Tales From The Blue Corner And The Red Corner

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 11 November 2012.

It was early morning on Remembrance Sunday.

Outside, the fields surrounding my Somerset village were frosted white. The sky was pure blue, devoid of clouds. Although this was a day of football, this was also a day of solemn contemplation and appreciation. Later in the morning, there would be a church service at the parish church of St. Andrew’s to commemorate those who had died while serving in the armed forces. Before the day gathered speed, I decided that I’d like to have my own little moment of quiet. I made my way down to the centre of the village and took a few photographs in and around the village church. Poppies bordered the pathway leading into the churchyard. The sun shone brightly. The village was barely awake.

Towards the eastern edge of the churchyard, there was one gravestone which I needed to capture on film. Siegfried Sassoon, one of England’s famous war poets – along with Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke – spent much of his life in my home village. It was his wish to be buried underneath the limestone spire of Mells church, alongside the avenue of yew trees, facing forever east into the Somerset countryside. As I approached his grave, I noticed the shadow from another grave – a cross – slanting across the plain tombstone. There was a ruby red bouquet and a single red poppy.

I wandered down to the village war memorial and took several more photographs. The memorial was designed by Edwin Lutyens, the famous British architect who was also responsible for London’s Cenotaph. In a quiet moment, I stood in the quiet Somerset morning. The names of the brave young men from the village who lost their lives in the two world wars were etched on Somerset stone. It was time for silence.

A Whispered Tale.

I’d heard fool-heroes brag of where they’d been,
With stories of the glories that they’d seen.
But you, good simple soldier, seasoned well
In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell,
Who dodge remembered ‘crumps’ with wry grimace,
Endured experience in your queer, kind face,
Fatigues and vigils haunting nerve-strained eyes,
And both your brothers killed to make you wise;
You had no babbling phrases; what you said
Was like a message from the maimed and dead.
But memory brought the voice I knew, whose note
Was muted when they shot you in the throat;
And still you whisper of the war, and find
Sour jokes for all those horrors left behind.

Siegfried Sassoon.

My friend Francis, who I first met on my inaugural day at Frome College in September 1978, collected me at just after 9am. Parky joined us en route. The banter soon started flying around. Francis is a Liverpool fan and, in some respects, is my lucky charm. He has attended around seven Chelsea vs. Liverpool games with me – including the momentous Champions League semi-final from 2008 – and was yet to see his team victorious.

The very first of these was way back in May 1991, when we travelled up by train from Frome, along with two of my former workmates Dave and Matthew. Liverpool, under Graeme Souness, were putting in a very late challenge to retain their title, but a strong Chelsea performance that day gave us a deserved 4-2 win. Our team included players such as Dave Beasant, Jason Cundy, Andy Townsend, Dennis Wise, Alan Dickens, Kerry Dixon and Gordon Durie. The four of us watched from high up in the old West Stand. It was a great game, our last home match of the season. I remember that I had to defend Francis and Matthew, who was also a Liverpool fan, from abuse from Chelsea fellow fans after they celebrated a little too noisily. Two goals from King Kerry gave us the win. Arsenal went on to win the League Championship. Liverpool, of course, is still waiting for their first title since 1990. It’s hard to fathom that the team which so dominated the football scene in my childhood (championships in 1973, 1976, 1977, 1979, 1980, 1982, 1983, 1984, 1986, 1988 and 1990) are still waiting. Although Manchester United suffered twenty-six years of title-drought from 1967 to 1993, their success in the ‘sixties was not as dominant as Liverpool in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties. The comparison is valid, in terms of yearning, though Liverpool’s drought seems more dramatic somehow. I think that league success for Liverpool is still some time away.

Francis is off to the US next summer with his family. They are visiting Orlando, Miami and New York. We have been chatting about places to see, travel tips and possible itineraries for ages. For once it will be me living vicariously through his travel experiences. He has always been supremely interested in my trips to the US, to NYC especially, and I can’t wait to hear of his time across the Atlantic next August. We’ve spoken about baseball; rather annoyingly, the only Yankee game taking place is on the evening of his arrival from Miami, only hours after touching down at La Guardia. We think he’ll settle for a Mets game instead.

At 11am, we turned the radio on in order to hear the chimes from Westminster to signal the two minute’s silence at The Cenotaph.

We were parked up in good time and dived into the café for a filling breakfast. Parky darted into The Goose, but Francis and I headed down to The Bridge. I pointed out a few of the changes to the landscape since Francis’ last visit. Walking along Vanston Place, we passed a wine merchants’ and an upmarket restaurant. Often after midweek games, these two establishments are often full of late night carousers. I mentioned to Francis that there is often a late-night wine-tasting session taking place in the former. It’s typical Hammersmith and Fulham, typical Kensington and Chelsea, typical London. I don’t suppose that there are similar activities at 10pm near stadia in Wigan, Sunderland or Swansea.

I collected my Juventus ticket – fantastic to get my hands on it – and we walked around to the main forecourt, past the old Shed wall; the last remaining structure, apart from the East stand, from that game in 1991. My friend Lynda, from Pennsylvania, had arranged to meet us. She introduced us to Tee, her significant other, and we quickly popped up to the hotel foyer to meet Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti. I first met Lynda in The Goose on a NYB trip two seasons ago. Lynda was in the Chelsea team against PSG at Chelsea Piers in New York in July. It was great to see her again. The two of them had just flown in and were off to the delights of Madrid during the week. Tee, once he had spotted Ron Harris, needed a little moment to compose himself. Of course, Ron is the Chelsea equivalent of Manchester United’s Bobby Charlton, Bayern Munich’s Franz Beckenbauer, Baltimore Orioles’ Cal Ripken, San Francisco 49ers’ Joe Montana. What a treat for him to meet Chelsea’s two leading appearance makers on his first trip to Chelsea, his first trip to England. It would be like me informally chatting to Yogi Berra and Whitey Ford on my first ever visit to Yankee Stadium.

Wow. No wonder he was dizzy.

We took some photos. Francis quizzed Tee about visiting America while Lynda and I caught up on a few things. Thankfully, Sandy didn’t cause too much hardship to her house and home. I also bumped into Gary from LA, an ex-pat who I first met on the US tour in 2007.

For the next two hours, we spent an enjoyable time in two Chelsea pubs; “The Imperial” on the Kings Road, the former watering hole of Matthew Harding, and “The Pelican” on Waterford Road. I was able, at long bloody last, to chill out and enjoy some pints, even though they were served in poxy plastic glasses. Tee, who is a professional footballer with the Dayton Dutch Lions, was having a great time. He has been a Chelsea fan since 1998 and his personal favourite was Michael Essien. He was dismayed when he was loaned out to Real Madrid; imagine Tee’s pleasure, then, when he realised that he is able to see Ess play in Madrid next weekend. Free tickets too, but that’s another story. It was lovely for Francis and I to spend time with our guests from the US, to experience their enthusiasm for the game at first hand, to join in their fun. It’s what football is all about. On leaving “The Pelican,” all four of us almost got knocked over by a crowd of several hundred in-line skaters, streaming through the streets of Fulham, ghetto-blasters roaring. I repeat my comment about stadia in Wigan, Sunderland or Swansea.

I bought a programme and we said our goodbyes to Lynda and Tee, who would be watching from the south-west corner of The Shed Lower, only a few yards away from Lord Parky. I told Lynda to keep an eye out for his flailing crutches should we score. This part of the stadium seems to be the de facto home for all CFC supporters’ group tickets these days.

Inside the stadium, all of the usual banners had been removed from behind both goals and, in their place, two banners of remembrance stood alone, just above the goalmouths. This was a great touch by Chelsea. We took our seats – Francis to my left, Alan to my right – and ran through the teams. It would be a big day for the two young full-backs, Ryan Bertrand and Cesar Azpilicueta. Torres was starting of course, and we lived in hope. We wanted him to constantly attack the aging Carragher. Despite the F.A. Cup Final win over Liverpool in May, there is no doubt that they have been a thorn in our side of late. Their last three visits to Stamford Bridge all resulted in away wins. It was time for revenge, of sorts. We just don’t like Liverpool, do we?

This game would be my fifty-ninth game involving the two teams (thirty-seven games at Stamford Bridge, eighteen times at Anfield, two at Cardiff, one at Old Trafford and one at Wembley). What is that old saying about familiarity and contempt? I’ve seen Chelsea play Liverpool more times than any other team. Every fifteen games, around come Liverpool again.

Both teams gave a guard of honour to members of the serving armed forces and, of course, to the Chelsea pensioners, marching so proudly in their bright scarlet coats and tricorn hats.

There was a near perfect silence in honour of the fallen before the kick-off. The only sound, thankfully not particularly audible, was from down below in the area underneath the Matthew Harding where some shameless home fans were singing about “poor little scousers.” I hoped that the noise was not discernible on the live TV feed.

After the two magnificent matches against Manchester United and Shakhtar Donetsk, we all wondered what the game would have in store for us. Tom looked as though he couldn’t take another 94 minutes of drama.

Despite the two clubs’ recent intense rivalry, I thought that the atmosphere wasn’t great at all. Maybe we had been “all yelled out” against Shakhtar. The Liverpool fans began noisily but soon faded. They held up a flag saying “Football Without Fans Is Nothing” before the game – nice sentiment, not sure who it was aimed at. They also had a flag which stated the oft-cited “Against Modern Football.” I first saw Ipswich Town fans with this banner at Stamford Bridge on their visit in 2009. Again, I understand the sentiment. For all of my enjoyment in following the club and for all of the magical moments I have witnessed, the sport of football can still be a bloody train wreck.

Obscene wages, aloof players, malevolent owners, loathsome agents, numpty fans, the cult of celebrity and lurid tabloid headlines, the WAGs, the hangers-on, the gutter press, the cost of tickets. It goes on.

Maybe one day even I will stop in my tracks and cry “enough is enough.”

Liverpool enjoyed the bulk of possession in the first-half, but rarely troubled Petr Cech. A shot from Oscar, so strong of late, was our only real threat on the Liverpool in the first twenty minutes. It sailed high of the Shed End goal. Fernando Torres began the game brightly, though, skipping away from his markers on two occasions, and we hoped that his enthusiasm wouldn’t wane.

A great corner from Juan Mata, with Lynda and Tee looking on, was whipped in and John Terry, returning from his four game ban, rose unhindered and the ball flew into the net. It was a dramatic blow and The Bridge erupted with noise. Our captain sprinted down to the south-west corner and I snapped away like a fool, catching the players behind one of the three large flags which are waved each time a Chelsea goal is scored. In several photos, Tee can be seen grinning maniacally.

Fantastic stuff.

Chelsea goal scorers always seem to celebrate by running down to the three “Chelsea” corners of the pitch at Stamford Bridge. Luckily for me, this affords great photo opportunities. I can’t think of many other teams that similarly do this. Long may it continue.

The headed goal from JT reminded me of a similar goal on Remembrance Sunday in 2009 when we defeated Manchester United 1-0. A similar result would be just fine. In truth, chances were at a premium for both teams. Liverpool laboured away without much threat. A Torres strike was aimed at Brad Jones in the away goal and Hazard shot wide. Sadly, John Terry fell awkwardly in his own half and I could see immediately that our captain was in tremendous pain. We watched on as players, then our medical team, surrounded him. He was sadly stretchered off and Alan wondered if we would see him again this season.

In the closing moments of the first period, Juan Mata broke through and shot wildly over when we all wanted him to take an extra touch and possibly waltz around Jones.

At the break, Ron Harris was on the pitch with Neil Barnett. I always remember a story Ron told about a game against Liverpool in March 1979. He had been told that he would not be playing, so he went out on the Friday night and, quite unlike him, had got rather drunk on Irish coffee (of all things). On the day of the game, the Chelsea manager Danny Blanchflower had a change of heart and Chopper was playing. Although we were a very poor team that season, we drew 0-0 with the European Champions and Ron was named Man of the Match. It is not known if he repeated that pre-match ritual in later games. As an aside, Ron often played in a midfield role during that season and – even more bizarrely – often wore the number nine shirt.

