game in the sun of West Yorkshire seemed only recent and it seemed implausible that this one was the final game of the season. But game thirty-eight it was. With qualification to next season’s Champions League assured, the game at Leicester City took on a much more relaxed air than we had expected. I collected PD at just after eight o’clock and LP at just after eight-thirty. It was a stunning Sunday morning; not a hint of a cloud, the sun out, and a fine chilled-out air of relaxed anticipation. After travels north, east, south and west, the league fixture list had saved me – possibly – the best to last.

A three-hour drive along the Fosse Way, the old Roman road – straight as a die, from Exeter to Lincoln – is always a treat for me. It didn’t let me down. I thoroughly enjoyed the undulating road as we swept past quintessentially English place names on our way through the Cotswolds.

Stanton St. Quentin, Malmesbury, Cirencester, Ampney Crucis, Bourton-on-the-Water, Upper Slaughter, Stow-on-the-Wold, Moreton-in-Marsh, Stretton-on-Fosse.

We had breakfasted at Melksham. We stopped for a drink in “The Star” at Moreton-in-Marsh. After heading off the Fosse, and after skirting the lost football city of Coventry, through Warwickshire and into Leicestershire, we stopped at another pub “The Hinckley Night” on the outskirts of the town with the same name.

It was quite apt that I had chosen the Fosse Way as our route. Way back in the mists of time, Leicester City were first known as Leicester Fosse.

At about 2pm, after our breaks for sustenance – we watched a little of the Old Firm game at the second pub – I was parked-up. There were clouds in the sky, and we all decided to take jackets “just in case.” Leicester City’s stadium is a mile to the north of the Leicestershire cricket ground and half a mile to the south of Leicester Tigers rugby stadium. While PD and LP popped inside for a top-up, I circumnavigated the stadium, which lies just a couple of hundred yards to the south of their old Filbert Street ground. This old stadium was ridiculously lop-sided with two large stands on adjacent sides and two minuscule ones opposite.

I took in the pre-match atmosphere. This was only my fifth visit to the new place. I was on holiday in the US at the time of our first visit in the FA Cup campaign of 2003/4 and I have missed the two recent cup fixtures too. It’s a relatively neat, yet overwhelmingly bland stadium, with no real distinguishing features. “King Power” is everywhere. On the rear of the north stand is a large image of their former chairman, Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, who so sadly perished in the helicopter crash at the stadium last October.

I took the usual smattering of photographs. Their new shirt – laced with gold Adidas stripes rather than white – looked neat and tidy.

Inside the stadium, and into the concourse, I soon spotted a few mates.

A standard greeting was “going to Baku?”

I gulped down a soft-drink – no alcohol at all for me on this day – and met up with Alan and Gary in the seats. Bringing a jacket, I soon realised, was being over-cautious. The sun was relentless. I wasn’t the only person who had over-dressed. My jacket was placed on my seat.

The teams soon appeared.

A hand-written banner was held up in the away end:

EDEN HAZARD BLEEDS BLUE.

CHELSEA IS YOUR HOME.

We were in all yellow, and it brought back memories of our huge 3-1 win in 2014/15 when the Fabregas song stole the show. I remembered, too, how the Morata song was a strong memory of last season’s league game. With what has happened since – another song, another place – it is actually hard to believe that fans were singing the “y” word so forcefully and loudly only twenty months ago. Leicester City had reverted to an old-style blue / white / blue. It did look like a neat kit.

Our team?

Caballero

Zappacosta – Azpilicueta – Luiz – Alonso

Jorginho

Loftus-Cheek – Barkley

Pedro – Higuain – Willian

I had a look around at those in the away end. For some reason, there seemed to be a disproportionately high number of old replica shirts on show; many more than usual. I even spotted a Chelsea Collection number from 1986/87. I only saw two of the 2019/20 shirts.

Our game began.

And so did all the others.

Three games stole the show; Brighton vs. Manchester City, Liverpool vs. Wolves and Tottenham vs. Everton.

Ross Barkley went close within the first few minutes, after a good ball from Jorginho, but his shot hit Schmeichel. It was a chance that promised good things, but was a false dawn. The home fans to my left – I was only a matter of a few feet from them, were noisy as hell in that first part of the game. They sang of their former owner.

“Vichai had a dream.

To build our football team.

He came from Thailand and now he’s one of our own.

We play from the back.

We counter attack.

“Champions of England.”

You made us sing that.”

Indeed, they do counter-attack. And we smother the ball and pass to ourselves to oblivion. It was a massive difference in style between the two teams. Leicester broke at pace with Jamie Vardy and Youri Tielemans looking useful. We passed the ball here there and everywhere, but did not create too much.

Liverpool went, unsurprisingly, a goal up at Anfield.

Then, a score flash which made us groan.

Brighton had taken the lead at home to City. Then, just as I was passing on the news to a few close friends, a noticeable cheer in the Chelsea end. My spirits were raised.

City had equalised.

On the pitch, there was lots of square passes, with little quality penetration. The banter in the stands was proving to be more entertaining. The Leicester fans alongside us had sung about Eden Hazard leaving for Madrid.

We retorted “He’s won more than you.”

There were schoolyard taunts from them. Then came the killer blow, loud and with venom :

“Eden Hazard. He won it for you.”

Fair play, the Leicester lot clapped that. I winked at a few of them, a “thumbs up” here and there.

Ha.

In the other game of interest, Tottenham had scored a very early goal against Everton. We needed to match that to finish above them. But we had to rely on the out-of-sorts Gonzalo Higuain. He slammed one shot wide of the post on the half-hour mark.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

A Vardy header from a free-kick forced a save from Willy Caballero.

The bloke behind me then cheered me : “City have got a second.”

Phew.

In the closing moments of the first-period, a slip from David Luiz allowed Vardy to race on but his ball through to Tielemans was overhit and the chance went begging.

Then, right before the whistle, Higuain missed from only a few yards out, his brain doing the waltz, his feet doing the samba.

“Fackinell.”

Leicester City 0 Chelsea 0

Brighton 1 Manchester City 2

Liverpool 1 Wolves 0

Tottenham 1 Everton 0

Things were going our way in the title hunt, but not our way in our more local battle with Tottenham.

At the break, I bumped into Alex and Reece.

“Would you keep Sarri, Chris?”

Oh God. Me on the spot. Yes, I would.

“I have never warmed to the bloke. He is so one-dimensional. But has he got his own players to play his system? Not yet. I am full of doubt, but give him a full pre-season, give him time. We have the chance to finish top three. We have reached two cup finals. We would have taken that in August. In February we would have for sure.”

The lads were in agreement, with reservations.

“What do we know, we’re not experts.”

But – oh – the football has been so poor at times this season. It has proven one thing; Chelsea supporters want to be entertained. It is in our DNA.

Neal 1983/84

Gullit 1996/97

Mourinho 2004/5

Ancelotti 2009/10

Conte 2016/17

The best I have known…

The second-half began and my forehead was starting to burn up. Parky arrived back from the bar.

“You haven’t missed anything, mate.”

If the first-half was tepid, the second-half was turgid. Chances – real gilt-edged chances – were so rare. A Leicester volley did not hit the target. Barkley shot wide.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass – but without the movement from the players to allow the passes to hurt the tight Leicester defence. Elsewhere, goals were being scored. Manchester City went 3-1 up and eventually 4-1 up, and Liverpool scored a second. The title was City’s.

I hummed “Blue Moon” to myself.

The away end was loving it. We were loving it even more when Everton equalised. And then – to a chorus of “it’s happened again” – we heard that Everton had gone 2-1 up. This was turning into a fantastic afternoon despite the poor game taking place before my very eyes. The noise from the home fans had long since subsided.

There had been, on sixty minutes – and while a player was getting treatment – a minute of appreciation, with white scarves being held aloft by the Leicester supporters in memory of their former chairman. Many Chelsea fans joined in. Good stuff.

Eden Hazard replaced Willian.

His last game in England? Almost certainly.

Mateo Kovacic replaced Barkley.

Olivier Giroud replaced the lackluster and lazy Higuain.

Tottenham scored a second.

Our game petered out.

A Chelsea draw and a Tottenham draw.

“As you were.”

I did not wait around too long to make a move. I saw a few players walking over. There were several – eight? ten? – fans with cardboard signs asking for shirts. There were a few adults among them. One sign was eight-foot long.

I hate modern football.

Outside, I shook hands with many.

“Have a good summer.”

“See you in Baku.”

I don’t think we will sell remotely close to our allotted 5,800 in Azerbaijan. But at least I was cheered to speak to a few that were going. I just have this dread of Arsenal heavily outnumbering us. Of my closest one-hundred Chelsea mates, maybe only fifteen are going. It is a sign of the absurdity of UEFA choosing such a host city. But that is a story for another day.

Outside, I chatted briefly to Long Tall Pete and Liz. We all loved the fact that both Chelsea and Tottenham drew. It was pure comedy gold. All that Tottenham had to do, with hindsight, was to win a home game against Everton and the twats would have finished above us. To think that they were being touted as possible title contenders at Christmas…

Third in a two-horse race in 2015/16.

Fourth in a three-horse race in 2018/19.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Back in the car, it was time to drive south, and complete this story of our 2018/19 league campaign. Huge respect to PD for attending all thirty-eight games, I think for the second time in three seasons. I ended up missing two, the back-to-back games at Wolves and at home to City.

It has been, as the saying goes, emotional. But it has also been excruciating at times. There have only been rare games where I have been genuinely entertained. It has been a grueling slog. I have watched as supporters splinter into pro-Sarri and anti-Sarri factions. I have struggled with it all. I have struggled with this new type of football. I have become bored reading the never-ending appraisals of how – I hate this word, I rarely use it – “Sarribal” is meant to work.

I have lost count of the many deeply earnest and wordy explanations of “Sarribal” on social media that I have studied over the past year. All of a sudden “regista” is a buzz word. After virtually all of these appraisals, I have been so tempted to write “I bet you are fun at parties.” I see a worrying new sub-section of Chelsea followers who are not died-in-the-wool supporters in the most basic sense of the word, but critics and self-appointed “experts.”

Football, to me, is about passion, involvement, support, belligerence, suffering, humour, laughs, beers, a shared kin-ship, a devotion to the cause. And maybe some trophies thrown in for good measure.

OK, rant over, as the kids say.