Soon into the second-half Francis and I were treated to another classic comment from Alan –

“I saw that game the other night. Liverpool versus Anzi Machalach…Anzi Mallacaz…Anzi Makhachkala …I’d never heard of them before. Turns out they’re a team from Merseyside.”

Even Francis enjoyed that one. Down below us, we could hardly believe our eyes when Howard Webb only gave Glenn Johnson a yellow for seemingly elbowing Oscar in the face. The Brazilian was visibly upset and the supporters around me wailed in protest. From the free-kick, Jones saved from Torres.

Thankfully, the game was devoid of the “Murderers” and the “You Killed Your Own Fans” chants. Long may it continue. Maybe the solemnity of the pre-game silence negated this. Either way, the two chants were notable absentees.

Ryan Bertrand was having a fine game attacking down the left flank at every opportunity. It has been an aspect of his game that I wished that he could improve. From a whipped-in cross, Torres just failed to connect. In this period of our ascendency, the Liverpool fans were woefully quiet. Jon Obi Mikel was the next player to spurn an opportunity after Gerrard fouled Oscar and Mata centered.

On seventy-two minutes, Liverpool stunned us all by equalising. Carragher rose to head a corner across the goal. Luiz Suarez, the master irritant, was on hand to head the ball in from underneath the cross bar. It was his turn now to celebrate over in the corner. The visitors now fancied their chances after being poor for over an hour. We changed things and brought on Victor Moses to run at the Liverpool defence but, in truth, he saw little of the ball. Liverpool grew stronger and two saves from Petr Cech denied them an unlikely winner.

Although the game ended 1-1, it felt like a defeat.

Francis was happy. I clearly wasn’t.

Tellingly, on the way home, while we were listening to some soothing music from Paul Weller in some slow-moving traffic, Francis said, possibly in jest –

“You’re too spoiled at Chelsea, Chris.”

It made me think. I’d hope that I’d never feel spoilt. I’m sure I wasn’t. It was just a big disappointment to give up three points and, because of it, be shunted down to third place.

For the record, the fifty-nine games against Liverpool now reads –

Won 24
Drew 14
Lost 21

Tales From A Sobering Week

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea : 15 September 2012.

At last. At long last another Chelsea game. A whole three weeks had passed since I attended our fine win over Newcastle United. Thankfully, I didn’t venture to the south of France for the Super Cup game. Yes, three whole weeks. Twenty-one days. It felt like an extra close-season. And I hated every minute of it.

It was a sunny morning in deepest Somerset as I slotted my coffee mug into the drink holder alongside my car seat. I flicked the ignition on; I was back on the treadmill. Japan’s “Quiet Life” reverberated through the speakers and I was on my way.

I texted the briefest of messages to Alan in London.

“Jack Qprouac.”

I was on the road once more.

With no detour north to collect Lord Porkinson on this occasion, I was soon driving through Frome, past Warminster and then up and over Salisbury Plain. It was soon clear that it was going to be a cracking day. The sun was up, the sky was blue, it’s beautiful and so are you. On the long straight before I dipped into the miniscule village of Chitterne, the view ahead made me smile. Hay bales were stacked in the fields to my left and right. It was a perfect scene of rural England. It was a perfect day for football.

And then it came back into my mind once again.

Hillsborough.

I’m sure that there were many fans that set off for Sheffield on that sunny day in 1989 that had a similar outlook; a sunny day and a perfect day for football.

My mind had been full of thoughts about Hillsborough since the news of the enquiry into the disaster came through on Wednesday. Without much prompting, my original thoughts on those events came rocketing back. And I recoiled at the memories.

The recollections from that day in April 1989 are still surprisingly clear. On the previous Saturday, I had travelled by train to see our enjoyable 3-2 win at West Brom. As I was saving hard for my first-ever trip to North America throughout the 1988-1989 season, I had decided to save some money and not travel to Filbert Street for our game with Leicester City. I remember that it was the day that we could have been promoted and many Chelsea travelled to the game.

Instead, I was at home. I remember I was sat at the table, pen in hand, attempting to put further meat on the bones of my skeletal planning of my US trip. I had a few brochures strewn over the table and the radio was on. The commentary game on BBC Radio Two was from Hillsborough and there had already been mention of a little crowd disturbance. This surprised me; there was no “previous” between the two teams as far as I was aware. If anything, there was a general easing off from the, dare I say it, hooligan hay days of the early ‘eighties. We had the second summer of love in the UK in 1988 and there was a tendency for hooligans to start a slow drift away from decaying football terraces and into nightclubs, warehouses and fields as a drug called ecstasy took hold.

After just six minutes, the game was stopped and I was bemused.

“Why?”

I couldn’t work out why there was any trouble in Sheffield.

As news of the events unravelled, I soon realised that the BBC would have TV cameras at the game. I turned the radio off. I turned the TV on. Within a few moments of watching the scenes of confusion at the Leppings Lane end of the stadium, the news came through that several Liverpool supporters had died.

I was in shock. I can solemnly say that the news chilled me to the core.

The travel brochures were brushed aside as I watched with a mixture of sadness, horror and disbelief as the afternoon turned into a scene of devastation.

The rest of the day is a blur. Chelsea lost 2-0 at Leicester and it didn’t matter. Pat Nevin scored for Everton in the other semi-final and it didn’t matter.

To be honest, not much mattered that evening.

Football wore a black armband the following few weeks; the events cast a deep shadow over us all.

Our next game was on the following Saturday and the fates contrived for a massive game at Stamford Bridge; Chelsea vs. Leeds United. Not only a game against our old rivals from West Yorkshire, but the game which could see us promoted. I met up with three college mates – Ian, Bob and Trev. Ian was a Rotherham fan, but Bob and Ian were Leeds. We had a few pre-match pints in The Black Bull alongside my Chelsea mates Alan and Paul. We spoke in earnest about Hillsborough. By then, the death toll was a massive ninety-five (*it became 96 in 1993 when Tony Bland’s life support machine was turned off. Bland was the only victim with whom I had a link. He worked for the same company that I did between 1991 and 1998 ). The over-riding feeling throughout the talk was that “it could have been us.” I had watched Chelsea from the Leppings Lane enclosure in 1985. We had all experienced moments on terraces where the crush had been slightly scary. From what I remember, there was a muted atmosphere in and around the stadium. The attendance was only 30,000; under normal circumstances, I would have expected more. There was a well observed minute’s silence before the game. A John Bumstead goal gave us a 1-0 win, but it was a weird day. There wasn’t the euphoria of the 5-0 win over Leeds which got us promoted in 1984. This was a far different feeling.

After the game, Bob, Trev, Ian and I had a few pints at Earls Court and then in central London. We ended up in one of my favourite boozers – “The Round Table” near Covent Garden. Talk was still dominated by Hillsborough. I remember I said to Bob “in a way, we’re all responsible” and he wanted me to explain myself.

Every violent song, every violent gesture helped stir the atmosphere at games and the language of hate was never far away in those days. And although I had never been in involved in football violence, I – like many – enjoyed the banter and badinage that went with football hooliganism in that era. It was part of the scene, part of the culture, part of football.

There had even been moments when I had shouted “go on Chelsea” as it kicked off at a game. We had all been ambivalent to it. But Hillsborough was an eye-opener for me and a few of us. It made me question myself and the part I had played, however miniscule, in the erecting of those fences at Hillsborough which had, ultimately, caused the death of ninety-six football fans.

And it really could have been me. If Hillsborough hadn’t happened in 1989, it may have happened at Highbury in 1990, Old Trafford in 1991 or Stamford Bridge in 1992. I can well remember a game at Chelsea in 1988. We played Charlton Athletic in a real relegation dogfight. My parents arrived late and, intending to get seat tickets, were forced to sit on a part of the crumbling Shed terrace which had been sectioned off as unsafe under the Safety of Sports Grounds Act. Thankfully, only around three hundred were sat on this terrace, but the point is that Chelsea Football Club broke all the rules about crowd safety that day. They were lucky nobody was hurt. They were also lucky that nobody was hurt when the same thing happened against Middlesbrough a few weeks later. My photos from that day show the central part of The Shed heavily over-populated to the point of danger.

Ring any bells?

Big John, who sits near me at HQ, posted on Facebook on Thursday about Hillsborough. He mentioned that in that game against Leeds United in 1989, the spectators raised £15,000 for the Hillsborough disaster fund. In today’s climate, today’s money, today’s 41,000 full house, that equates to around £75,000.

I think this evidence illustrates that most football fans’ view back in 1989 was of sadness and solidarity with the Liverpool fans.

Even Chelsea.

Since then, there is no doubt that perceptions have changed, presumably triggered by our on-going unhealthy spat with Liverpool Football Club. Blame Luis Garcia, blame “that” song about history. However, my own view – though not widely expressed – has always been that the emergency services were to blame for the deaths of the ninety six in 1989. I certainly never believed those scurrilous lies which were peddled by The Sun newspaper, but which became “fact” as the years passed, about fans stealing from the dead and urinating on the police.

And I abhorred my fellow fans’ chant about “killing your own fans.”

I never joined in. It always felt so wrong.

For the reasons mentioned, I’m not a fan of the “Chelsea – hooligans” chant either.

There is, however, one black mark against Liverpool Football Club. It was always seen as the “done thing” amongst their support (and more so than any other team’s fan base) to try to “jib in” – or find a way to get in without paying, sometimes by the most ingenious ways – and this is one part of the Hillsborough tragedy that they have been shamefully quiet about.

Not even I could have expected such an exoneration of the Liverpool fans, not even I could have expected the scale of the cover-up by the emergency services and the government alike. I found it quite incomprehensible that Hillsborough, seen at the time to be one of the best stadia in the country, did not have a valid safety certificate at the time of the game on 15 April 1989. For this, the Football Association and Sheffield Wednesday should be held accountable.

I learned this week that each of the pens at the Leppings Lane end was fitted with small gates at the front, which were locked. When the crush started to occur, a simple unlocking of those gates would have eased the pressure on those fans at the front and the disaster could have been averted. I’d suggest that the keys to those gates were not within easy reach of anyone at Hillsborough. I’d even suggest that nobody even knew where those keys were kept.

One final image.

While the Liverpool supporters ferried the injured and the dead away from the pitch, using advertising hoardings as impromptu stretchers, a line of policemen – with Alsatian dogs – stood across the entire width of the pitch. They were there to stop the Liverpool and Forest fans – in their eyes – from fighting each other.

It all beggars belief.

The past week has been a sobering time.

It has provided me with a very sombre reminder of how we, as football fans, were regarded back in the late ‘eighties.

And it was too important topic for me not to mention.

It was the old familiar route in to London. I rarely travel in via the “southern route” these days; straight in on the M3 which then took me hurtling past Twickenham’s towering stands and all of the way through to Chiswick, then Hammersmith, then Fulham. I turned the radio on at midday in order to catch a sniff of the football chatter on “Five Live.” It was all about “the handshake.”

I quickly uttered a “FFS” to myself and turned it off. After the events of Hillsborough this past week, it seemed ludicrous that a handshake was getting so much attention.

Although we were playing at Loftus Road, I first had an appointment at Stamford Bridge. I quickly trotted down to the little shop outside the main forecourt and collected a couple of photographs of myself – smiling like a fool – with the twin trophies from last May. I aim to frame one of them along with a couple of photographs from Munich and the ten match tickets that are evidence of my attendance throughout last season’s maniacal assault on the Champions League trophy. I also purchased the double-disc DVD of the same Champions League campaign. As I stepped out into the surprisingly warm September sun, the players’ coach slowly drive past. I tried to peer in, but the windows were tinted. I just stood there, smiling, again like a fool.