We stopped at the pub in Hinckley for some nosebag. I continued enjoying the drive home, the spring colours fading as the sun dipped.

Cirencester, Malmesbury, Chippenham, Melksham, Bradford-on-Avon, Frome…home. Just in time to tune in to the highlights on “MOTD2.” Old habits die hard.

I will see some of you next season.

I will see some of you in Baku.

Cheers.

The Star, Moreton-in-Marsh, Gloucestershire & The Hinckley Knight, Hinckley, Leicestershire.

Tales From The Tired Ones

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 22 December 2018.

Good heavens, a Saturday three o’clock kick-off. What were they thinking?

I was on driving duties again, and our route to London took a different route for a change. Lord Parky had stayed at PD Towers in Frome Friday night as they had seen the Neville Staple Band in town. I collected them at 8am. Glenn had been out on Friday evening too, on his Christmas works “do”, and he joined us a few minutes later. My Friday evening had been spent typing up my second match report in twenty-four hours (easily the least number of views of the whole year; perhaps posting it on a Friday night before Christmas was not the best idea, but thanks to those who took time to click and read).

On this Saturday, my route took me east via the A36, then up and over the Salisbury Plain, onto the A303 and then in to London via the M3 and the A316, a journey of 108 miles. At Stonehenge, the car park was full of visitors who had witnessed the Winter Solstice. As we drove past the famous World Heritage site, we spotted thousands standing in and around the sarsen stones, the most people that I have ever seen at the monument. We stopped at Fleet Services for a bite to eat, and it wasn’t long before I was heading past the three rugby stadia of Twickenham, the home of the England team, then The Stoop, home of the Harlequins, and then the home stadium of Richmond at Old Dear Park, which also hosts London Welsh. London’s rugby clubs have moved around ad infinitum in recent years. London Irish currently play at Reading Football Club but are due to move in to Brentford’s new stadium underneath the M4 in 2020. Saracens, based in the north, now play in Barnet but have played previously at Watford’s Vicarage Road. London Wasps, originally based in south-west London, moved to Loftus Road in the ‘nineties and then to Adams Park, in leafy Buckinghamshire. In 2014, they moved – bizarrely and ridiculously – to the midlands city of Coventry where they play at the same stadium as the city’s football club. What the supporters of Coventry Rugby Club think of this imposition is not known, but they can’t be happy. Wasps’ exodus to Coventry makes Wimbledon’s move to Milton Keynes look almost acceptable.

I dropped the boys off at “The Famous Three Kings” and I drove on and was parked-up at about 11am on Normand Road, not far from where a blue plaque marks a former home of the 1976 Formula One Champion James Hunt. I dropped in to “The Curtain’s Up” for a coffee, and asked the Albanian barman if the pub gets used by Chelsea fans for games. He replied “yes, for big games” but I suspect he meant it gets filled by people watching on the bar’s TVs since every game at Chelsea is a big game. We always play to 41,000 full houses these days. My walk continued and I spotted two further blue plaques; one for Sir Geoffrey de Havilland, aircraft designer, and one for Mahatma Gandhi.

Boys from Essex, Kent and Gloucestershire were also in “The Famous Three Kings”, joining us four boys from Somerset and Wiltshire. I was still feeling tired and ordered some “Cokes.” We chatted about Budapest and the current state of the team. After a while of sitting and chatting, I still felt drowsy, and could easily have curled up in a corner of the pub and had a quick power nap. Glenn, still slightly delicate from the alcohol of the previous night, was feeling tired. And so too were PD and Parky, tired from the previous night too. I admitted to the lads that I have been “sleep deficient” from Budapest. The midweek flit to London for the League Cup quarter-final clearly did not help. On the horizon, I am not honestly looking forward to the upcoming midweek trips to London for the Southampton and two Tottenham games.

Is the magic starting to fade?

Stay tuned for further updates.

We caught the tube down to Fulham Broadway. The weather was relatively mild. Touts were out in force. One bastard was brazen enough to tout just inches from a policeman.

We were treated to more fireworks and flames bollocks.

What a load of cock.

The team lined up as below :

  1. Kepa Arrizabalaga.
  2. Cesar Azpilicueta.
  3. Marcos Alonso.
  4. N’Golo Kante
  5. Toni Rudiger.
  6. David Luiz.
  7. Willian.
  8. Mateo Kovacic.
  9. Eden Hazard.
  10. Jorginho.
  11. Pedro.

The exact same team as against Manchester City and Brighton. Another full house. Another three thousand away supporters. Blue skies overhead.

We could not believe that the referee had allowed the Leicester City to wear their dowdy grey away kit, which – to our eyes, anyway – clashed with our home kit. Over in the away corner, many fans were wearing grey and orange Santa hats, free-gifts no doubt, which mirrored our club giving the away fans at Goodison Park similar attire a year ago. I rolled my eyes at every Chelsea fan I saw – there were not many, thank fuck – who were wearing Chelsea Christmas jumpers, and whom I immediately wanted to garrote. Down in the Matthew Harding Lower, there was even a lone Chelsea supporter wearing a red and white Santa hat.

Answers on a postcard…

The game began but there was not a lot of noise in the stadium. The away fans were not particularly loud, but they were making most of the racket. Their voices seemed shriller, higher, than usual. Maybe their Baby Squad were all grown up now, but were still waiting for their balls to drop. There was one song about being Champions of England that I could not get to the bottom off. That East Midlands vernacular needed subtitles.

We began with a large proportion of the possession, and dominated the early exchanges.

But it was David Luiz who first caught the eyes with a couple of timely interceptions to thwart the away team. There had only been one potentially hurtful incision into our box, but the chance came and went.

Our first real goal scoring chance came from a Willian corner which was flicked-on at the near post by Pedro of all people, and as the ball dropped at the far post, it just evaded the ungainly leap of Luiz. In the next few moments, Luiz turned provider with a couple of excellent passes through the packed ranks of the Confederate greys of the Leicester lines to the Union blue of Chelsea. But there still seemed a tendency to overpass, or perhaps underpass, in so much that passes to danger areas were missing. This variant of football was still struggling to win everyone over. There was the usual “to me to you” passing from Jorginho. I have a feeling he regards the ball as a triggered hand grenade.

Inwardly I was urging him to take an extra touch and make a killer pass.

I noted that there were often men over, in space, on our right but were often ignored.

A shot from Dave flew over the bar.

At the half-hour mark, I commented to Glenn “maybe football is careering away at such a fast pace, that I am starting to lose my understanding of it, but I just can’t see what Jorginho gives to this team.”

Lo and behold, in time-honoured fashion, Jorginho sent through a brilliant through-ball.

The lads sniggered.

But we upped our game at this stage and the crowd definitely responded.

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

Eden – who had been rather quiet until then – pounced on a Leicester City mistake inside the box, turned and slammed a fierce shot against the bar. His one hundredth goal in Chelsea blue would have to wait a little longer. Then, the action swapped to the Matthew Harding end, and there was a brilliant strike from Wilfred Ndidi which drew an equally brilliant save, at full stretch, from Kepa. The Stamford Bridge warmly applauded some excellent football.

A rare shot from Jorginho, a thunderous volley, which Schmeichel palmed clear brought the half to a close.

Chelsea had been well on top.

Before the game, I had predicted a dour game that we would squeak 1-0.

Five minutes into the second period, everything went against us.

An incisive move right through our middle cut us to ribbons. Pereira broke through and released Maddison, who easily spotted the movement of Vardy inside the box. His first time shot whipped past Kepa at the near post.

“Why can’t we do that?” I gasped to Glenn.

There was that 1-0 score line that I had predicted but it was to Leicester, whose fans celebrated wildly.  Immediately after, the home support was roused to get behind the team, but the noise levels never reached those levels again during the entire match. The visitors threatened again with Kepa scrambling away a cross with Vardy unable to pounce on the scraps. A rapid move down our left resulted in a fearsome shot from an angle from Eden which Schmeichel did well to save at his near post with one hand.

But as we attempted to retaliate, I wondered where our shape had gone. Hazard often dropped deep – way deep – to collect the ball. This was a deeply false nine.

Sub-zero, maybe.

Five minutes after the Leicester goal, Sarri made a double-substitution. Loftus-Cheek replaced Kovacic and Giroud replaced Willian with Giroud moving into the middle and with Hazard pushed wide. But we still looked ill at ease. All eyes were on Hazard – at times it seemed like he was our only hope – who became a little self-indulgent.

To my amazement, Sarri took off his man Jorginho and replaced him with Cesc Fabregas. Giroud was only marginally involved. Loftus-Cheek did not ever really get involved. At the other end Marc Albrighton shot from distance and Kepa did well to keep the ball out with a low drop to his right.

Amazingly, we heard that Manchester City were losing at home to Crystal Palace. Usually, this would have been met with glee, but with Liverpool ahead by four points after their predictable win at Molyneux the night before, this was grim news. We aren’t going to win the league. Anyone but Liverpool or, marginally worse, Tottenham.

A corner from Pedro down below me was floated right into the danger area. Toni Rudiger rose, but Schmeichel managed to put him off with an outstretched arm and his header, admittedly after a prodigious leap, sailed flew wide. There was more agony to follow. A lovely ball from Fabregas was miss-controlled by Giroud.

Then, with the time running out, Kante found the advanced run of Marcos Alonso. The whole stadium held our breath. He steadied himself, but his left-footed shot, seemingly well-placed, hit the left post and rebounded out and across the goal mouth. There was nobody there to tap in the rebound.

It was not to be.

Chelsea 0 Leicester City 1.

Bollocks.

Our immediate post-mortem was easy.

This was not a horrific display, but we were well below our best. We just needed a cutting edge. And we looked tired. Not physically tired, but tired of trying new things, tired of taking chances, tired of the challenge. On another day, with a proper striker, we would probably have won the game easily. I am quite certain that the manager is quite a long way away from where he wants his team to be, and – if he has time, that priceless commodity – his two-year or three-year plan might well come to fruition. But this is going to be a long, slow journey. There seems to be a certain dislike of this new style of football among many in our ranks. I know that I am not wholly convinced, although I am truly no expert.

On Boxing Day evening, we reconvene at Vicarage Road.

I will see some of you there.

 

Tales From The Benches

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 13 January 2018.

Last Saturday at Norwich, I bumped into a chap who I had not seen at a Chelsea game for years and years. Dave, originally from St. Albans, used to sit alongside a few of us on The Benches in the West Stand at Stamford Bridge in the mid-‘eighties. I was thrilled to see him again, and even more thrilled to hear that he was planning to meet up with two other lads from that era – Simon, who I see occasionally at Chelsea, and Rich, who I have not seen for three decades – at the Leicester City home game. As the Chuckle Brothers made our way to London, my mind was full of thoughts about this most brilliant of reunions. And it got me wondering about the absurdities of fate.

As I recalled the circumstances that led to us all getting to know each other, it just seemed that some things were just meant to be.

Rewind to the evening of Saturday 10 March 1984.

Glenn and I were on our way back to King’s Cross on the Chelsea Special after an action packed day watching The Great Unpredictables at Newcastle United’s St. James’ Park. Glenn shot off to the buffet, leaving me to read the creased match programme one more time. Coming out of Newcastle, the train had been bricked by some far-from-friendly locals and a window in our compartment had been shattered, leaving a young lad wearing glasses with bloodied cuts to the head. It was a rude awakening to the pitfalls of travelling by train in support of Chelsea. A few others, more experienced, more seasoned, had put the blinds down as soon as we had left Newcastle, just in case this very thing happened, to try to stop the glass flying everywhere. I probably tried to catch some sleep – we had been awake since 4am – but the compartment was so cold that sleep was probably out of the question. After an hour or so – “blimey, what has happened to Glenn?” – my travel companion returned.

“Just been talking to some lads from Brighton. A good laugh.”

I thought no more of it.

Fast forward to the afternoon of Saturday 31 March 1984.

In the days before we had spare money to pop into the pubs around Stamford Bridge on match days, Glenn and I were in early for our game against Fulham. We had watched our first two games together against Newcastle United in November and Manchester City in December on The Shed, but our next couple of matches – Portsmouth, Sheffield Wednesday – had been in the trendier and more enjoyable benches which used to run alongside the old dog track in front of the West Stand. It was where I had seen my very first game at Chelsea ten years’ earlier. But where there was a mixture of middle-aged supporters in suits and ties, young schoolkids, and pensioners mixed in with the teenagers in 1974, in 1984 the benches were occupied by a very different beast. In the main, and certainly at the northern end of The Benches, as near to the hated away fans as it was possible to get, were legions of Chelsea supporters – 99% male and 99% aged sixteen to twenty-five – who were dressed to impress with the latest casual labels of the day.

You would pay your general admission money to get in The Shed – £3? I forget – and then show your membership card at the back of the Shed terrace to a club official and then pay an extra quid at those peculiar turnstiles (a unique feature really, a turnstile inside a stadium) at the bottom of those steps between The Shed and the West Stand. And then you were in, walking the catwalk of that wide walkway at the back of the enclosure, watching the peacocks strut their stuff, and sing their songs.

This was all relatively new to the two of us from Frome.

1983/1984 was a season of enlightenment for the two of us and there has not been a season like it before or after.

The wedge haircut, blonde highlights, Lacoste polo shirts, Sergio Tacchini tracksuit tops, Fila roll-necks, Adidas rain jackets, Patrick cagoules, complete Kappa tracksuits, Lyle and Scott pullovers, Pringle pullovers, Gabicci cardigans, light blue Levi jeans, Lois jumbo cords with side splits, Nike Wimbledons, Diadora Borg Elites, Puma Guillermo Vilas, Kickers, swagger, swagger and more swagger.

The two of us were overdosing on football and fashion and we could not get enough of it.

On that day against Fulham, we had nabbed the very back row of the benches; always a highly-desirable spot. We were on the halfway-line. Prime seats. No tickets in those days; first-come first-served. Lo and behold, who should arrive a little later and be sitting right in front of us than the two lads “from Brighton” who Glenn had met on the way home from Newcastle. In fact, only one was from Brighton; Paul – aka Stamford in lieu of his mane of blonde hair – while Alan was from Bromley, a proper Sarf Londoner. We struck up a little conversation. Glenn must have introduced me. It felt nice to meet some young lads who were as mad on Chelsea as us. Growing up in rural Somerset, it was a rarity to find another blue, let alone one who were as feverish about our club as Glenn and little old me.

The next game that Glenn and I attended at Stamford Bridge was the legendary promotion-decider against Leeds United. Again, we aimed for the back row of The Benches. The pre-match was a little different on this occasion, though, and rather historic too. We had popped into a pub called “The Cock” and I had supped my very first pint before a Chelsea game – a lager and lime if memory serves – and we had arrived a little later than planned. As I remember it, Alan and Paul made us some space on the back row, and I am sure that we also met a few other lads that day too.

Leggo from Bedford, Mark from Sunbury-on-Thames, and the trio of lads from the St. Albans area, Simon, Dave and Rich.

Chelsea won 5-0 and promotion was secured.

They were the days of our lives.

Back in the top flight for the first time in five seasons, the next campaign was one of the best-ever too. Even though I was at college in Stoke, I managed to attend 16 out of 21 home league games. There was a smattering of away games; Arsenal, Sheffield Wednesday, Leicester City, Liverpool, Stoke City. I would save my pennies through the week, eating frugally, and live for my magical footballing Saturdays. Throughout the season, the little gang of us would always gather on the back row at the halfway-line. Often we would get in at 1.30pm when the gates opened. From memory, for the big games – Liverpool, United – the gates were open at 1pm. We would sit, read the programmes, soak up the pre-match atmosphere, laugh and joke about previous games, watch the players warm up, sing out their names, enjoy the camaraderie.

What a buzz.

I used to take my camera in those days too.

In the spring of 1985, on the day the club celebrated its ninetieth anniversary against Tottenham – all-ticket due to the risk of violence, but only 26,310 attended – I snapped away. In the first photo are Stamford, Alan and Dave, sporting the ski-hats which were all the rage that season. In the second one, in profile and with The Shed behind, are Alan, Dave, Rich, Mark and Leggo in his bloody awful ginger leather jacket. It is no surprise that Simon is not in either picture, since he always tended to be the last to arrive, and usually the worse for wear after several pints in the pub.

By then of course, after the riot against Sunderland in the Milk Cup semi-final, the wooden benches were no more. They were replaced by cold concrete slabs. In the picture below, also from the Spurs game in 1985, the full roll-call is as follows :

Gareth (another Bedford lad), Glenn, Stamford, Alan, Dave, Rich, Swan (one of our lot, from Radstock, an Ian Botham-lookalike), Mark with his back-turned and Leggo and Leggo’s jacket.

We would meet up again, with slightly dwindling numbers in 1985/1986, but by 1986/1987 the group had tended to disperse. The wooden benches were no more and the concrete slabs just didn’t cut it. On my visits to Stamford Bridge, I mixed it up a little; The Shed one week, The Benches the next. By the time of 1988/1989 Alan had moved over to a season ticket in the front row of the East Upper, and I only bumped into the others on rare occasions.

Fast forward to Saturday 13 January 2018.

I had dropped Glenn, Parky and PD off at “The Famous Three Kings” at West Kensington, and drove off to park my car on Normand Road, just in front of Normand Mews where former F1 World Champion James Hunt used to live, as the small blue plaque commemorates. I was therefore late to the party when I strolled in at around 11.30am. But there they all were, The Benches from 1984/1985.

Rich, Simon, Glenn, Chris, Dave, Alan.

What a joy to see each other again. It would be the first time that we had all been together since, I reckon, around the autumn of 1985. We wasted little time in turning back the years. We spoke about the others. Swan moved up to Leeds, we think, and the last time I saw him was in Bath in around 1986. Gareth used to go, but has not been seen for two decades. Mark still goes home and away, I see him everywhere. Leggo has not been seen at Chelsea for fifteen years. Neither has his jacket. Stamford aka Paul aka Walnuts still goes, and will be at the Brighton vs. Chelsea match next week. As I said, I still see Simon at games, though for many years, his was a missing face. I remember how pleased I was to see him at Wolves in 2003 after not seeing him since the mid-‘eighties. I saw Dave for the first time in ages at the Luton Town semi at Wembley in 1994 and again at the Nou Camp in 2000, and he still goes, though our paths have not crossed. Rich goes, but not so often.

It was a miracle that we were all together again in 2018.

And we owed it all to Glenn going to the buffet on a Chelsea Special in 1984 and the lure of The Benches at Stamford Bridge.

The banter continued.

Alan : “When Dave saw Glenn he called him “Polly”.

“Polly” – I had quite forgotten this. Indeed. “Polly.” I scratched my head as to why this was.

Dave, Rich, Simon and Alan were soon locked in to a special memory from September 1983 when they drove up to Sheffield Wednesday in Rich’s Ford Cortina and played an impromptu game of football on the moors above Hillsborough.

Alan : “It was cowpats for goalposts.”

Photographs were shared from our mobile phones.

Simon : “Here’s a photo of Kerry and me at Aberystwyth in 1983.”

We remembered the fashions of the day.

Dave : “Rich, I am sure that we went to Highbury in 1984 wearing white tennis shorts.”

Glenn : “Remember those multi-coloured jackets made from suede and leather? We all had them.”

Chris : “Remember those two girls who sold programmes from that hut on the main forecourt and then walked behind the goal at The Shed End to The Benches every home game?”

We did. Of course we did. Ah, Sharon and Paula, where are you now?

I was reminded of the time in 2004 when Glenn and I posed for a couple of photographs outside The Goose with photos from The Benches which Alan had taken. The one of me with the black jacket is the one which appears with my piece on “Arsenal 1984” in Mark Worrall’s book from a few years back. In the photo that Glenn is holding, he is with Dave and Simon.

Chris : “Never mind Polly, we should have called you Shirley Temple with that Barnet.”

We chatted about the hold that Chelsea has on all of us. We updated each other with what we have been doing with ourselves in the past thirty-odd years. I have to be honest, it was the most wonderful pre-match for ages. The chat and the laughter bounced around the pub. It was bloody lovely.

With kick-off time approaching, we started to finish our drinks. We looked up and saw about forty of Leicester’s “lads” enter the pub, a strange mix of middle-aged henchmen and Stone Island patches, Adidas trainers, CP goggles, Aquascutum scarves, Ma.Strum jackets and glowering looks. I suspect that they were remnants of the Baby Squad, but we wasted no time in finding out. Rather than involve ourselves in conversations with them about the export/import imbalance, the threat of global warming, heightened political tension in the far east, the lack of funding for the arts by the current government and the futility of life itself, we decided to down our pints and head out.