When it comes to Chelsea, there will always be part of me that is an awestruck eight year old at my first ever game.

I returned to my car and it only took me fifteen minutes to reach my familiar parking spot off Askew Road. It even surprised me how quick I was able to traverse the borough; from Stamford Bridge to Loftus Road in a heartbeat. If there had been no traffic, I expect I could have driven it in around eight minutes flat.

I spotted a few QPR fans in their hooped shirts, but there was no over-riding feeling that there was a “big match” in the vicinity. Loftus Road now barely holds 18,000. Our biggest ever game at this compact stadium took place during the march to the 1970 F.A. Cup Final when around 30,000 attended. No doubt the streets would have been swarming with fans on that particular day.

In 2012, there was a hush around the immediate environs. We had read on the internet that the Rangers fans were aiming to recreate “hell” for our visit.

“Mmm – let’s see how that pans out.”

I dipped into a cosy café for a bite to eat. There were a few home supporters there too. I didn’t let on I was Chelsea; why would I? There were no negative comments about us, nor no reason to believe that they regarded us as the beasts with horns that sections of their support would have us believe. Talk was of QPR players, past and present, their recent form and general football chat.

I was soon outside the entrance to the away end. I spotted the habitually morose Zac (“I’m still worried about the manager, Chris”) and then the cheerier Long Tall Pete and Liz. I didn’t fancy bringing my “proper” camera to this game; with the heightened frisson between our clubs, I didn’t want an overly keen steward to stop me entering the ground with my long lens. Instead, I opted for my small “pub camera.” I took a few shots of the cramped approach into the stands, all corrugated iron and narrow passageways, and then had a quick chat with the contingent from Bristol who I often speak about.

We all agreed that the gap between games was unwanted. It felt – it really did – like the first game of the season again.

The School End at Loftus Road – or Rangers Stadium as they like to call it – houses the away support in two tiers. The upper tier is only thirteen rows deep. The lower tier possibly smaller. The seats are cramped. The Loft at the other end is larger, but only slightly. It took a while for the place to fill up. To my left, there were a few empty seats in both tiers of the main stand. I spotted the idiot with the sombrero; we all remembered him from last season. To my right, the dark shadows of the single tier stand, home to some of the QPR’s more boisterous support.

Above, signage stated “QPR, Loftus Road, 1882.”

This is a clear lie.

Sure, Rangers were formed as long ago as 1882. They have played at a large variety of locations in west London, but only at Loftus Road since 1917. The deep corrugated fascia on the stand roofs appeared to have been given a lick of paint over the summer; a darker blue, a royal blue.

“Mmm.”

To be fair, Loftus is a neat stadium, but oh-so small.

Alan and Gary arrived with five minutes to spare. We stood the entire game. I only slouched into my seat at half-time when I gave my feet a rest.

The teams were announced and then we awaited the arrival of the teams on the pitch. With a blink of an eye, the teams had lined up and the pre-game ceremonies took place. I squinted to see what Anton Ferdinand decided to do, but – to be truthful – nobody could tell. The Chelsea players were warmly applauded by the loyal 2,500 in the School End. Three songs dominated the day.

“We are the champions – the champions of Europe.”

“John Terry – Ashley Cole – John Terry – Ashley Cole.”

“We don’t hate – ‘cus you’re shit.”

After the coin toss, the teams changed ends and so we were treated to Anton Ferdinand sprinting deep into his half, all by himself, to within a few yards of the Chelsea fans in the corner. He turned to acknowledge the home fans but – of course – his intentions were clear; to wind up the away fans, to maybe illicit some abusive reactions, to maybe get a Chelsea fan arrested. According to Alan, he did exactly the same in the home game last season.

A lad next to me had to be reassured that, yes, the QPR goalkeeper was indeed Julio Cesar, the same Julio Cesar who had stood between the posts for Internazionale of Milan. There are strange things happening on Planet Football these days and no transfer is weirder than that. From 80,000 screaming Milanese to 18,000 dreaming West Londoners. It mirrors the absurd move, some thirty years ago, of Allan Simonsen from Barcelona of the Primera Liga to Charlton Athletic of the second division.

In truth, it was a poor game.

I thought that Fernando Torres began brightly and seemed to be full of confidence. Little things; the confident touch as the ball was played to him, the step-over, the impudent flick, the consummate ease with which he spun a ball out to the wing with the outside of his foot. This was promising stuff.

An early passage of play found Eden Hazard bearing down on the goal down below me. The shot was at the ‘keeper and the save drew groans from us. Then, Torres did well to turn inside the box under pressure, but his shot was weak.

And then the referee played his part. I thought that a high foot on Ashley Cole, inside the box, warranted a penalty, but the play wasn’t even halted. Andre Marriner then annoyed us all when he called a foul back when we were breaking through with the ball. Then a free-kick and John Terry ended up on the floor. Then a delicate run by Eden Hazard deep into the box and a tangle with Shaun Wright-Phillips. I didn’t get a clear view, but the appeal by my fellow School Enders was loud and sincere.

The sun was casting clear shadows on the green rectangle below. Above the tall spindles of the floodlight pylons at the Loft End, jet flumes were creating patterns in the sky. Down below, the huff and puff of a typical London derby was producing few clear chances, few passages of entertaining play.

At the break, I said that the game “had 0-0 written all over it.”

Long Tall Pete, a few rows in front, agreed.

After the initial flurry of songs in support of both teams, the atmosphere was pretty lame. An illustration of how low Chelsea really regards QPR is that no mention was made of our 6-1 win against them last Spring.

As the second-half progressed, we seemed to go into our shell. For the first twenty-five minutes, it was the home team who were edging it. They had a few half-chances. At last, the home fans were in the game: they urged on their beloved hoops with the slightly pornographic “Come on you Rs.”

It was all frustrating stuff from us. Fernando Torres, all alone at the pinnacle of our 2-3-1, was hardly given any service. When he did have the ball at his feet, his tendency was to dribble through the defence single-handedly. He was clearly getting frustrated. On more than one occasion, Marriner did not see fit to give a free-kick in his favour. Elsewhere, our method of play was oh-so familiar…pass, pass, pass.

I am one of Mikel’s supporters, but his tendency for a back-pass was winding me up. His most annoying trait is not looking up to see his options available before receiving the ball. His mind is often made up. And it’s usually to pass back to JT or Luiz. I’m sure that if Mikel is ever asked to take part in a penalty shoot-out, he will pass the ball back.

QPR carved a few chances. Jose Bosingwa – given only the briefest round of applause by the away fans at the start – was testing our defence, but the other Chelsea old-boy SWP was not so great. After a couple of shots missed the target, we duly serenaded him –

“Shaun Wright-Phillips – we’ve seen that before.”

However, our own players were hardly shining. JT – typically – was solid, but most other players were struggling. Frank looked tired. Ramires was drawing a few negative comments too. For most of the second period, things were dire.

Two late chances gave us ample opportunity to scramble a win, but wayward shots from Hazard and then Lampard blazed over the bar.

It was one of those days. It was clearly one of those games. There was palpable dismay as we sloped out of the ground. The home fans were chirpy, the Chelsea fans were less so. I suppose that the pragmatic view is that we didn’t lose, we didn’t concede, we are still top of the table. Obviously, Juventus on Wednesday will be far more of a test.

I’m sure I speak for many when I say that I can’t wait to hear that Champions League anthem once again.

Tales From One Of The Few

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 8 May 2012.

So, the last domestic away trip of this roller-coaster of a season. I had booked two half-day holidays to cover my trip up to Anfield, from 1pm on Tuesday to 1pm on Wednesday. There is nothing worse than getting home from a long drive “up North” and having to get in to work after only four or five hours sleep. Unfortunately, my partner in crime Lord Parky informed me that his knee was causing him major pain and discomfort and he would not be able to accompany me on my long trip to Anfield. Suffice to say, I was sad to hear this news. He had been alongside me for all but two other domestic games this season – the aways at Wigan and Spurs – so he would be missed.

My working day was busy and I left a little late at 1.15pm. I quickly dived into the local “Tesco Express” to buy some provisions – I hate to use the term “junk food” – to keep me going. I chose to drive up on The Fosseway once again, before cutting down on to the M5 motorway at Birdlip. It was a magnificent spring afternoon to be honest. Just before I passed by “The Air Balloon” pub, I had a quick look west and the view was a beauty. The Vale of Severn was down below me, with undulating hills in the foreground and brooding Welsh Mountains away in the distance. The fields were enlivened with the bright yellow of oil seed rape. The sky was dotted with small fluffy clouds. Never has that vista seemed more breath-taking. I wish I could have stopped to take a photograph to share with everyone.

My musical accompaniment for the trip to Liverpool was the new album by Vince Clarke and Martin Gore – following on from the Depeche Mode theme of Wembley – which Parky had gifted me recently. It’s their first collaboration in thirty years and the techno-beats provided me with a perfect musical backdrop as I ate up the miles on the M5 and then the M6. With no Parky in the passenger seat, I was able to let my mind wander through memories of this season and dreams of the future. For once, I was not thinking too much about beer halls and bratwursts in Munich but of the possible joys waiting in store for the summer. Chelsea had – finally – confirmed the full US tour details and I was just finishing off my planning before booking flights. My plan is to arrive in Boston on Saturday 14 July, hire a car and tour New England (which is currently one of the parts of USA that I am relatively unfamiliar), before joining in with the madness of Chelsea in New York and then Philadelphia. I am avoiding Seattle due to financial reasons. I am avoiding Miami due to the need to be back at work on the following Monday. But two out of four ain’t bad. It mirrors my participation in the 2009 tour. It means I that I can also see Mets vs. Dodgers and Yankees vs. Red Sox baseball games, too. Throw in four days of “R & R” in New England and it’s pretty much a dream holiday for me. Oh – and the small matter of meeting up again with some good friends from various parts of the US.

My journey took me past the towns of West Bromwich, Wolverhampton and Stoke-on-Trent. Memories of those three away games this year; a hopeful draw, a hard-fought win and a woeful defeat in AVB’s last game. The landscape of England is littered with similar football memories, eh? I was aware that Ben from Boston was making his way up to Liverpool for his first-ever away game and I told him to check out the supremely clear view of Manchester from the towering Thelwall Viaduct, rising high over the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal. I was making great time and I have to say, even though I was going slightly crazy without Parky’s voice alongside me, I was loving every minute. I know some folks hate driving, but I love it. I love every part of it, from the scenery, to the geography of England, from the road-side sights, to the stops at service stations and the minutiae of a long distance football follower.

It’s what I do.

Working in transport, I have inherited a feverish tendency to check out the names of the articulated trucks which shudder past. I’ve used many of the companies in my job, of course, and I suppose it is only natural for me to relate to these monsters of the road as I travel the length of England.

Gerry Jones Transport – ah, yes, I remember that troublesome tail-lift delivery down in area 38 in France.
P&O Ferrymasters – wonder if he’s heading up to Liverpool on the night crossing to Dublin.
DHL – the rivals, the hated rivals.
Ntex – ah Tony, the operations manager, the Arsenal fan, not so chatty now are you?

Oh dear. The madness was setting in.

As I edged towards the city of Liverpool, thoughts suddenly turned towards the football. There is, of course, a very strong chance that had Chelsea lost the Cup Final on Saturday, this trip to the delights of Merseyside may well have been a trip too far for me. If I had known that Parky was not going to be able to make it, maybe the probabilities would have been further stacked against this trip. Who knows? We’ll never know. All I know is that I reached Queens Drive at around 4.45pm and I was relishing the game; game number 56 in this bizarre season. This represented a record for me in fact. It meant that my previous “bests” of 2007-2008 and 2008-2009 had been bettered by one game. Blackburn will be 57, Munich will be 58. It had taken me until the Queens Drive to witness my first Liverpool shirt of the day. Most strange.