With us were Kev and Rich, the Jam Tarts, down from Edinburgh for the day. It had been a proper gathering of the clans.

Inside Stamford Bridge, Leicester City were backed by a strong three-thousand. I recollected a game that I had attended – all on my lonesome, September 1982, hating sixth-form, trying and failing to get over my first girlfriend, not exactly enjoying life – between Chelsea and Leicester City. It was just a run-of-the-mill Second Division game, and yet over 14,000 like-minded souls had evaded the clutches of loved ones, made excuses, saved hard, traveled long distances, and bothered to attend. I remember looking over to the middle of The Shed and thinking :

“We’ve got something here. This huge stadium. A loyal support. If only we had a good team.”

Who would have thought that thirty-five years later, the two teams involved on that sunny afternoon in 1982 would be Champions of England for three consecutive seasons?

Antonio Conte had opted for a 3-5-2 although all four of us in The Chuckle Bus had wanted a more fluid 3-4-3.

Courtois

Azpilicueta – Cahill – Rudiger

Moses – Fabregas – Kante – Bakayoko – Alonso

Morata – Hazard

At ten to three, the musical countdown began.

“Park Life.”

“The Liquidator.”

“Blue Is The Colour.”

The teams, the flags, “COME ON CHELSEA.”

The game began with a shot that Victor Moses slashed wide from a Cesc Fabregas pass. But then the visitors got their arses into gear. Bloody hell, Leicester– dressed in all black, how original – were all over us. I have no idea why our defenders allowed so much space for the visiting attackers, but they could have been two-up after just eight minutes. Firstly, a cross from down below me from their left was played into Shinji Okazaki but his connection was poor. Then, twice in a minute, Jamie Vardy could have scored on both occasions. We were simply not at the races.

“FACKINELL CHELS.”

Next up, was a fantastic diving save from Courtois from Wilfred Ndidi. The crowd around me were already restless and barely ten minutes had passed. At least – I was hunting for any scrap of positivity that I could – the crowd seemed to be slightly more involved than of late.

To the tune of “Amazing Grace” – our name boomed from the Matthew Harding. However, amazing we certainly bloody weren’t.

Cesc broke into the box at the other end and drew a smart save from Kasper Schmeichel. But this was very much a “one-off” as the visitors tore us to shreds. On a cold afternoon in SW6, Glenn was huddled up close to PD and Alan, his hat over his ears. He acknowledged that a brilliant pre-match had taken its toll.

“I had an opinion before six pints of Guinness.”

We laughed.

We had to laugh at something. Down on the pitch, we were as lacklustre as it gets. Our tackling was off. Our passing was so slow. Eden was finding it hard to get an inch of space anywhere. I so wanted Tiemoue Bakayoko to have a solid game, and I went out of my way to encourage him. But, let’s not kid ourselves, he had another stinker. His intensity was off, and he gave virtually nothing to the side in that woeful first-half. He struggled to fit in. He seemed unsure of his role, as did I. I wondered if he will continue to exist as some sort of Corporal Sponge to the other more established stars in our team, pottering around like one of those members of McDonalds who are only trusted to wipe dirty surfaces and dispose of debris in the rubbish bins.

We seemed to be overmanned in central midfield, yet we were over-run too. How is that possible?

A great tackle from Cahill managed to repel the threat from the fleet-of-foot Mahrez, enjoying a fine game, and a trademark crunching block from the same player stopped Vardy.

The crowd tried to lift the players.

“ANTONIO.”

Gary Cahill was then replaced by Andreas Christensen, after the captain fell, clutching his leg. The youngster soon impressed. Alvaro Morata for once set himself free of his markers and caused Schmeichel to save at his near post. But our chances were rare. At the other end, there were countless breaks from the twin threats of Mahrez and Vardy, and Leicester continued to dominate. Marc Albrighton slammed one wide. Only in the final five minutes of the half did we look like getting back to our old form. When we did, the crowd were noticeably more involved. But it shouldn’t have to be like this, should it?

Back in the “F3K”, Glenn had spoken about our time on “The Benches.”

“We didn’t know too much about tactics or formations. We just showed up and sang until we were hoarse.”

Quite.

If only supporters could support.

Not rocket science is it?

And although it is surely a myth that Stamford Bridge was a cauldron of noise three decades ago – it wasn’t because so much of the noise generated by our support simply drifted away into the London air, with the supporters so far away from the pitch –  at least we bloody well tried. The Shed tried, The Benches tried, Gate 13 tried. We all tried. Once we were in the midst of it, the noise sounded deafening…it just didn’t travel too far.

The second-half began. There was no noticeable step up from us in terms of quality nor intensity. This was all very strange. After ten minutes of play, Leicester City had a penalty appeal turned down and I commented to Alan that instead of Thibaut releasing the ball early to Morata while many of the opposing players were still moaning at the referee, and the team in momentary disarray, our Belgian ‘keeper held on to the ball and allowed the visitors to regroup. For some reason, I heard Jose Mourinho’s voice yelling at Thibaut and not Antonio Conte, not sure why. Maybe it was a definite Mourinho trait for his teams to expose the slightest weakness in any opposing team.

That man Mahrez threatened again. We were lucky that his shot – deflected – ended up spinning wide.

At last, a change.

Hazard was replaced by Pedro. Fabregas was replaced by Willian. Neither had been special. In fact, they had both been poor.

So, we got our desired “3-4-3.”

I was reminded back to Manchester United in around 2005, when we were in our pomp, and it was perceived by many among United’s match-going support that Sir Alex Ferguson was evidently “losing” it with his dalliance of new formations. On many occasions, the United support used to bellow “4-4-2, 4-4-2, 4-4-2” at their manager when things were not going their way. It made me chuckle that plasterers from Prestwich, accountants from Ardwick, taxi drivers from Totnes, nurses from Norwich, electricians from Eccles and lorry drivers from Launceston suddenly knew more about the Manchester United players and their strengths and weaknesses than one of the most revered managers the game has ever seen. Still, in this day and age, the customer is king. It is the way of the world to boo. We are a nation of moaners. And I am not saying that there was no negativity in days gone by, but the vitriol today seems to have reached new, horrible levels. There was, surprisingly, hardly any boos though at halftime, but if the score remained the same, I wasn’t so sure of a familiar outcome on ninety minutes.

Immediately, Pedro on the left and Willian on the right helped to energise us. There was a lot more pressure to win the ball, and we hoped we could breach the Leicester defence.

Chris to Alan : “Bakayoko, thirty yard screamer.”

Unfortunately, the only screaming came after a couple of Bakayoko shots were woefully off target.

“WE ALL FOLLOW THE CHELSEA, OVER LAND AND SEA.”

I was so pleased to hear a reaction from the home support. Not deafening, but at least it was something. The Benches of 1984 would have been proud of us. Maybe.

We were then handed some help when Ben Chilwell was sent off for two yellows in quick succession. It seemed that we had tons of the ball now, but with only Vardy upfront, Leicester were packing their box with players. There was no space. But our crossing was poor. Moratra, the poor bleeder, had not had much quality service the entire match. We tried and tried. I saw effort, in the main, but not much more than that. Our movement off the ball was especially woeful. Morata was at times immobile. It was, perhaps, a miracle that our man Tiemoue stayed on the entire game, but the manager obviously wants to persevere with him. Shots from Kante and Willian did not really test the ‘keeper.

In the last few minutes, a Marcos Alonso free-kick flew over the wall, and dipped, but Schmeichel scrambled low to push the ball around the post. The game ended as it had begun, with a shot from Moses which was so wide of the goal as to almost warrant being called a defensive clearance.

At the final whistle, our third 0-0 in a row and the inevitable boos from a few.

“Triffic.”

Back in the car, there were of course the expected moans – and not much chuckling – as we went through our usual post game post mortem.

Within twenty minutes, all three passengers were dozing as I headed home on the M4.

It was another day that had been spoiled by the football – ah, that familiar refrain, as pertinent now as in 1984/1985 – and I knew that my phone, tablet and computer would be on fire throughout the evening with rants, moans and complaints. Those who know me well will not be surprised by my response to the bitching and moaning which was taking place across the globe, in cyberspace and in cider space alike. I’d try to be pragmatic. I’d try to keep an even keel. I’d try not to over-react. I’d acknowledge how little we really know about the mechanics of a football team. I’d respect how hard it must be for one manager to work for a trigger-happy owner and to continually try to inspire and cajole a squad of millionaires. After all, it can’t be easy to win the league every year.

Even in 1984/1985, back on The Benches, I always was the boring and sensible one.

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Tales From Sunshine On A Rainy Day

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 9 September 2017.

With the international break behind us – I watched a total of around ten whole minutes from England’s two matches – we were thankfully back to proper football; football that means something, football that raises our spirits, football that brings us all together. An away game at Leicester City was in fact just what the doctor had ordered. From my home in the South-West of England, my route would take me right into the heart of England, mainly following the course of the old Roman road The Fosse Way, and through some achingly beautiful countryside. A perfect road trip lay ahead. It would, in fact, be our first domestic game outside London since the league championship clincher at West Brom last May. And it was an ideal game to get back into the swing of things; difficult but not insurmountable. However, the month of September would be a testing time for sure, with seven games lined-up, and it seemed that the football season was beginning to heat up.

Our visits to the King Power Stadium over the past few seasons have tended to be defining moments in each campaign. In 2014/15, a dominant performance and a 3-0 win set us up for the league clincher four days later. In 2015/16, a dismal evening of “betrayal” and a 1-2 defeat resulted in the sacking of Jose Mourinho the following day. In 2016/17, Antonio Conte declined the services of Diego Costa and with vultures gathering overhead, a potentially huge banana-skin was avoided as another 3-0 victory pushed us away from the pack and towards an eventual second title in three seasons.

Of course, that Leicester City were the surprise champions in that middle season, and that N’Golo Kante and now Danny Drinkwater, had since swapped the royal blue of Leicester for the royal blue of Chelsea added a certain extra piquancy to the game.

The Chuckle Brothers were buzzing for it.

Our journey had taken us from Somerset to Wiltshire to Gloucestershire to Warwickshire and to Leicestershire. We had set off with sunny skies overhead, but with warnings of scattered showers throughout the day. We stopped for a pint at a pub at Charlecote, just off the Fosse Way, and soon into our hour-long drive in to Leicester, the heavens opened. What a downpour. The surface water made driving difficult. Thankfully, the storm soon passed and although huge billowing clouds were gathering on the horizon, the remaining miles were covered with no further rain. As we parked up at our usual place on Shakespeare Street – William, not Craig –  the sun was out and warming the air. Coats were worn, but rather reluctantly.

We were soon inside the away end.

“Time for a quick beer, Parky?”

We had chatted about the possible starting eleven on the journey, and the team that Antonio Conte chose contained few surprises.

Courtois

Azpilicueta – Luiz – Rudiger

Moses – Kante – Bakayoko – Alonso

Pedro – Morata – Fabregas

The Chelsea crowd, three-thousand strong in the corner, seemed full of voice as the minutes ticked down to kick-off.

An extended toot of the fox hunter’s horn sounded and the teams appeared. There was disdainful chatter about Everton’s “dirty grey” shirts a fortnight ago, but our “white” away colours hardly look pristine. The shirts and shorts were decidedly off-white. Only the socks looked crisp. It just looked odd.

Leicester City, in all blue these days, were on the back foot in the first few moments of the game. A forceful run from Bakayoko set up the prowling Morata, who steadied himself before curling a shot at Schmeichel. We looked impressive, and there was some good early pressure. A superb ball from Fabregas, playing a little deeper than his usual position – maybe it was a different formation that I had thought – released Morata but the ball did not drop favourably, allowing a smothering save from the Leicester City ‘keeper.

A new song – for me anyway, though I suspect others have been aware of its presence – swirled around the away section.

“Marcos. Marcos Alonso runs down the wing for me.”

I approved, and joined in.

Another new song then appeared from the ether.

“He came from Real Madrid. He hates the fuckin’ yids.”

My heart sank. It sank further as I looked around and spotted, sadly, hundreds joining in.

Suffice to say, I did not.

I whispered to Alan :

“Well, that will get a load of people nicked.”

That word is just not welcome at Chelsea games. Its presence shocked me to be honest. Over the past few seasons the Chelsea crowd has almost policed itself and kept that word to a minimal level. I remember back to around 2006 or 2007 when “The Bouncy” first appeared en masse at Chelsea. Originally a Rangers song, its first edition at Chelsea included the “Y” word. Over a couple of seasons, this was replaced and the set up was changed to “we’re gonna bounce in a minute.” It was an intelligent way of changing the focus. There is another famous Chelsea song that begins “We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea” but I always stop myself from singing the next line after “Barcelona, Real Madrid…”

I know some sing it. I choose not to. I just don’t fancy getting CCTV’d singing that word.

People can bleat as much as they like about Tottenham singing it. That is simply their choice, their concern, their problem. There is a strong argument about that club now using it in a positive light as a defence mechanism after decades of negativity from outside. There are easy parallels within the black community and the equally divisive “N” word. And I do feel slightly queasy about non-Jewish Spurs fans singing it. But my thoughts are that Chelsea fans should not even be thinking about using the “Y” word, especially with our sadly dubious record with racism over the decades, let alone be singing it.

As I looked around at our support joining in, giggling, I wondered if the camera might be turned on them. Beside the use of the “Y” word, it is a pretty dull song anyway. And it doesn’t really scan. There are too many syllables for a start; always a bugbear of mine. Chelsea fans from the US especially – bless’em – seem to have immense difficulty with this. They seem to love shoe-horning too many syllables into any standard song.

Alan quickly came up with an alternative.

“He came from Real Madrid. I’m glad he fucking did.”

I laughed.

I offered an alternative.

“We bought him from Madrid. For sixty million quid.”

It scanned. The right number of syllables. It rhymed. No offensive racial slur.

It’ll never catch on.

The game continued with Chelsea dominating possession. Kante – who was warmly applauded by the home fans before the game when his name was announced – patrolled the middle of the pitch, with Bakayoko providing a fine foil alongside. We pinged the ball around nicely. Morata looked at ease, with a lovely first touch. He brought others into the game well and it was a pleasure to see. Alonso offered great width down the left. Indeed, as the game progressed it honestly seemed that we had an extra man on the pitch, which is always a good sign. Rudiger again impressed, as if he has been playing for Chelsea for years, not weeks.

A Luiz free-kick produced an easy save for Schmeichel. Our attacks continued. The Leicester defence was being continually stretched.

Leicester are always a threat on the break though. The once impressive Mahrez – I am surprised that he is still playing for them – played in Jamie Vardy. His rapid shot thankfully screamed past the far post. If memory serves, he scored from a similar position in 2014. Another chance fell to the home side but thankfully Thibaut Courtois parried the shot from Islam Slimani.

With half-time beckoning, an intense rain shower forced some to don jackets, though some headed inside for cover. Under my hood, I watched as a fantastic cross from Cesar Azpilcueta picked out Alvaro Morata. The cross was right on the money. Morata leaped and seemed to hang in the air. He headed it past Schmeichel.

GET IN.

It was a suitable reward for those who had stayed in the stands.

Thankfully, the rain subsided as the second-half began. After five minutes, a Chelsea move developed but my attention was on Morata, twisting and turning and trying to get away from his hefty marker Maguire. Out of nowhere, a shot flew past Morata and Maguire and miraculously crept in at the far post, past a late dive from the ‘keeper. I had not seen who had struck it, so imagine my surprise when I looked over to see players running towards that man Kante, who – typically – was not celebrating at all. Kudos to him for that.

With Chelsea winning 2-0, the pressure seemed to be off, and our third win on the bounce was on the cards.

On the hour, my attention was again diverted. Over on the far side, new signing Danny Drinkwater was warming up on the touchline, and as far as I could see he was getting a pretty good reception from his former fans. I had predicted, perhaps, a slightly more acerbic reception. A roar then went up from the home stands, and I saw the referee pointing to the spot. Vardy slammed it past Thibaut.

Leicester City 1 Chelsea 2.

The game changed.

We had to hold on to our lead for around half-an-hour.

Pedro, one of our quietest players, was replaced by Willian.

Antonio Conte then replaced Moses with debutante Davide Zappacosta.

I whispered to Alan : “It’s always good to have a Frank in the team.”

The changes disrupted our play a little, and Leicester enjoyed more of the ball. For a while, we were on the receiving end of a little pressure and the mood grew tense in the away end, or at least in my row. We did not help ourselves. A lot of our play seemed sloppy and our choices of pass seemed to be off-kilter.

A big cheer greeted the sight of Eden Hazard replacing Cesc Fabregas. He immediately lifted us. Just to see him caress the ball, and look up, assessing options, was enough to warm us. He began on the left but then appeared down in front of us on the right. For a while, it was all of the play was nicely in front of us. Zappacosta was involved, but looked a little nervous. He seemed to take forever to settle himself for a shot but the ball was drilled wide.

Leicester had rung the changes at the start of the half with King and Gray coming on and Craig Shakespeare then introduced the former City striker Iheanacho with fifteen to go. They kept pushing for a goal. I was convinced that we would let in an equaliser. But we were still pushing ourselves. I had a brief thought that a Mourinho team of around 2005 would be just moving the ball around the back four for minutes on end. There was an appeal for handball by Maguire from a Morata header. Willian curled one just past the post. There was another save from the same player as the game reached its conclusion.

There was an element of relief at the final whistle. Phew.

It had been a workmanlike performance, peeking in the first-half, but it was one which confirmed the aberration of the first forty-five minutes of the season. This is a fine team, and we will surely enjoy a fine season. The players – all of them, well done – came over to thank us for our support. I predictably focused on the manager. There was the usual applause for us, but with a straight face, quite solemn. He knew we had eked out a good win, but there was still room for improvement.

A good day at the office? Oh yes.

But the month of September has only just begun and we have a heavy schedule.

On Tuesday evening, Champions League football thankfully returns to SW6.

I will see some of you there.

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Tales From The King Power Stadium

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 14 January 2017.

The Chuckle Bus was on the road again. There had been a breakfast at a canal-side café in Bradford-on-Avon in Wiltshire, a lunchtime drink at a pub with a roaring fire in Moreton-in-Marsh in Gloucestershire while watching a few moments of the televised Tottenham vs. West Brom game, and a further pub stop in the Warwickshire village of Wolvey. We were taking our time. The kick-off in Leicester was not until 5.30pm. There was no rush. In all honesty, the mood in the car was a little pessimistic. I think it shocked us.

The reason for our noticeable solemnity was due to the rumours flying around the internet, the radio and the TV about Diego Costa. There was no absolute ratification from Chelsea regarding the reasons for Costa not travelling to Leicester. But the rumours were rife. Was he genuinely injured? Was he seeking a change in China? Was he the centre of a media-led campaign to unsettle us? We didn’t know. We tried not to get sucked in to a maelstrom of negativity, but it was difficult.

In a nutshell, Diego Costa is currently at the peak of his game. If he was genuinely injured, no problems. If there were darker Machiavellian reasons for his absence, what a mess.

Either way, it darkened the mood considerably. After a loss at Tottenham ten days previously, we briefly considered a team affected by the loss of Diego, a subsequent second successive loss in the league in 2017 and storm clouds gathering ahead of tough games against Liverpool and Arsenal. Well, Liverpool anyway. I simply do not fear playing Arsenal at Stamford Bridge. The match at a hostile Anfield will be a different kettle of fish, or dustbin of cats.

But by the same token, we trusted Antonio Conte to enliven his troops against a Leicester City team which would be missing a few key players. Against the immobile rugby-players Huth and Morgan, I fully expected the three-pronged attack of Hazard, Pedro and Willian to turn them inside and out.

We were parked up in good time. Although I had dressed for the Baltic – quilted jacket, and warm pullover, Timbers – the walk to the stadium was not as cold as I had expected.

The three sporting stadia in Leicester are clustered together to the south of the city centre; cricket’s Grace Road, rugby’s Welford Road and football’s King Power Stadium. They are all within a twenty-five-minute walk of each other. The latter, replacing Filbert Street, is a typical new build. A single-tiered identikit stadium. Replace the blue seats with red, and it could be Southampton’s St. Mary’s. It perfectly suits Leicester City, but it’s hardly an interesting site, or sight.

Our own beloved Stamford Bridge had been at the forefront of my mind since the last game. On Wednesday evening the local Hammersmith & Fulham Council met to vote on the planning application for our spectacular re-build.

At around 10pm it was announced that they had said “yes.”