As I approached Anfield, I was in a dilemma, though. After the festering animosity between the two clubs being heightened by the Wembley Cup Final, I was a little more wary for my safety. Stories of lone Southerners getting picked off by gangs of scallies are, of course, the stuff of legend, especially during the dark days of the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties. There was a reason why hardly any clubs brought much away support to Liverpool in the ‘seventies. It was a tough old city and outsiders sporting different colours were given a notoriously rough ride. The Scousers love of a Stanley knife is well known.

“Have you met Stanley?”

I’ve had a couple of near escapes at Liverpool. I was chased at Lime Street after an Everton game in 1986, for example. I was lucky to get away unharmed on that occasion. Of course, things have generally calmed down now, but I was still wary. I was faced with a choice of chancing free roadside parking around 20 minutes from Anfield or secure £10 parking closer in. It was still only 5pm, so I drove around the block for a few moments trying to decide. My little journey took me past the Anfield Road stand and down the hill towards Goodison Park. For the first time, I noticed the grey murky waters of the Mersey to my west. I eventually decided to go for the safe option; I duly paid £10 and then headed up the hill towards Anfield. Outside “The Arkles” I spotted a police van. I killed a little time outside the stadium, but things were desperately quiet. Ben was now in the city centre, so I decided to head back to “The Arkles” to await his arrival. There was some sort of sure inevitability about me entering this famous old pub on the corner of Arkles Lane and Anfield Road.

“…just like a moth to a flame.”

It has historically been “the” away pub for trips to both Liverpool and Everton, though I am sure it has seen a share of the action in days gone by. Images of scallies running invading Mancunians and Cockneys around the red-bricked terraced streets before during and after games at Anfield in the late’seventies bring a chill to the bone. In those days, The Kop was the home to the fan, the “Annie Road” was the home to the scally and the hooligan element, resplendent in wedge haircut, drainpipe jeans, Adidas Trimm Tabs and Peter Storm rain jackets.

Not to worry, I peered inside the pub and spotted a couple of familiar faces. Dessie was leading the singing, Tom was quietly drinking a lager. Chelsea had taken over the side room and there seemed to be no bother. Outside, I had noticed that the boozer was now guarded by three police vans. Alan and Gary soon arrived, carrying two pints apiece. Ben arrived at about 6pm. Tom and I had spoken a little about the on-going CPO debate; like me, he was present at the two most recent meetings. We both believe that Fulham Council desperately want Chelsea to remain in their borough. The most recent statement by them surely proves that.

The Chelsea songs were continuing and despite a few songs which tested our welcome, Team Dessie thankfully decided not to air the infamous “Murderers” chant. I heaved a sigh of relief. Not to worry, though – the lager was only being served in plastic glasses.

At 7pm, Ben and I decided to leave and I took Ben (rather reluctantly, I felt…) on a circumnavigation of Anfield. I pointed out the spot where I once shook hands with Fabio Capello before the CL semi-final of 2007. Oh, those CL games – how amazing they were. They are, most probably, the main reason why we have developed as massive rivals over the past seven years. To be honest, it felt strange for me to be at Anfield on a May evening and only a mundane league game to anticipate. I lead Ben down towards the chippies on Walton Breck Road, then past the old ship’s mast from the SS Great Eastern which acts as a flag post next to The Kop. Past the impressive Bill Shankley statue, then onto the wasteland where I took an atmospheric shot of a haunted-looking Ben, against a back drop of urban blight and dereliction.

“Welcome to Liverpool, soft lad.”

I did my best to give Ben a guided tour – “there used to be a half-time gate here, the Shankly Gates were forged in my home town” – but I sensed that Ben was uneasy about being surrounded by so many red shirts. As a Yankee fan in Boston, he should be immune to it all by now. We waited outside the away turnstiles for a little. I noted many foreign fans – easily distinguished by the ubiquitous friendship scarves and an overabundance of Liverpool paraphernalia. They love their scarves, the Scousers. It’s not really a Chelsea thing. It’s more of an Arsenal thing in London, to be honest. I suppose that the Scousers feel forced to adorn scarves so that they can take part in the ritual singing of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” before each game. It wasn’t always like this. In the days of my youth, when I used to listen to Bryon Butler and Peter Jones (do any of the expats remember them?) on Radio Two’s coverage of those Liverpool nights in Europe, “YNWA” would spontaneously erupt during the games on many occasions. For a young kid, listening on a small radio under the bedclothes, it was hauntingly beautiful. These days, “YNWA” seems to be part of the choreographed Anfield package; played at the start of the game on the PA, then sung at the very end of the game by The Kop. Wave that scarf high, be part of the Anfield Experience. I preferred the spontaneity of yester year.

Inside the away end, the signs were not good. I realised that hundreds of seats were going to be unused; a complete section of maybe 1,000 in the corner untouched. Elsewhere, I could sense that the mood amongst the home fans was pretty sombre. There was no pre-match buzz, no sense of occasion. In truth, this has been a disappointing season for them and the F.A. Cup Final defeat made their failings all the more apparent. I took plenty of photographs of the Chelsea players in their pre-match routines. Anfield is cavernous; the dark reaches of The Kop go back way in the distance. It held 30,000 when it was in its prime (with no gangways or walkways – when you were in, you were in) but it now holds around 12,000. It’s still pretty impressive. I once stood on The Kop – the old Kop – in 1992 and it was an amazing old stand. It was the day we won at Anfield in the league for the first time since around 1937. What a day – what a game. When I have enough time, I’ll tell you all about it one day.

The entrance of the teams. A last chance for me to look around. Our away following was poor; maybe around 1,200. However, I did note empty seats in the home areas; not many, for sure, but around 2,000 dotted around in several main sections. It was a night when I would be part of Chelsea lowest league away support for years and years. Had we lost the Cup Final, I dread to think how few would have attended.

Our team was a mix of the young and the willing, the old and the tested. Whatever will be will be.

As the teams lined up and then broke, Gerry Marsden did his bit.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v…type=2&theater

What a disappointing game to mark the last away game of the league season.

Despite his poor showing at Wembley on Saturday, Luis Suarez (he of the Depeche Mode song in his honour) was soon buzzing around and causing our entire defence a whole host of problems. After just 7 minutes, he spun clear but shot narrowly wide. A back heel from Suarez but Andy Carroll shot wide. However, the noise levels were pretty low. The away fans taunted the natives with –

“Where’s your famous atmosphere?”

I feared for Torres, marked by Jamie Carragher, in front of 12,000 baying Scousers in The Kop. Sturridge had a run and his shot was deflected wide. From the following corner, Ivanovic almost repeated his goal from 2009, but his header struck the right post.

Then Suarez struck. A run deep in to our box and the ball was played back into the hapless Essien, who could not avoid scoring an own goal. He slid into the goal and held his head in his hands. One of the images of the season. Soon after, another JT slip let in Jordan Henderson who adroitly side-footed past Ross Turnbull. Now the natives were roaring. Thankfully, we didn’t revert to the “Murderers” chant and, instead, sang a new one –

“It’s never your fault, it’s never your fault. Always the victim, it’s never your fault.”

In the circumstances, pretty restrained stuff, Chelsea. Good to hear.

Soon after, Ross Turnbull did well to tip a Suarez chip over, but Liverpool scored a demoralising third when Agger headed in from close range.

“Fcuk off Chelsea FC – you ain’t got no history.”

This was hurting now. Andy Carroll forced a superb save from Turnbull. All around, our players were misfiring. Essien was toiling and it hurt to see him play. Romeu, so impressive when we were playing well, was off the pace in this poor performance. However, a quick break at the other end and Fernando Torres struck the bar from a ridiculously tight angle. If that had gone in, how pleased we would have been.

How pleased he would have been.

A chance for Liverpool now – a lob by that man Carroll, rejuvenated after Wembley – hit the bar. Then, calamity…from our viewpoint, Ivanovic just stood his ground with Carroll breathing down his neck, but the referee Kevin Friend decided that it was a penalty. Terrible decision. JT argued with the referee, while Torres looked ruefully on. Thankfully, Downing’s daisy-cutter slapped against the post.

Half-time. Oh boy. What a shocker.

“I’d take 3-0 now, Gal.”

In truth, it could have been 6-2 at half-time. In this season of high-scoring results between the top teams, I feared the worst.

Surprisingly, we grabbed a goal back on 50 minutes when an in swinging Florent Malouda free-kick was touched home by Ramires. Thoughts of a surprise come-back flickered through our minds, but we showed the same level of ineptitude as in the first half. On the hour, the game was over when a poor clearance by Ross Turnbull ended up at the feet of Shelvey. He took a touch, then drove it straight into the empty goal. It was another goal that I was right behind the flight of this season.

Liverpool 4 Chelsea 1.

If it stayed like this, we would have experienced our heaviest league defeat in 16 years. The previously biggest defeat was a 5-1 reverse at the same ground during the nascent growing pains of Ruud Gullit’s stewardship in the autumn of 1996.

Wait a second. Let’s think about that. Our heaviest league defeat in 16 years. That just goes to show how Chelsea have played since 1996. What an amazing period for us. In recent memory this season, United have lost 6-1, Arsenal have lost 8-2…yet our biggest defeat in 16 years was 4-1? Pretty damn amazing.

In truth, the rest of the game was memorable only for a few bursting runs from substitute Romelu Lukaku and the resilience of Ryan Bertrand at left-back. Elsewhere, we were shoddy and shocking. Lukaku headed straight at Reyna from inside the box. At 4-2, it would have matched our 4-2 defeat against City in 2010. Two more chances came and went for Andy Carroll. A header from Agger flew past the far post. At times our defending was comical, like something that the Keystone Cops would have been embarrassed to be linked with. However, despite the baying thousands in The Kop and the Main Stand, let’s reflect on this game and the previous one; an F.A. Cup win over a meaningless 4-1 defeat every time please.

I wasted no time in hurrying out at the end. There was only a short wait at the car park and I was soon on my way home. For once, I had beaten the traffic – a lot of the home fans had waited behind to see the Liverpool players perform a lap of honour.

Out on the M6, the music was on and by the time I had stopped to refuel with a pasty, a sandwich, some crisps and some “Cokes”, I can honestly say the game was drifting out of my consciousness. I was in cruise control mode now, enjoying the night driving, enjoying the music, enjoying my own company. I drove past the Chelsea supporters coach; Alan and I exchanged texts. The journey south is a familiar route. I must know every bump in the road. I eventually reached home at a fraction before 2am. The rain was now falling and I just wanted to get inside to bed.

It was a bad day at the office. Let’s hope that games 57 and 58 are not similarly bleak.

Bryon Butler : The Voice Of My Childhood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEPbRoA5Usw

“Maradona, turns like a little eel, he comes away from trouble, little squat man… comes inside Butcher and leaves him for dead, outside Fenwick and leaves him for dead, and puts the ball away… and that is why Maradona is the greatest player in the world.”

From the days when commentators were wordsmiths.

Tales From Underneath The Arch

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 5 May 2012.

During the preceding week, I was trying my best to nurture positive thoughts and the appropriate amount of anticipation ahead of the F.A. Cup Final. I will admit that I was genuinely struggling. For starters, there is no doubt whatsoever that the role of the F.A. Cup Final in the football calendar is at an all-time low. I have commented about the reasons for this on many occasions. Suffice to say, the accelerating importance of both the League and the Champions League, the huge amount of football games on TV these days, the playing of semi-finals at Wembley, the abolition of second replays, the playing of the Final itself before the league season itself has finished and the general mismanagement of The Cup by the Football Association over the years are the main reasons why we are in this current situation.

This current state of affairs leaves fans of a certain age, like me, in a bit of a predicament.