What wonderful news.

I remembered the black days of autumn 2011 and the invigorating “Say No CPO” campaign, which defeated the club in their attempt to buy our shares, but which then forced the club to do a complete 180 degrees on a re-build at Stamford Bridge.

Just magnificent.

Thank you so much for listening Roman. And thank you so much for taking every care in choosing a team of architects that has produced such a breath taking and iconic design. I think the design, bearing in mind the considerable constraints forced upon it, is wonderful. It will break the mould of football stadia in this country. No copycat stadium for this club. Not everyone is a fan, but I feel that the detractors are focussing on the aerial view. But that misses the point. From street level, I believe that the structure – London brick, rising high, strong, iconic, unique – will be mesmirising. At night time, for an evening game, with the roof under lit, the stadium will be spectacular.

Of course the negative in all of this will be a hiatus at Wembley, in all probability, but compared to the dark days of the “Save The Bridge” campaign in 1986 – buckets outside The Shed End – and the attempted land grab in 2011, we should not be too disheartened. It is up to the club to be creative in its match day pricing during our seasons among the red seats at Wembley in order for us to maintain our level of support.  My real fear is of a mediocre team with sub 30,000 gates for lesser opponents.

No pressure, Antonio.

I rewarded myself for getting the lads to yet another game with a pint of lager. In the bar area below the steps to the stadium, there were the usual faces, and the Chelsea fans were in good voice. Yet more Aquascutum scarves.

A text came through on my phone : Frome Town were beating Redditch United 6-1. It soon became 8-1. My hometown team are currently enjoying their best ever season, a nine-game unbeaten run, and now their biggest win at that level. Good times indeed.

Back in the rarefied atmosphere of the Premier League, the main two results went against us; there were easy wins for Tottenham and then Arsenal.

The team was announced. Conte had opted for solidity with Nemanja Matic alongside N’Golo Kante.

We had seats down low by the corner flag. Just before kick-off – out of nowhere – my mate Tuna from Atlanta suddenly appeared, bouncing down the steps. What a small world.

This would be my first sighting of Leicester City this season; I had missed the 4-2 League Cup win and the 3-0 home victory in the league. On a dark evening, Gary and myself wondered why we were wearing black and not white. Thank goodness the home fans had not been issued with those damned noise-makers.

Not long in to the game, the away fans roared our support of a missing player.

“Diego, Diego, Diego, Diego, Diego,”

I approved.

The home team started on the front foot and Thibaut Courtois was called on to thwart an early attempt on our goal. We reacted superbly well to this early threat. After just six minutes, a cross from Cesar Azpilicueta reached Pedro. He was falling, under pressure, inside the box, but was able to touch the ball to Eden Hazard. The away section held our breath. A goal was on the cards. Eden played it out to Marcos Alonso, who smashed the ball past low Kasper Schmeichel.

Get in.

Wild celebrations, get off Tuna.

Leicester City responded well to be honest. Although Chelsea maintained high levels of possession, pushing the ball around well, the home team caused us a few problems. A ball from out wide often caused us concerns, but on every occasion, the defensive three plus the reliable Courtois were able to clear.

On ten minutes, the stadium lit up with mobile phone spotlights as a nod of support to former player – and now match day host – Alan Birchenall, who suffered a heart-attack on the previous Thursday. Birchenall once played for Chelsea, and one of his ports of call after leaving Leicester City was to manage Trowbridge Town from my neck of the woods back in their hay days, when they battled away in the Conference for a few heady seasons. The ups and downs of non-league football; Trowbridge Town are now many levels below Frome Town.

Mark Albrighton, Danny Drinkwater and that man Jamie Vardy looked dangerous at times. I was able to focus on Vardy’s battle with Gary Cahill; a good old-fashioned drama.

Over on the far side were two loved Italians; Claudio Ranieri and Antonio Conte.

The home fans to our left were engaged in a bit of banter with us. They were clearly enjoying their post-championship European campaign.

“Are you going to Seville?”

While we patiently played through our midfield, with Alonso overlapping well and enjoying a fine game, Leicester played the role of counter-attacker. Vardy caused more anxiety for Courtois. There were few chances for either side, though. A free-kick from Pedro failed to test Schmeichel just before the break.

Six minutes into the second-half, we struck again. A Willian corner from down below us was only partially-cleared and the ball fell invitingly to none other than Marcos Alonso. He swiped at the ball – using his left foot this time – and he kept the ball down well. A slight deflection steered it away from Schmeichel.

Bloody hell, Alonso again, get in.

I caught his joyous run down to our section on film.

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It was all Chelsea now, with everyone playing to their maximum. Kante seemed to win every 50/50. He was inspired. Matic was solid. Alonso and Moses were full of graft and running. Every time that Alonso received the ball, he was urged to “shoot” by the away faithful. What fun.

Gary Cahill had an outrageous overhead kick which surprised us all, and then Alonso had a big moment. The ball ballooned up in the air. At that moment in time, Alonso had two options.

“Do I hit it on the volley? Do I score my first-ever hat-trick since I was in Senorita Ramirez’ class in secondary school, that sunny day in Madrid, I can still see it now, Juan Martinez you did not stand a chance, you horrible little twat, the Chelsea fans will love me, it will make up for Tottenham, not my best game, yes I’ll plant this into the goal and the match ball will be mine. Or do I trap it and lay it off? Am I confident? Too bloody right I am. I’ll hit the fucker. Here I go.”

It whistled narrowly wide.

We were purring. I lost count of the one-touch angled passes played into space by Hazard, Pedro and Willian. It was spectacular stuff.

With twenty minutes to go, we scored a lovely third goal. More dogged perseverance from Moses, a clean and crisp ball from Kante, an impudent back-heel from Pedro. Willian reached the ball just before Schmeichel, and his lofted chip was headed home by Pedro.

3-0, get off Tuna.

More lovely celebrations in front of us.

Pedro had enjoyed another fantastic game for us. One moment sticks in my mind. After the third goal, he flung himself in front of a Leicester defender as he attempted to clear from just a few yards outside their penalty area. It summed up the spirit coursing through the veins of our whole team this season. Top marks.

Conte made some late change; Cesc Fabregas for Eden Hazard, Michy Batshuayi for Willian, Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Pedro.

It stayed at 3-0.

At the end of the game, the entire team walked over to us. The away support were bouncing in praise of the manager and his troops.

The memories of our match at the same stadium last season – that bleak night, Mourinho speaking of “betrayal” and his last-ever game as our manager – seemed from another age, another era.

In 2016/2017, there is a new leader of our team.

“Antonio, Antonio – Antonio, Antonio, Antonio.”

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Tales From The Thick And The Thin

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 15 May 2016.

Even though we had gathered from near and far for the final game of this oddest of seasons to cheer on the boys one last time, to stand and applaud the astounding achievements of Leicester City, and especially their cheerful, funny and charismatic manager Claudio Ranieri, the huge presence of John Terry loomed over every moment. Our captain, dismissed at Sunderland the previous Saturday, would not be playing, but all of the talk – or at least a sizable chunk of it – in the pub beforehand was about his future.

In the words of Joe Strummer, “shall I stay or shall I go?”

As recently as last Wednesday, while we played out an entertaining draw at Anfield in the evening, there had been no move, no gesture from the club about his future. On Thursday, still nothing. Then, in the early afternoon of Friday 13 May, it was announced that the club, leaving it ridiculously late, had handed John Terry a lifeline and the chance of a one-year contract extension. Immediately, I felt joy and triumph, but then as we witnessed John’s tears at the Player Of The Season “do” on Friday, I personally wondered if the contract would ever get signed for a variety of reasons. There was an announcement that he would need to consider the deal. It looked like – guessing from outside – that his role in one final year in royal blue would be greatly changed, greatly diminished. The conjecture continued among friends on the Saturday and Sunday. Nobody was sure. I hated myself for thinking it, but I had a gnawing doubt about him returning.

There was rumour and counter-rumour, talk of brinkmanship, conspiracy theories and heaven-knows what else.

Regardless of John Terry, this would be Guus Hiddink’s last game in charge – unless a manager yet-to-be-named royally messes up and the Dutchman gets a third stint at the helm – and although there have been a few poor performances under his tutelage, Guus has steadied the ship since taking over before Christmas. We have steadily risen throughout his spell in charge. There have been a few memorable highlights. A fantastic win at Arsenal, an iconic draw against Tottenham, plus some notable victories elsewhere. As seasons go, it has been “interesting.”

I loved the US tour – a few days in Charlotte, North Carolina was the highlight – but not the bizarre aftermath when we seemed to self-destruct. Those days of autumn were, honestly, some of the oddest times I have experienced as a Chelsea supporter. Although the relegation seasons of 1974/1975, 1978/1979 and 1987/1988 were much worse, those maddening days under Mourinho, with the entire football world watching and laughing, were excruciating. Yet I loved the away jaunts to Portugal and Israel – Jerusalem was, well, my Jerusalem, the very best of 2015/2016 – and I enjoyed the bonhomie and camaraderie of my extended Chelsea family throughout the campaign. The simple pleasure of a lovely pre-match meal with Glenn and Dave before the Bournemouth home game, a riotous pre-match in Norwich with a cast of thousands, being able to watch the PSG home game alongside my mate JR from Detroit, and two lovely visits to Tyneside were some of the most memorable moments of this crazy season. But there have been others, too many to mention.

On this last day of the season, the fun continued on. In the hotel, it was lovely to see Beth, Tom and Andy from the US once again. It was the first time that my dearest and oldest Chelsea mate Glenn had met Andy since that night in Munich, when we met up after the game at “The Shakespeare” pub near the train station, and then shared his hotel room; a place to crash after the best night of our lives.

In The Goose, I had a good old chat with Paul – once of Knoxville, Tennessee but now living in Los Alamos, New Mexico – and also a brief chat with Austin from Houston, Texas.

Pints were shared.

“Friendship and football.”

There were a few Leicester City fans in The Goose. They were causing no harm and we let them be. Only at the end, after the beers stirred their vocal chords, did they start singing.

“Leicester City – Five Thousand To One.”

I wished a few my heartiest congratulations. I like two of the T-shirts that I saw them wearing :

“les-tah.”

“Dilly Ding Dilly Dong.”

One final walk down to Stamford Bridge.

Ah, I’ll miss this.

Unfortunately, I managed to get my timings all wrong and I sadly missed all of the pre-game pageantry. One last pint of “Peroni” in The Goose, and some elongated “goodbyes” to friends, resulted in me arriving at my seat in the Matthew Harding just as the teams were shaking hands with each other. I had therefore missed the guard of honour that the Chelsea players had bestowed on the new champions of England. A massive John Terry banner was being held aloft in The Shed, and I missed the chance to take a photograph of that too. The banner depicted JT in a typical pose, his right palm beating his heart, something that I noticed him doing around five years ago as a mark of solidarity with us fans. Along with the John Terry chest-pass, it is trademark. If and when the powers that be decide upon a John Terry statue at Stamford Bridge, I would suggest that it will be of his hand-to-heart pose. It certainly strikes a chord.

At times, the ensuing football match seemed nothing more than a side-show.

This would be my fifty-fourth game of the campaign. Although I have seen more games during four other seasons ( a 58, a 57 and two 55s), this would be my highest ever percentage. Fifty-four out of fifty-six.

96.4%

I don’t think that figure will ever be matched by myself again. I only missed the CL games in Kiev and Paris. Happy with that.

With the sun shining down, and the stadium packed to the rafters, but with my head full of thoughts about the craziness of the current season, with the close season looming, I found it difficult to get too involved with the game being played out before me.

Hiddink had chosen a strong team, but I was a little annoyed that Ruben was a substitute.

Courtois – Azpilicueta, Cahill, Ivanovic, Baba – Fabregas, Matic – Pedro, Willian, Hazard – Traore.

We were wearing the new kit for the first time, and I really wasn’t impressed. I don’t mind the Adidas stripes down the sides of the main body of the shirt, but I think the collar looks messy, like someone has pulled it out of shape, and the lions all over the shirt look infantile.

Not for me.

The last Chelsea shirt I bought was in 2005.

I can’t see myself ever buying another one.

It wasn’t a bad game, and Chelsea began well. A nice move involving Willian, Matic and Pedro resulted in the ball just missing the target.

Leicester had their full three thousand, though I was a little dismayed to see many – too many – of their fans wearing blue curly wigs. Shocking.

On twenty-six minutes, there was a hearty round of applause for John Terry, and a sea of “number 26” cards were held aloft in the Shed Upper.

Vardy, the unlikeliest of heroes for Leicester this season, caused a couple of moments of panic in our defence.

Pedro then caused Kasper Schmeichel to scamper on all fours to keep out a loose ball, before Traore was unable to convert as the ball broke again. The Leicester City ‘keeper was certainly the busier of the two. It had been a decent enough opening period.

There hadn’t been a great deal of noise throughout the first-half. The Leicester City fans seemed a little subdued. Maybe it still hadn’t sunk in.

Soon into the second period, Hiddink replaced Pedro with Loftus-Cheek and Traore with Tammy Abraham.  On the hour, debutant Fikayo Tomori replaced Ivanovic, with Dave moving in to central defence alongside Cahill.

The game, which had quietened down with all of the substitutions, suddenly came alive. Eden Hazard, the shadow of the man against Liverpool thus far, raced past his markers and played in Abraham. The ball fell to Matic, who was upended just as he was looking to gather himself to shoot.

Fabregas slotted home.

One-nil to the former champions.

I had always fancied our chances in this game, and I was confident that we would hold on. Leicester tried to retaliate but their possession amounted to nothing. I joined in the applause as Riyad Mahrez was substituted by Ranieri with ten minutes to go. I remembered his goal against us in December on that night of “betrayal.” Sadly, just after, a Danny Drinkwater shot from way out – a blot into the blue – caught us all unawares and the game was tied at 1-1.

I spotted a handful – no more than twenty – Leicester fans get to their feet in the West Upper, but there were no handbags.

The funniest moment of the day? Hearing that Tottenham had lost 5-1 at Newcastle United. How we laughed.

The Chelsea fans – who had been generally quiet all game – were roused to honour Claudio Ranieri as the game continued on.

“One Ranieri, there’s only one Ranieri.”

Tammy Abraham caused us all to inhale quickly as he spun tidily and whipped a curler towards Schmeichel’s goal. It only narrowly missed the far post.

Referee Craig Pawson blew the final whistle of the 2015/2016 season and that was that.

A few fans – in fact more than a few – disappeared as soon as the whistle sounded, but many stayed. We applauded the Leicester team as they walked over to celebrate with their fans. The John Terry flag appeared at the Matthew Harding, draped over both tiers. I stood with Alan and Glenn as the team reappeared. John Terry, of course, lead them out. There was a noticeable gap between him, with his two children, and the rest of the squad. Suddenly it was all about him.

He was wearing a white training top, which made him stand out.

He beat his heart, he clapped us. He walked down to the MH and shook hands with a few fans, and handed out a shirt or two. There were calls of his name. He seemed to be very touched. There was still a gap, a respectful space, between John Terry and the rest of the players.

The sun shone down.

Glenn sped off for a burger from his favourite burger girl at “Chubby’s Grill.”

“See you back at the car.”

I shook Alan’s hand.

“Have a good summer. See you in Vienna.”

The players walked down to The Shed End. I had decided to stay on, to watch the last few moments of this ridiculous season. Neil Barnett then, unexpectedly I thought, announced that John Terry wanted to say a few words. I remembered JT’s rousing speech after the last game of the season against Blackburn Rovers before Munich in 2012. That was good, but this one was one for the ages.

He praised Claudio Ranieri and Leicester City for their deserved title win.

“I’m delighted Leicester have won it and I’m just glad Tottenham haven’t.”

He thanked us for our support in such a difficult season.

In many respects, at this stage this seemed like a “goodbye speech.”

He thanked us for sticking with us “frew the fick and the fin.”

“We’ll be back next year and we’ll be fighting for the title.”

This was music to my ears, the use of “we” and the notion that he would be with us.

With a new manager, new to the English game, having JT as a “bridge” between the old and new regimes would be priceless.

He thanked us for our support in an emotional few weeks.

His voice croaking now.

Oh boy.

I felt the emotion.

I looked up at the TV screen and he was holding back some tears.

He thanked Guus Hiddink, almost the forgotten man in all of this, and much applause from the fans.

“A great man.”

He praised the first team staff.

The crowd responded : “John Terry, we want you to stay.”

He then – his voice croaking a little more and I turned to one side, almost croaking too – said that the club and him wanted the same thing.

“I wanna stay. The club know that. The fans know that.”

There were words for the young boys, for Tammy, for Ruben, and then a few more words of thanks.

“Blue Is The Colour” began booming.

I watched, now confused beyond belief, wondering if John Terry would be playing for us again or not. For all of the positive words, the cynical me still wasn’t sure. I walked to an exit, but stood mesmerized, unable to leave Stamford Bridge, as I watched the man with the white training jersey shake hands with a few last well-wishers and then disappear down the tunnel.

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Tales From A Theatre Of Hate

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2016.

Hate. It’s a strong word, isn’t it?

I would like to think that I try not to use it too often in my day to day life. I’d like to think that I manage to scrabble around and use alternatives if I can. It’s not a nice word. I would imagine that at some time or another, especially as children, either in the presence of parents or schoolteachers, we were all scolded for using the word “hate” at one time or another.

“Please don’t use that word.”

It’s ugly, but yet overused.

It seems to be especially overused within sport, and football, in particular. Rangers hate Celtic, City hate Rovers, Swansea hate Cardiff, Liverpool hate United, Villa hate Blues, Pompey hate Saints, Millwall hate everyone. Further afield, Toro hate Juve, Real hate Barca, PSG hate Marseilles and River Plate hate Boca Juniors.

Of course it is not a recent thing. Back in 1981, I remember buying an “I Hate West Ham” badge outside Stamford Bridge – I would imagine that my parents were not too impressed – and I can remember the glee of learning a previously unheard-of song aimed at Leeds United to the tune of “The Dam Busters” on The Benches in 1984, which involved that word. For the past twenty years we have been urged to stand up if we hate Tottenham.

Ah, Tottenham.

Of all the clubs that we meet on a regular basis, it seems that a sizeable number of Chelsea supporters have reserved an extra special portion of hate for that one club above all others. I am no different; I still rank them as the team and club that I dislike the most. There, I didn’t say it.

Dislike? Oh, I dislike them intently.

For the outsider, with maybe a distanced and more objective view, perhaps this loathing is seen as surprising. Chelsea Football Club has, after all, undergone such a rich period of dominance over Tottenham since the late ‘eighties, that it might be argued that our disdain for them needs to subside, to wane, to fall.

Prior to the game with Tottenham on Monday 2 May 2016, Chelsea had not lost to them at Stamford Bridge in the league since February 1990.

Twenty-five games unbeaten.

A quarter of a century of dominance.

“Dad, what was it like the last time Spurs won at Chelsea?”

“I don’t know son. Ask your grandfather.”

There are other gems too.

Since losing 1-0 at White Hart Lane in 1987, Chelsea remained unbeaten against Tottenham in all games, all venues, all competitions, until a loss at their stadium in the League Cup in 2002.

That’s over fifteen years of dominance; I think it topped out at around thirty-two games all told.

From 1987 to 2006, we were unbeaten in the league at White Hart Lane.

Nineteen years.

We beat them 4-1 at White Hart Lane in the league in 1989.

We beat them 6-1 at White Hart Lane in the league in 1997.

We beat them 5-1 at Wembley in 2012.

We single-handedly robbed them of a Champions League place in 2012.

We beat them 2-0 at Wembley in 2015.

Dominance ain’t the word for it.

(For a matter of balance, I should mention two painful Tottenham triumphs that simply do nothing more than re-emphasise our ascendency; apart from that 5-1 loss in the League Cup in 2002, there was the 2-1 League Cup Final defeat in 2008 and the 5-3 loss at their place on New Year’s Day 2015. There have been recent losses too but those stand out. Big deal, right?)

In fact – since I am enjoying this so much – I should further elaborate on the Stamford Bridge record since 1990; it had actually reached twenty-eight games, since there were two draws in each of the domestic cups and one win in the League Cup too.

So : twenty-eight games unbeaten in all games against Tottenham at Stamford Bridge.

On the evening of Monday 2 May, we were praying for the run to stretch to game twenty-nine.

On any other normal evening of a Chelsea vs. Tottenham game, the narrative would end right there. This year – this crazy season – there were other weightier concerns.