I yearn for the Cup Final Days of my youth when the world – or at least my world – would virtually stop on the second Saturday in May. Those days were wonderful. The first F.A. Cup final I remember was the centenary game of 1972 when a diving Alan Clarke header gave Leeds a 1-0 win over perennial finalists Arsenal. And the memories from the next ten years are still rich to this day. In those days, we only had three TV channels, yet BBC1 and ITV both showed the Cup Final, with saturated coverage starting from around 11.30am through to 5.30pm. It was the only club game shown “live” on TV. It was a football enthusiast’s heaven. I always favoured the BBC’s coverage, but would often channel hop to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. The heady years of Cup Finals in my mind were from 1972 through to 1983 – from the ages of 7 to 18 – and of course, Chelsea were in involved in none of them. The nearest we got to the Twin Towers in that period were the quarters in 1973 (Arsenal) and 1982 (Spurs.)

Those defeats still hurt to this day.

So – anyway – you get the picture. Despite the elation of reaching another Wembley final, part of my psyche was labouring under the burden of the fact that things would never be the same as they were in those heady days of my youth. It was tough going, but I was trying my best to get my head around it all. To be honest, the fear of losing to Liverpool was helping to concentrate my addled mind. I was getting there. I could almost see the crescent of the Wembley Arch.

And then Chelsea Football Club fcuked it up. They completely disrupted my thoughts on the Friday with the news that they (and I use the term “they” wisely) had officially bid for the site of the Battersea Power Station. Now then, I am yet to be totally persuaded that my club needs to vacate our home of 107 years, but that is not the point. The point is that the club announced this massive piece of news on the eve of The Cup Final. My Friday afternoon at work in Chippenham was spent thinking about the pros and cons of Hammersmith & Fulham over Wandsworth, Stamford Bridge over The Samsung Arena, North versus South, District Line over Northern Line, old versus new, home versus new home.

To be honest, I was livid.

But yet – how typical of Chelsea F.C. to misjudge the mood of the moment. The club, the fans and the team needed to be together ahead of the Cup Final with Liverpool, yet here they were – obviously still smarting from the CPO defeat in November – quite relishing the chance to bully a point across. Rather than focussing my mind on the game at Wembley, my mind was poisoned by the thought of myself attending the last ever game at Stamford Bridge in maybe six or seven years.

Oh boy.

Thankfully, when I awoke at around 6.30am on Cup Final Saturday, my mind was clearer and focussed on the day ahead. This was good news indeed. I took a while to decide what to wear; this is always a tough part of each match day for me…all those shirts, all those options…but even more so on Cup Final Day. I opted for the lime green of a Lacoste long-sleeved polo and the muted grey of a CP top. I knew that Parky would be similarly attired. The last time I wore a Chelsea shirt to a Cup Final was in 1994 when I wore – hoping for a repeat – a 1970 replica shirt. But more of 1994 later.

I pulled out of my drive at around 8.45am and a Depeche Mode CD was playing. The closing notes of one song ended…a pause…then –

“When I’m with you baby, I go outta my head – and I just can’t get enough, and I just can’t get enough.”

And then my brain started whirring.

“Just can’t get enough” – yep, that’s about right. I certainly can’t get enough of Chelsea. And then I remembered that Liverpool are one of the several teams who have purloined this song from under our noses and I wondered if I would rue my day beginning in this way. I remember the Scousers singing this at The Bridge in the autumn and I shuddered. A repeat at Wembley? No thanks.

Parky – yellow Lacoste polo and grey Henri Lloyd top – was collected at just after 9am and we were on our way. I had pinned two Chelsea chequered flags to my car and I was keen to see if any other Chelsea cars were similarly attired as we drove up the M4. Surprisingly, on the drive east, we only saw two other Chelsea cars – and a Liverpool mini-bus. A car glided past and I spotted a bloke with an Arsenal replica shirt at the wheel. I smirked and he tried to ignore me. By the way, can anyone explain to me why that Arsenal vs. Norwich game could not have been played on the Sunday, along with all of the League fixtures? We were sharing the billing on just another football Saturday and it wasn’t right, damn it.

We reached Chelsea at 11am and – for some reason – I wanted to drive past Stamford Bridge before parking up. In truth, the place was pretty quiet, save for Bob The T-Shirt’s stall already at work. I imagined the area being full of non-attendees come 5pm.

We began with a quiet pint at “The Prince Of Wales” at West Brompton. There was drizzle outside as we caught the tube to Edgware Road. Nearing Notting Hill, however, Andy Wray sent me a text and advised that he was at “The Victoria” at Paddington. That was perfect timing and we quickly changed our plans. Several pubs in the Paddington area seemed to be overflowing with Liverpool fans. At just after 1pm, we met up with Andy, Ben, Dave Chidgey and a couple more Chelsea fans in the cosy confines of “The Victoria.” I spoke briefly to a Chelsea fan from Vancouver. Poor Ben was suffering with a hangover. I hoped he could recover quickly. Talk was of the new Battersea Stadium and of Munich. We then caught a cab to “The Duke Of York” where the lads were already enjoying a pre-match. The pub seemed quieter than for the semi-final and previous Cup Final visits. Ben commented that the main talk inside the boozer was still of Munich. Notable absentees were Simon, Milo and Daryl – all Munich-bound, and working on Brownie Points for the day. I chatted with Ben and Andy outside. The weather was mixed. I was glad I had my jacket with me. Talk was varied. Ben spoke about the Boston Blues and Andy spoke of The Olde Shippe. It was difficult to track my mood; to be truthful, I just wanted to get up to Wembley ahead of schedule and enjoy the moment.

Andy went off with Alan and Gary at about 3.45pm. Ben came along with Neil, Ed, Parky and little old me just after. We caught the 4.15pm from Marylebone and the packed train was full of Chelsea, united in song. The carriage was rocking. Ben had recovered from his previous night’s carousing with Cathy and Kerry Dixon and was joining in like a veteran. It was great to see him leading a few choice chants. I began one song –

“If you’re standing on the corner…”

We soon pulled into Wembley Stadium and met up with a drunken band of Chelsea fans from Trowbridge, singing songs about slums and dead cats. The rain was holding off. It was a grey and decidedly dull day, though. Unfortunately, there was a horrendous delay at turnstile L at the western side of the stadium. I’m afraid to say that this caused me to miss – again! – the traditional Cup Final hymn “Abide With Me.” Our seats were in block 538, row 24. Up and up we went.

Row 24 was the very back row. Seat 363 was just to the south side of the goal. In truth, we were only around 15 yards from our dead-central position at the 2010 Cup Final.

OK, here we go. A quick scan. The Liverpool balcony was bedecked with red banners and easily out-did our end. Had somebody forgot to bring the eight to ten permanent banners at Stamford Bridge? There were small blue flags by each seat, but not many waved these. I had my cameras at the ready. I was annoyed with myself for missing the build-up, but at least I was in for the entrance of the teams.

With the two teams lined up, the Liverpool fans were still bellowing out “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” I was worried that the old habits of the ‘seventies, when Cup Final teams often sung over the national anthem, might be resurrected. Oh dear, how correct I was.

As “God Save The Queen” began, all that could be heard were the boos from the Liverpool end. However, the Chelsea fans soon out-sung the boos and the stadium was roaring by the time the last few words were being sung –

“Send Her Victorious, Happy And Glorious, Long To Reign Over Us – God Save The Queen.”

Were the boos by the Liverpool fans some sort of retaliation for the “Murderers” chants by some foolish Chelsea fans at the Spurs semi-final? Yes, for sure – but that only tells part of the story. Both Liverpool the city and Liverpool the football club see themselves as some sort of a free-spirited and anti-establishment utopia, railing against the perceived prejudices of the rest of England. They are pro-Liverpool, but anti-everything else. They are no big fans of the London government – especially a Conservative government which they still abhor for the Hillsborough aftermath, the London media, the FA. They evidently see the Royal Family as part of this picture. I have read that the Scousers were not happy that the Royal Family were not more supportive in 1989. And so it goes on. The over-whelming sense of ills being acted out against them.

There was a banner which was held aloft for a few seconds before the game began, which referenced Hillsborough once more –

“Expose The Lies Before Thatcher Dies.”

Into this mix comes Chelsea Football Club. The blue versus the red. The southern club with money but no history. The club with a history of right-wing support . The devil incarnate. Blue rag to a bull.

This Cup Final was always going to be a tinderbox in the stands.

Speaking personally, I did my best to ignore the “Murderers” chants by those around me and decided to support the team in as positive way as I could. This was my eighth cup final and it seems strange, knowing how dominant Liverpool were in my youth, that this was our first one against them. I had a further scan before kick-off and I was dismayed to see a few pockets of unused seats in our end. We had been given 25,000 seats for this game. I briefly thought back to that 1994 Cup Final when we lost 4-0 to Manchester United. We only received 17,000 for that game and yet I can well remember that we didn’t even have 17,000 members in those days. My dear friend Glenn wasn’t a member that season, but had applied for his 1994-1995 membership early. As a result, his name was put into a raffle for the last few Chelsea tickets and was overjoyed when Chelsea called him on the ‘phone to say he had been successful.

It made me realise how far we have come in eighteen years.

Less than 17,000 members in 1994.

More than 25,000 season ticket holders in 2012.

What will we be in 2030? Or – more pertinently – where will we be?

Maybe there is some sanity in Chelsea’s desire to move out of Stamford Bridge.

I put these worrying thoughts to one side as I turned my complete attention to the 2012 F.A. Cup Final. There were no surprises in the Chelsea line-up; Didier was leading the line, ready to add to his phenomenal haul of goals under the arch. I was surprised to see Craig Bellamy in the Liverpool team ahead of Andy Carroll.

Chelsea dominated possession in the first part of the game. This did not surprise me. If we were underdogs for Munich, surely we were the slight favourites for this one? We were the team in form, whereas Liverpool were floundering several places below us in the league table.

We did not have to wait long for a goal. Juan Mata was allowed time and space in the centre of the pitch and played a magnificent ball into the path of the advancing Ramires. It was eerily similar to Camp Nou. This time, there was no chip, but a low drive at Reina’s goal. Before we knew it, we were 1-0 up and the Chelsea end erupted. I was shouting like a loon, but steadied myself to capture a few of the celebrations away down below.

Wow.

Soon after, Ivanovic did well to block a Bellamy effort which was certainly goal bound. This was a cagey game, though, with few chances. A fine dribble by Salomon Kalou deep in to enemy territory petered out. Long shots from Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba and Kalou did not worry Reina. We rarely looked in danger, though, and I was very content to see that Luiz Suarez was having a quiet game. Downing and Bellamy were buzzing around, but our defence was in control. In the middle, our trio of Mikel, Lamps and Ramires were covering space and not allowing Gerrard much time to impose himself on the game.

The atmosphere was hardly noisy. It all seemed a little too easy. The Liverpool fans were not singing too loudly either. There was a strange feeling to the evening.

At half-time, our intelligence was insulted with a feeble attempt at entertainment and I won’t even bother explaining it.

As the teams re-entered the pitch, the Liverpool fans held their scarves aloft and sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” but even that felt half-hearted. Parky had disappeared for a beer at the break, but hadn’t made it back. The second-half began with a couple of chances for both teams. Kalou set up Ashley Cole but his shot was blocked. There was ludicrous penalty appeal by Gerrard. However, right after, a fantastic move had us all buzzing. Jon Obi Mikel played in Frank Lampard and he, in turn, slotted in a slide-rule pass into Drogba. He found himself in roughly the same area as against Arsenal in the semi of 2009 and Spurs in the semi in April. A touch, a shot, a goal. The ball was slotted in with fantastic precision at the hapless Reina’s far post and we erupted once more.

Didier has done it again.

He raced over to the far corner and I again steadied myself for snaps. His little victory jig was magnificent. Oh, how he loves playing at Wembley. Four goals in four Cup Finals. Phenominal.

Parky finally re-appeared, having been drinking a beer with Whitey when Didier’s goal had given us a hopefully unassailable lead. He didn’t look sheepish, he didn’t care. Good old Parky.

“And It’s Super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea F.C.
We’re By Far The Greatest Team the World Has Ever Seen.”

Another strong dribble from Kalou, but he shot over. A Lampard free-kick. This was all Chelsea and I was silently dreaming of more goals. Juan Mata set up Didier but he only hit the side-netting. The Chelsea choir was now in full voice. How it must have hurt the Liverpool legions to hear songs of European Cup Finals.

“Che Sera Sera.
Whatever Will Be Will Be.
We’re Going To Germany.
Che Sera Sera.”

It was the loudest Chelsea chant I have heard at new Wembley.

And then the game changed. Bosingwa lost the ball and Downing fed the ball in to Andy Carroll, the Liverpool substitute. Carroll twisted John Terry one way and then the other before rifling the ball high past Petr Cech.

The red East end roared.

Game on.

The last thirty minutes seemed to be all Liverpool. Steven Gerrard, previously marginal, was seeing much more of the ball and Carroll looked a threat. Petr Cech did ever so well to get down low to turn a Suarez shot past the post. Raul Meireles took the place of the tiring Ramires. Then Dirk Kuyt replaced Bellamy. The last throws of the dice. The final fifteen minutes.

Our celebrations were proving to be overly optimistic and premature. This was now an intensely nervous affair. Liverpool moved the ball around and we were shuffling around to repel their advances. In a way, it was Camp Nou all over again, with di Matteo’s Italian heritage putting us in good stead to quash any attacks.

On 81 minutes, Liverpool had a spare man out on the right and a great cross found the head of Carroll. I expected the equaliser. In a sudden blur of activity, we saw the header parried by a falling Cech, but we heard a roar and the subsequent run of Carroll away from the goal, celebrating again. The linesman was running away from the goal-line, his flag low. I was confused; was it a goal? Was it blocked? If it wasn’t a goal, how did it happen?

It wasn’t a goal. It was a miracle. Another Chelsea miracle.

How we love that East goal at Wembley. After the Juan Mata goal versus Tottenham, the Cech save against the Scousers. Football is indeed a matter of inches.

Just amazing.

In the final moments, Liverpool shots were either off target or bravely blocked by Chelsea defenders. It was indeed Camp Nou Mark Two. I couldn’t enjoy this though. Just like in 1973, when I sat on my grandfather’s lap watching Leeds United attack Sunderland’s goal again and again, I was clock-watching like never before. We got to 89 minutes…just like Liverpool to score then, Hillsborough and all.

Five minutes of extra time.

Still we chased and defended bravely.

At last – I watched as Phil Dowd held his whistle to his lips and blew.

Chelsea F.C. – 2012 F.A. Cup Winners.

The Liverpool players looked on as Chelsea gathered together in their half and performed a “Ring Of Roses” dance. Around me, there were smiles. Parky was in tears. The Chelsea players slowly came towards us. Didier, shirtless, led the slow advance but was soon joined by his cavorting team mates. I was relieved and happy. This was Chelsea’s seventh F.A. Cup success. The first one, in 1970, was probably the reason why I became a Chelsea fan, though the real reasons are lost in time. I have been present at all six other wins. We love Wembley and we love this cup.

Magnificent.

The Liverpool players climbed the stairs, but most of their fans had left.

How proud I was to see that line of players in royal blue slowly ascend the steps, then disappear from view…tantalisingly…then arrive on the balcony.

The cup was lifted and we roared again.

Very soon, “Blue Is The Colour” boomed around the echoing Wembley arena.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50888885852658

In the last closing bars of the song, I looked up at the scoreboard at the opposite end of the stadium. Just as Ossie, Chopper and co were singing “Cus Chelsea, Chelsea Is Our Name”, the cameraman picked out a young Chelsea fan. He reminded me of me, circa 1972.

Now it was my turn to wipe away the tears.

Down below me, we were in party mode. It was gorgeous.

The champagne, the dancing, the smiles, the joy…the small details.

David Luiz hogging the cup as if it was his own.

Juan Mata grabbing Fernando Torres’ arm and hoisting it up, Torres looking bashful and embarrassed.

John Terry beating his chest.

Frank looking delirious.

The cup looking larger than usual and glinting like never before.

The songs –

“Blue Day.”

“One Step Beyond.”

“The Liquidator.”

“Blue Tomorrow.”

Parky and I were one of the very last to leave the stadium. I was tired and emotionally drained. I had been stood outside the pub, on the train, at the game, my feet were on fire. We met up with Cathy and showed each other a few photos from the day. She had been right down the front, I had been right down the back. In between the two of us, thousands of Chelsea fans, thousands of memories. I spotted Andy and Ben. What stories they would have to tell their friends back home. I commented that we would be running the gauntlet at Anfield on Tuesday night.

We caught the last train out of Wembley Park at 8.30pm with the arch behind us now, lit from below and looking magnificent.

At last I could sit. I was so tired, so drained, but so happy. A Liverpool fan from work sent me a text containing a few words of congratulations, saying that the best team had won, but debated that the Cech save was really a goal. My reply to him?

“Luis Garcia.”

We made our way through central London and alighted at Earls Court. A few minutes later, we were welcomed at “Salvo’s” and were soon toasting Chelsea Football Club on another miraculous victory in this ridiculous season. Salvo mentioned that Roberto di Matteo, visiting with his blind sister back in 1996, once enjoyed a meal at his little restaurant. I reckon that Salvo should erect a plaque – a nice big blue one – above the entrance to “Dall’Artista”to signify this.

It was now 10.30pm and we needed to return home. As we slowly walked back to the car, a Chelsea post-Cup Final karaoke was taking place in The Tournament. We peered in to see a huddle of fans standing on tables, bellowing out an Elvis Presley classic –

“I’ll guess I’ll never know the reason why
You love me like you do.
That’s the wonder.
The wonder of you.”

A few minutes later on the elevated section of the M4, I couldn’t resist a glance to the north. And there it was – the Wembley arch, illuminated still, signalling the location of our most recent triumph.

Didier’s second home.

Tales From The Carling Cup Quarter Final

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 29 November 2011.

During my recent report from the League match a week or so ago, I had already established that one in nine of all the Chelsea games I have seen have involved Liverpool . So, it’s fair to say that there was a certain element of truth to the old saying about “familiarity brewing contempt” as I anticipated the Carling Cup Quarter Final against them.

There were very real fears of another potential disaster against Liverpool , but also – after the reasonable level of improvement against Wolves on Saturday – a growing expectation that we could gain revenge for the two most recent painful home defeats against them.

We live in a town called Hope, in a county called Hopeshire, in a country called Hopeland.

You get my drift.

I had a busy day at work but left Chippenham bang on 4pm. I collected His Lordship. He was still groggy with a cold and I had a slight headache. Not the best of conditions with which to set off on a drive up to London. As Liverpool had taken the full 6,000 allocation for The Shed, Parky would be displaced for this game, instead watching down in the quietness of the West Lower. As I drove towards Swindon on the M4, I could not help but notice the dark foreboding clouds which were ominously awaiting me in the east. These compared unfavourably with the clearer skies behind me in the west, past Bristol and beyond, the setting sun tainting a few white clouds with an orange glow.

Thankfully, the rain abated and the weather was reasonable, but – oh boy – I felt tired. I pulled in at Membury Services for a large Starbucks cappuccino and then battled the growing traffic as I headed towards Reading. This rush of caffeine invigorated me and I was able to relax a little. There was even the occasional thought about the imminent game. At Heston, just past Heathrow airport, I stopped for a Red Bull to keep me from flagging. Throughout it all, Parky was alongside, chattering away about all sorts. These midweek dashes from Chippenham to London are well-chronicled in these reports and I suppose that there will be a game in the future when I will say to myself –

“No. Enough is enough. I’m not going.”

The home streak will come to an end and I will find myself at home, maybe listening to the game on the radio or watching the game on TV or my laptop.

Until then, I’ll keep battling the rush hour traffic, the occasionally malevolent weather, the headaches and the tiredness.

The traffic grew slower as we approached Chiswick and then Hammersmith. We soon realised that we wouldn’t be able to join the regulars in The Goose for a pre-match tipple. With the traffic crawling down the North End Road , I took evasive action and parked a good few hundred yards further out than my normal parking place. I had just received delivery of a new hire car at work – a black Volkswagon Polo – and this was my inaugural journey.

I made special note of where I had parked. There was a slight risk that I would not be able to locate the new car, with an easily forgettable set of number plates, in an unfamiliar setting. I had visions of us at around 3am, stumbling around in the darkness of West London .

“Well, it must be around here somewhere, Parky.”

It had taken me a full three hours to reach my destination. We strode on past The Goose, barely slowing our pace to glimpse inside to see if any of our mates were inside. I quickly spotted the baseball cap, festooned with Chelsea badges, of Digger. Another Chelsea character, “Shorts Al”, was also spotted (so called because – go on, guess – he wears shorts at every Chelsea game, irrespective of the weather).

With tickets a reasonable £25, I expected another full house and the Fulham Road, past the old tube station to the West Stand entrance, was packed with people. I detected a few stray Liverpudlian accents.

As I waited in line outside the turnstiles outside the entrance to the Upper Tier of the Matthew Harding, I looked down at the Chelsea fans milling around and filing past to enter the Lower Tier turnstiles. To my left was the wall which marked the northern perimeter of the stadium, with the embankment of the District Line beyond. This would be the site of the oft-mentioned northern walkway which Chelsea have allegedly contemplated building to ease egress from the stadium should expansion take place. Just above a couple of large refuse bins, just to the right of a hot dog stand, perched on the top of the wall, was a fox.

The Chelsea fans walked past it, barely within four or five feet away. It slunk down on its haunches, hiding in the shadows, possibly waiting to pounce on a half-eaten burger. It had a decrepit appearance, its fur bedraggled and its eyes mean. It looked rather pathetic. It had seen better days.

It made me wonder if it really should have been down at The Shed End.

I made it to my seat with barely five minutes to spare before kick-off. Yes, another full house. A few more Liverpool flags and banners than the home game. They looked in a boisterous mood.

Before the game, the players assembled in the centre circle and the crowd fell silent as Stamford Bridge paid respects to Gary Speed. What a tragic story. Within seconds, both sets of supporters began applauding and this lasted a full minute, with everyone clapping for the entire time. This is a relatively new phenomenon in the UK, borrowed from Italy. The first time I can remember this happening was down on the south coast on a murky December evening in 2005, when Portsmouth and Chelsea fans broke years of protocol by spontaneously erupting in applause after 20 seconds of silence at the memory of George Best.

Gary Speed – A life lost way too soon.

Rest In Peace.

Andre Villas-Boas rang the changes and played Torres, Lukaku and Malouda in attack, It was great to see Young Josh alongside the freshly shaven Oriel Romeu and the recalled Frank Lampard in midfield. At the back, young Ryan Bertrand took the left back position, with the Brazilians Luiz and Alex in the middle. Bosingwa at right back, Ross in goal.

Two Brazilian centre-backs. I suppose at that moment I should have been prepared for a rough old night.

The all red of Liverpool versus the classic blue, blue and white of Chelsea.

My 56th. game involving the two teams.

After just two minutes, a forward run of David Luiz resulted in a fall inside the box at the Shed End. We all presumed a penalty, but no! Referee Phil Dowd (never a favourite at Chelsea) booked the Brazilian for diving. I really could not see clearly enough to see if this was the correct decision. Chelsea and Liverpool shared possession in the first few minutes, but the next talking point came on 21 minutes. Carroll went up for a high ball in the Chelsea box and, as soon as he landed, raced over to the referee along with three or four team mates. Again, I couldn’t see what the problem was. But Dowd didn’t do anything. I presumed that he would wave them away and continue.