If we were to avoid defeat to Tottenham, then Leicester City would become champions of England, since Tottenham – of all teams – needed all three points to stay in contention.

It’s almost too difficult for me to cram every subplot in, but there were stories swirling around this match that almost defy description.

Leicester City, managed by former Chelsea manager Claudio Ranieri, whose 2-1 victory at the King Power Stadium in December proved to be Jose Mourinho’s last game for Chelsea.

Claudio Ranieri, with whom the Chelsea crowd fell in love from 2000 to 2004, but who was unceremoniously replaced by Jose Mourinho after Roman Abramovich’s first season as owner of the club.

A night of ecstasy and perhaps a degree of revenge for Claudio?

Tottenham Hotspur, enjoying a fine season – I hate writing that for sure – with a title bid – and that – with just three games left to play; still in the hunt and looking for their first win at The Bridge since the days of Paul Gascoigne, James T-shirts, baggy jeans and baggier hairstyles.

Chelsea, trying to salvage a little lost pride in a catastrophe of a season, with one huge effort.

“They must not win.”

At Bournemouth, we pleaded with the players to beat Tottenham.

In reality, most of us would be grateful for a draw.

On the drive up in the car, we all agreed.

“A draw. I’d take a 0-0 now.”

We reached the pub at around 5pm, and for the first time for ages and ages, there were a few policemen outside. Once we were inside, and once we had met up with all the usual suspects, we wanted to know what was occurring. Where were Tottenham? Had they turned up en masse? Were they drinking at Earl’s Court? Were they staying there, at arm’s length? It was soon apparent, as I scanned the surprisingly quiet pub, that the evening’s game had enticed a few faces of Chelsea’s older hooligan element out. There was no hint of trouble though. Maybe they were a peace-keeping force, rather than aggressors, protecting a few pubs which might have been under risk of attack. Whatever, it was quiet. If there were nerves concerning the game, nobody was showing signs of it. I chatted with Kathryn and Tim, visiting from Virginia, while we half-heartedly glanced at the Burnley game on the TV screen. I first met Kathryn and Tim on the US Tour in 2012, and they were besides themselves with joy at the thought of witnessing a proper London derby.

“Just think of the millions, no billions, of people who will be watching this game around the world, and we will be lucky enough to be inside.”

Burnley won, and were up. I was pleased. I will be visiting Turf Moor, under happier circumstances than three weeks ago, once again next season.

The team news came through; the headline was that John Terry was in.

Superb.

The pub got busier and busier and then, after 7pm, fans began to leave to head off to the stadium. There were plenty of laughs as we strode down the North End Road, with a police car’s siren screaming in the distance.

“By the time you see me next, Kathryn” said Parky “I will have had a hip operation and I’ll be fighting fit.”

“I heard you’re getting a wooden leg fitted, Parky” someone said.

“Yeah, like his wallet” I replied.

Inside the stadium, there was a great sense of occasion. It is probably a cliché, but it certainly felt like a European night.

A Liverpool, a Barcelona, a Monaco, an Atletico Madrid.

Three thousand Spurs fans were in residence in the far corner. There was one poxy flag, presumably aimed at Arsenal.

“Tottenham Hotspur.

1 Cup First.

1 League First.

1 Double First.

1 Euro Trophy First.

1 Team From North London.”

It was a mild night and a perfect night for football. The nerves were starting to bite now, though. Although the addition of John Terry to our team – his first game since West Ham I believe – a few other changes caused a raised eyebrow.

Asmir Begovic in. Thibaut has his Charles de Gaulle impersonation classes on Mondays.

Gary Cahill in. Alongside JT. The old one-two. Need to watch Kane.

Dave and Brana. Solid.

Mikel and Matic. A defensive shield.

No Eden Hazard. Why? Instead a three of Willian, Fabregas and Pedro.

Diego. Phew.

The stage was set. Hardly an empty seat anywhere.

The world was watching.

They were watching in Bangkok, in Calcutta, in Los Angeles, in Milan, in Oslo, in Glasgow.

They were also, most certainly, watching in Barrow Upon Soar, Loughborough, Melton Mowbray, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Hinckley, Coalville, Market Harborough.

And Leicester.

The noise was fantastic. Spurs were leading with their dirge-like “Oh….when…the…Spurs” and we were singing songs about Willian, air flights, phone calls, John Terry, and doubles.

Spurs began better, but we then had a little spell where we looked to have the upper hand. Such is the way of football these days, with teams likely to have five and ten minute segments of possession, rather than the midfield stalemate with tackle after tackle, which epitomised the football of my youth, with goal scoring chances often the result of punts up field. The art of football these days is generally more controlled, more clinical, more restrained.

It’s all about making that possession count.

Soon into the game, and after the opposition began getting an upper hand, Kyle Walker scythed down Pedro, but Mark Clattenburg waved play on. Azpilicueta raced forward, but a Fabregas shot was wide. Thankfully, Clattenburg went back to book Walker, who was roundly booed the rest of the half. This was turning into a feisty game. Chances were at a premium. Tottenham now appeared to be in control. Sadly, on thirty-five minutes, our fears materialised. Pedro, tapping away at the ball, trying his best to keep possession, was roughly dispossessed – unlawfully in Alan and my eyes – and the ball was worked forward towards that mane Kane. One touch took him past Begovic, but from my seat, I thought that our ‘keeper had managed to claw it away. Alas not. Kane – he was always my biggest fear – side-stepped Begovic and slotted the ball home.

Chelsea 0 Tottenham 1.

Now it wasn’t about Leicester City, it was about us.

Things got worse.

Only a block by Gary Cahill denied Spurs a second goal. Around me, our noise fell away.

Just before the break, Ivanovic, playing high, lost possession and Eriksen fed in Son. This was ominous. We watched, silently, as the Spurs player swept the ball in. In immediate view, the Spurs fans were sent into a frenzy.

Hate.

Chelsea 0 Tottenham 2.

At half-time, I witnessed some of the longest faces that I have seen at football for some time.

No words.

As I made my way back to my seat at the start of the second period, it took me a few moments to realise that Eden Hazard had replaced Pedro. Unlucky, I thought, that. Pedro had offered a little extra zip in the first-half.

Both Alan and myself would have taken off the poor Matic, moved Fabregas back, and played Pedro, Willian and Hazard together.

Still, what do I know?

I’m serious.

Eden breathed life into our play with his very first shimmy and gallop forward – oh, how we have missed you – and the crowd, so low at the break, reacted spectacularly.

“Just one goal, Al.”

The Tottenham players continued to commit their very own version of the seven deadly sins on our players and the cautions mounted up. This added to our noise and our passion. This added to the heat. And it added to the hate. With every passing minute, the temperature inside Stamford Bridge rose. I found myself standing for most of the second-half, something that I haven’t done at home for ages.

Nerves? You bet.

The noise was bellowing around Stamford Bridge.

Just before the hour mark, Willian played in a deep corner. For once, Tottenham could not clear. I clicked my camera just before Gary Cahill swiped at the ball, and we were lost in ecstasy as we saw the back of the net crumple on impact.

Screams, shouts, wildness.

Chelsea 1 Tottenham 2.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBEAUTY.

Now, the noise really increased. I am sure that I am not exaggerating by saying that it matched anything I have ever heard at Chelsea in over forty years. I cannot remember a noisier half of football, or a more sustained barrage of noise. People talk of Bruges at home in 1995, and that was loud.

But this was deafening.

“CAREFREE.”

I became mesmerised by the clock.

“Thirty minutes to go yet.”

A few chances to us. It felt odd to see us attacking The Shed in the second-half. Kathryn and Tim, not too far from Parky, in The Shed, were surely lapping this up.

More chances.

Hazard like a slippery little eel, twisting and turning, now up for the fight.

“Fifteen minutes to go.”

Oscar replaced Matic. I approved, but we needed the little Brazilian to show some fight, some mettle. He did not let us down.

The noise continued.

“Ten minutes to go.”

We still dominated. What a recovery.

“Death or glory, Chelsea – get into the bastards.”

I thought back to that Iniesta goal in 2009. It tied the game at 1-1, and a similar strike – out of nowhere – would do the same, but the result would be just as emphatic.

The clock was ticking…

Another trademark twist and turn from Hazard – how does he spin so instantly? – drew breaths of amazement. He exchanged passes with Diego Costa, who had grown with the game, and met the return pass instantly.

We watched, our mouths open, our eyes wide, as the ball arced instantly past Loris and into the net.

BOOM.

Chelsea 2 Tottenham 2.

I grabbed hold of my glasses, painfully aware that I did not want another Munich 2012 moment, but then screamed, my arms wide, looking high into the night. I turned and exchanged screams with the lads behind me. A chest bump and then an embrace with Alan.

The place was bumping.

Oh my.

There had been seven minutes left before Hazard struck. Not exactly Iniesta territory, but not far away.

The last seven minutes of normal time, and the last six minutes of extra time are a blur. It is hardly surprising. Tottenham looked crestfallen. Their cock had fallen off their ball. The noise roared around The Bridge. For the last few minutes, my eyes on the game and then on my phone, I prepared a message to send out at the final whistle.

We had one last song for our foes, screamed with such venom.

“Two-nil, and you fucked it up.”

More Tottenham bookings followed. With each one, I could hardly believe that a new player had been booked. How Tottenham did not have a player sent off is a fucking mystery.

At 9.55pm, Mark Clattenburg whistled the end of the game and I pressed “post” on Facebook.

“Congratulations Leicester City. Congratulations Claudio. Tottenham Always The Bridesmaid. Twenty-Six Years. See You All At Sunderland On Saturday.”

It is easy to get complacent about football, and to take for granted what people like me get to witness on a yearly, monthly or – if we are lucky – a weekly basis, but at the end of this particular game of football involving two bitter rivals, sometimes it is just enough to stand back, exhausted, breathless, bewildered, and be grateful that football can send us into such states of joy and ecstasy.

Football. Bloody fucking hell.

The smiles were wide as we said our goodbyes.

Exiting the stairs, three of us tried to squeeze in the syllables of Claudio Ranieri into a song in honour of Leicester City’s magnificent achievement. Out into the night, the joy was palpable. It seemed like a win. It seemed – even – better than last season’s League Cup Final win against the same team.

Oh boy.

In years to come, this game will be remembered as the iconic moment of this most ridiculous of seasons.

2015/2016 : what a crazy bloody hateful mess.

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