To our disbelief, he pointed to the spot and I was stunned. It had been a good 15 seconds after the initial incident. The lino wasn’t flagging. Was his decision down to the boisterous appeals of the away players?

Shocking.

Not to worry – Ross Turnbull did well to block the penalty from Andy Carroll.

A massive roar.

After the penalty misses by Fulham and Everton, the trend in this year’s competition was continuing.

The highlights of the rest of the half were few and far between. Chelsea had most of the ball, but did very little with it. The midfield overpassed and the front three were impotent. A good ball into the path of Lukaku in the inside right channel, but the youngster was easily brushed aside. He then made amends with a strong run down to the goal line, but his ball into the box was blocked. Liverpool came back into the game as the half came to its conclusion, with the irritant Bellamy buzzing around like a pest. Sadly, Josh had received a knock and was replaced by Ramires.

Chelsea now contained three Brazilians.I filmed a few seconds from the tight and narrow area beneath the upper tier seats, looking out at the pitch from one of the vomitories.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50486569672658

Eventually, at some stage in the future, I will have captured every brick, every seat, every blade of grass, every angle, every inch of Stamford Bridge.

Just before the break, our best chance of the game. A superb early ball from Bos found the head of Lukaku. His firm header looped over the intersection of the far post and the bar. It missed by a whisker.

Throughout the first-half, the Liverpool fans had stood, singing the usual songs…the “History” song, the “Li – ver – pool” dirge and the (stolen from Celtic) “Fields of Athenry / Anfield Road.”

At the break, they unfurled a new banner which said –

“Christmas is coming.
Lampard’s getting Fat.
Torres is a lady boy.
Mereiles is a twat.”

Ooh, that Scouse humour.

Neil Barnett introduced a face familiar to a certain generation of Chelsea fans.

“He scored 24 goals in the 1976-1977 promotion season. I toured with him in 2009 with the American fans and he hasn’t been able to stand since – Jock Finnieston!”

My mate Gal came over to chat for a few minutes at the break. He is a French polisher by trade and is still employed on a daily basis at Stamford Bridge, where his work has taken him into the executive areas of the West Stand. He quipped –

“Yeah, I’ve been here longer than some of the managers.”

It had been a poor first-half from Chelsea, but we began the second period in a far livelier fashion. This invigorated the home supporters and the noise levels increased. On 54 minutes, a Lampard free-kick ended up with an odd effort from the quiet Florent Malouda which eventually bounced onto the bar. David Luiz couldn’t quite turn the rebound in.

Soon after, the defence went missing as a ball was played out to Craig Bellamy on the right. From my biased perspective, he looked offside. He played in an early ball and there was Maxi to pounce at the far post. The away fans went ballistic and I felt nauseous.

Soon after, a Liverpool free kick and the slightest of touches from Kelly.

2-0.

Anelka and Mata came on, but our form did not improve. On 74 minutes, Anelka was one on one with Reina, but took too much time to decide what to do and the moment was gone. Just after, a Lampard corner picked out a great leap by Fernando Torres, but his header was ably saved by the ‘keeper. Our frustrations grew louder and the Chelsea players became more frantic and dispirited. With ten minutes to go, the home fans headed home and by full time, the place was about 60% full. I received a text from 612steve in deepest Philadelphia.

“They’re leaving by the dozen. What I wouldn’t give to be there.”

Steve is yet to visit Stamford Bridge and I felt his pain. It seems that our support needs a kick up the arse in addition to the playing staff. Over in The Shed, the away fans were singing long into the night. At times, they were the noisiest I have heard at Stamford Bridge for a while. I suppose – thinking about it – it shows how far we have come. Ten years ago, Liverpool would not have been overly excited about a League cup victory over us.

Since then, we have grown, they have stagnated.

But the rivalry has moved on further.

We simply don’t like each other.

Liverpool are the new Leeds.

After the game, I met up with Parky and Josh outside The Goose and we spent an enjoyable hour or so in The Lily, drinking lager, eating curry and chatting about Chelsea. Josh had loved his time in England – and Germany and The Netherlands. He was already talking about his next visit in 2012. He had watched the match from a central location in the front row of the East Upper.

Great view, poor match.

We said our farewells and I managed to find the car.

I eventually reached home at 2am.

My head was still racing. I surfed the internet and spotted a few comments about the game. I was too numb to think too much about things really. Time for introspection would come later.

Bloody Liverpool.

Tales From The Fog

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 20 November 2011.

The History: –

Another Chelsea versus Liverpool match meant that I found myself reaching back into time for some truly amazing memories over the years. I referred to my tabulation of all of the Chelsea games I have seen and was rather taken aback by the sheer volume of Liverpool games I have witnessed. My total number of games – going back to 1974 – totalled 853, but a staggering 54 of those (one in nine), has featured Liverpool. And, to be truthful, some of the exciting games I have had the pleasure to witness have involved Liverpool.

The top five are obvious –

1978 – Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1

My first ever sighting of the then European Champions and we whooped them. Jock Finnieston and Tommy Langley.

1982 – Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0.

We were a struggling Division Two team, yet we rocked them to their foundations in this F.A. Cup tie. They were European champions, then, too.

1997 – Chelsea 4 Liverpool 2.

Two down at the break, Hughes, Zola and Vialli produced the best second-half performance I have ever witnessed and this game had me buzzing for days after.

2008 – Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2.

A night of high drama and pure emotion at The Bridge as Frank sent us off to Moscow.

2009 – Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4.

One of the most stunning nights of football ever seen in SW6.

But there are plenty of others – the 2003 CL “decider” and Zola’s last ever game in the Chelsea blue…the back-to-back CL games at Anfield in 2008 and 2009…and the crucial game in 2010 which almost wrapped-up the league title.

And yet – the old cliché…familiarity has certainly bred contempt. There is no love lost between us. The turning point came in 2005…not the Carling Cup Final (another corker!), but the CL semi-final at Anfield, only a few days after our first League Championship in 50 years.

The Luis Garcia goal that wasn’t and that song; the History song.

Things have never been the same since and I guess they never will.

The Weather Report: –

I collected Parky at 9.15am and my car was shrouded in mist for the entire trip to London. Ah, this was proper London weather…proper football weather…and proper Chelsea weather. I thought back to all of those classic photos from a long lost era, when Stamford Bridge was enveloped in mist and fog during those countless winters where players with names such as Hilsdon, Gallagher, Spence, Bambrick and Woodley toiled on the sodden turf. Those London fogs seemed to have almost disappeared over the past decades, but here was a day which would provide echoes of past gladiatorial battles. I wondered what the visitors from America… Andy, Josh W and Josh B – all from sunny southern California – would make of the winter weather. I was hopeful that it would add to their day at The Bridge.

Friends: –

This was a typically manic pre-match. For once, I visited the Chelsea Megastore and loaded up with Chelsea presents for my trip to Germany. I am staying with my old friend Mario in Bergisch-Gladbach, a mere 10 miles from Leverkusen. I bought loads of Chelsea items for him and his three boys…all Juventus fans, but soon to be Chelsea fans too. I collected my ticket for Wednesday and then Parky and I spun around to the hotel bar.

We met up with Texas Beth, Toronto Dave, Kent Gill and Kent Graeme, LA Andy, LA Josh, SF Pete, DC John and San Diego Josh.

Not to mention the Holy Trinity – Ron Harris, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling.

Beers, photos, laughs.

I did my best shepherd impersonation and coaxed and cajoled the visitors along to the CFCUK stall, then The Malt House (where we quickly bumped into Chicago Joe and Chicago Michelle) and eventually up to The Goose. This was Josh B’s first ever visit to Stamford Bridge for a game and although he was cool and collected, I just knew his heart was beating fast. A single bottle of Peroni, a quick chat with the regulars – “ready for Germany, boys?” – and we then retraced our steps back to The Bridge.

The Liquidator: –

“Blue Is The Colour” gave way to “The Liquidator” as I reached my seat in the Matthew Harding wraparound.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10150466869397658

Football: –

It hurts me to report that this was not a great Chelsea performance. And yet, in that first-half, we did carve out a few chances…a Mata effort from an angle, a Mikel blast from way out. A Drogba free-kick which confused us all. But Liverpool chased and harried us. At the other end, Petr Cech made a lovely double save on the goal line. The noise wasn’t fantastic. The Liverpool fans, away in that far corner – maybe sound-proofed in all the mist – seemed quitter than normal. They didn’t have their usual array of red flags either…just a few, including that very rare sighting – an LFC Union Jack.

They’re Scouse, not English, as the banner on The Kop infamously said at a previous CL game.

A Cech ball to Mikel, a slip and a neat ball by Bellamy.

1-0 to the visitors and they were jumping.

At the break, I said to Alan that Mata was quiet. The whole team needed to step up. Sturridge entered the fray in place of the hapless Mikel and as I was still trying to fathom out if Villas-Boas had changed the shape of the team when Malouda whipped in a ball and Sturridge struck. I had to rub my eyes; it was just the sort of goal that we let in, usually in the last few minutes, at The Shed End.

We then had a period of ascendency and a few half-chances…a Luiz header, a Malouda strike, Drogba over from the “D”.

Then Liverpool threatened again.

There was disquiet in the ranks and the support waned.

A desperate change by the manager saw the ex-Anfield players Torres and Meireles enter the fray…but late…way too late. The stunning denouement saw ex-Chelsea full-back Glen Johnson maraud into the Chelsea final third and curl one in at the far post.

Bloody hell.

Bloody Liverpool.

Again the Scouse hordes jumped like fools.

The Future: –

It was a sombre drive home. The winter night grew cold. The lights of the cars made driving tiresome. I was in no mood to listen to “606.” I dropped off Parky and returned home with my tail between my legs. I half-heartedly watched our game on “Match of the Day 2” and – I’ll be honest – was surprised how many chances we had during the game. But, deep down, I knew. You knew. We all knew. We had been poor and Liverpool had taken their chances well. In retrospect, it was closer than it felt, but us Chelsea fans have grown to expect better performances. I scanned the internet for comments and there was talk of “high defensive lines”, “square pegs in round holes”, “changing the guard” and even concerns for AVB’s tenure as manager.

I shrugged and tried to be as pragmatic as possible.

The team is changing – but can we?

Can we cope with a season of transition, of change, of metamorphosis? Can we allow the manager that most vaunted commodity – time?

While we all ponder that, Bayer Leverkusen await.

Germany – here we come.

Tales From Scouserbowl XXXIV

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 6 February 2011.

Has there ever been more anticipation for a regular league game than this one? The build-up throughout the week, from the signing of Fernando Torres late on Monday, dominated the UK media and, with each passing day, I could not wait for Sunday to finally arrive. Putting aside the concerns over the money invested in Torres – and David Luiz – for one moment, this was a phenomenal transfer, the like of which we rarely see. This was Chelsea Football Club’s most newsworthy signing since Ruud Gullit back in 1995 and a massive statement of intent. On the Richter scale of Chelsea transfers involving centre-forwards, I would imagine it is up there with the sepia-toned signings of Hughie Gallagher and Tommy Lawton.Strikers in their prime. The best in the business.

At moments throughout the week at work, with Liverpool fans being sheepishly quiet, I couldn’t help but think to myself –

“Bloody hell – we’ve got Fernando Torres.”

From a simple fans’ perspective, I found it nerve-tingling stuff.

And yet, there were still the niggling doubts and concerns eating away at me throughout the week too. Over the past few years, we have preached financial sobriety with the end goal being that of planned and sustained self-sufficiency. Our signings have been in moderation compared to the “splash” of the summer of 2003. How did the sudden, dramatic splurge of £70M on two players sit in my mind? I was uneasy with it if I am truthful – I am always so wary that this great Chelsea Experiment could implode at any given moment…this is Chelsea after all…and the financial noose that has now been put around our neck is substantial.

In a nutshell, we must keep winning.

And then there are concerns of Torres’ fitness and how we could fit him in to our team, so reliant on the trusted 4-3-3 since the arrival of Jose Mourinho in 2004.

We then had the incredible appetiser of the games on Saturday. On a day when a record number of goals were scored, not only Arsenal did let in four late goals at Newcastle United, but Manchester United lost at Molyneux too. But there were also wins for Spurs and Manchester City, though…

On a weekend when Superbowl XLV was taking place, I had no doubts in my mind that the Chelsea vs. Liverpool game would be The Greatest Show On Earth. In preparation, I consulted my big old spread sheet – growing with each passing week – of Chelsea games…I have now laboriously entered team line-ups for the first 200 games that I have had the pleasure to attend and am therefore almost a quarter of the way towards completion. It acts as a great memory aid to be honest…so many games, so many moments, so many Kerry Dixon goals, so many Pat Nevin dribbles, so many Eddie Newton turns…

Some facts and figures – the game on Sunday 6th. February 2011 would be my thirty-fourth Chelsea vs. Liverpool game. In the thirty-three previous games (24 League, 5 Champions League, 3 F.A. Cup and 1 League Cup), we had only lost four…a pretty remarkable achievement. I have only missed two Chelsea vs. Liverpool games since 1979 in fact – on both of those occasions, I was on holiday in the USA (1989 in Seattle and 1993 in St. Augustine).

The first three of these games all resulted in Chelsea wins – and this was back in the days when Liverpool was a force to be reckoned with. Then, two home games in 1985-86 and Liverpool started to redress the balance. Firstly, Liverpool beat us 2-1 in the F.A.Cupin January when Kerry went off with a groin strain and was never the same player again. Then, dramatically, the league game in May – and a goal from Kenny Dalglish which gave Liverpool the title. Liverpool brought thousands down to that one and packed the crumbling north terrace. I have one distinct memory of that game. I watched the game from The Benches and, a few moments after the game had ended, I was walking up the Shed terrace, by the Bovril Gate, just as the Chelsea PA played “We Are The Champions” and I had a little moment to myself, thinking –

“Bloody typical – the only time I will ever hear that song at The Bridge is when some other team wins the league here.”

Charlton Athletic in May 2005 was indeed a long way off.

I collected Parky at 9.30am and it was a desperately bleak day. There seemed to be hardly a hint of colour in the countryside as we rolled eastwards. However, the densely-packed tress which lined the M4 – neither brown, nor grey – had a stark beauty all of their own. Despite the lead grey skies and the austere landscapes, we were in good spirits. I popped an album by “Keane” on the CD player and our chat abated as we drove on, the music combining perfectly with the countryside all around us.

In the small hours of Friday morning – 4.20am to be precise – Andy Wray had awoken me with a text with the simple message –

“Jack Kerouac. See you Sunday.”

Ah, great stuff…I was previously unaware that he was coming over for the game, but I had made plans to meet up with him. We were parked up at 11.30am – the skies still grey, but at least no rain. Parky and I raced down to “Lloyds” – above the Fulham Broadway tube – and got stuck into a match day brunch. Andy, plus fellow Orange County stalwarts Tom “there has to be another way” Motherway and SteveO, soon arrived and joined us for breakfast. This was SteveO’s first game at Chelsea, though I had previously bumped into him in Baltimore in 2009. I think that SteveO was suffering the excesses of the previous night, bless him. This was a whirlwind trip for them – for Tom, especially…arrive Saturday, match Sunday, depart Monday. I take my hat off to them.

Parky left us to go back to The Goose. I trotted up to the hotel with Tom who was keen to see if Ron Harris was available for a quick chat and photo call. Our luck was in – we spent a good fifteen minutes in the company of our leading appearance maker and I took the requisite photo of Ron Harris With Smiling American Guest, for what must be the twentieth time. A pint in the hotel bar while we waited for Andy and SteveO to join us. From there, we spun round, over the bridge, past The Black Bull and down to The Fox And Pheasant. This is one of my favourites – a miniscule pub in a mews, with the the East Stand roof visible only 300 yards away. We took our pints and stood outside on the pavement along with a hundred more. We had hardly seen a Scouser. Tom spotted a sign outside the pub – and commented that this would just not be seen anywhere in America.

“Sorry – No Admittance To Away Fans. Chelsea Supporters Please Show Match Tickets, Members Cards, Season Tickets.”

We spoke for a few minutes about the various differences in the sporting rituals of our two nations – now, there’s a book waiting to be written! – and enjoyed the lovely pre-match. The skies were still overcast, though – and SteveO was still looking, ahem, under the weather. I had to go off and wait for a mate outside The So-Bar, so we got some chap to take our photos outside the main entrance and went our separate ways. Unfortunately for them, the three Californians had seats in the deathly quiet East Lower, albeit next to the away 3,000. I hoped that “Ring Of Fire” would not be ringing in their ears for the next few days.

The match? This is where I may have a writer’s block.

Despite the heightened anticipation all week long, I thought that the atmosphere was strangely muted. I got in rather early for me at about 3.40pm, just as the players were leaving the pitch after their pre-match warm-up. That first photo of our new Number Nine would have to wait. The Scousers took a while to fill their section, but it was another full house at Stamford Bridge. We should be justly proud of our attendance record these days – constant league sell outs for ages…only three sub 40,000 league games since 2003. And despite Liverpool’s obvious status as a big club, Anfield was 4,000 short during the week.

There was a minute’s polite applause for 1955 Championship winner Les Stubbs who had sadly passed during the week.

Rest In Peace.

On the Shed End screen, the cameras lingered on the teams waiting on the steps in the tunnel. A tense moment. JT alongside Gerrard. Stony faces. No communication. There is no love lost.

As the teams entered the pitch, all eyes and cameras were on Fernando Torres. I snapped away during the walk across the sacred turf. I was struck with how thin Torres is. The handshakes between former players. A scene reminiscent of Manchester City at home a year ago – another game witnessed by Andy and Tom…another fly in, fly out game. Amidst the hype of Torres, I had largely forgotten about Joe Cole. A lost soul now, but still a Chelsea legend. Would we boo him, should he play? Of course not. The Scousers though, visibly wounded by the Torres transfer, had already made their position clear.

There were boos for Torres, but also two specially crafted banners –

“He Who Betrays Will Never Walk Alone.”

“Breaking News – Ya Paid 50 Mil 4 Margi Clarke.”

The Chelsea support were roused at the start with a couple of corkers –

“He Wants To Play For A Big Club.”

“F*** Your History, We’ve Got Fernando.”

However, the tense game which unfolded seemed to sap our strength and our ability to support the troops. I only – very briefly – heard the Chelsea Torres song once…despite it appearing on thousands of texts, emails and websites over the past week. To be honest, I was rather sickened to see an exact copy (but in blue) on Facebook of the Liverpool “El Nino” banner which had been produced by Chelsea fans over the past few days. I was hoping that it would only be used for this one game only – a one game wind-up – but I have a feeling it will be paraded around away grounds for a while. Could we not come up with our own banner? To be honest, I didn’t see it at the game…only on TV after…and my heart sunk. It looked so “un-Chelsea” it was ridiculous. Let’s hope it doesn’t appear again.

In a passage of play which reminded me of Vinnie Jones getting booked after just 10 seconds in 1992, Mikel was booked after 30 seconds. We began with lots of possession.

Fernando Torres collected an errant pass and settled himself outside the “D.” However, his shot sailed over. After a few Liverpool breaks, we raised our game with a few chances. A Lampard corner, in swinging towards the near post, but Ivanovic headed over. Soon after – in retrospect – the chance of the match…a break, a ball from Didier Drogba into Torres in the inside-right channel, but that old warhorse Carragher stretched out a leg to block. Then a gilded chance for Liverpool. Steven Gerrard was involved in a lot of the play and his ball into the box bobbled just as Maxi Rodrigues pounced. It was an open goal, but he shinned it up onto the bar from just six yards.

We weren’t playing well and everyone knew it. The midfield was off the pace and – of course, my big fear – we had no width.After the goal fest of Saturday, how typical that this one looked like it was going to be a lot less lively.

The crowd seemed to be roused a little after the break – perhaps the top ups of beer had the desired effect. At a corner, I spotted Carragher and Torres tussling and snapped. The photograph I took is amazing. It shows Carragher grabbing hold of Torres’ arm with both hands and applying a tight grip. We were fuming. However the noise soon subsided and The Bridge fell eerily quiet. A Nicolas Anelka shot bobbled narrowly wide. Then – oh dear – Torres was substituted and the away fans roared. They had been reasonably quiet in the first half, but grew louder as Liverpool had more and more of the ball. At times, they were all over us in midfield. Gerrard was dominant, Lampard absent.

“Clap, clap – clap, clap, clap – clap, clap, clap, clap – Dalglish” echoed around red-half of The Shed.

To be honest, I don’t mind Dalglish – a superb player and a decent man. I find it strange that many newer generation Liverpool fans can’t pronounce his name correctly, though.

Kenny Daglish never played for Liverpool.

The game wore on and Liverpool was chasing every ball. Then, a rare chance as Essien sent a curling left-footer over on 66 minutes. But soon after, a calamity. Gerrard seemed to be hemmed in right down in the corner, near to where Parky watches the games from. However, Lampard gave him too much room and a cross was lobbed into the box. What happened next was a terrible blur. The ball by-passed Cech and Ivanovic and was nimbly poked home by Meireles. The Scousers erupted and there truly is nothing worse in the entire world than watching 3,000 away fans celebrating a goal at Stamford Bridge. And yet – I must be some sort of masochist – I always have to watch.

“God – look at them, they’re losing it big time.”

The twist of the knife was seeing Gerrard sprint 40 yards and outstretch his right arm and touch many fans as he raced by.

We knew we were beaten, despite 20 minutes left on the clock. The Bridge was supremely funereal. The only bright spot from the entire day was the assured debut of David Luiz in the last quarter. He made two great tackles and was soon ordering team mates around. He looks a quality defender. One moment brought back memories of Frank Lebouef, when Luiz had the ball at his feet some forty yards out and seemed to move the ball, just like Lebouef, onto his right foot in preparation of a snorter. Alas, he didn’t take that option, but I wish he had. A further twist of the knife occurred when an obvious foul by Glen Johnson on Ivanovic was not justly rewarded with a penalty and our time was up. It was not to be. As much as it pains me to say it, we did not deserve the win and now the doubts are setting in again…

I picked up the last “CFCUK” left at the stall and – seeing a mate – I briefly summed it up in three words…

“Too much hype.”

With Parky sleeping like a baby, I was diverted off the M4 due to an accident and so was forced onto the M3. Just what I wanted! The long, mournful, drive home seemed to take forever. Yet again, words to a song on the CD player seemed to sum things up, almost too-perfectly…

“My side.
Is it any wonder I’m tired?
Is it any wonder that I feel uptight?
Is it any wonder I don’t know what’s right?”

I watched – with gritted teeth – “Match Of The Day Two” and then caught some of the action from that other game taking place that night, deep in the heart of North Texas.

“See that massive HD TV screen? John Terry hit that.”

By the time of the half-time show, I too was sleeping like a baby…

Tales From Miseryside

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 7 November 2010.

My sporting weekend began on Friday evening when San Francisco Bob, Lord Parky and I visited a local pub to see Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke, who were in the middle of a spate of appearances all over the United Kingdom. We had a great time. I have heard most of Ron’s stories from his playing days before, but it was refreshing to listen to Charlie’s tales from Scotland, England and America. I especially enjoyed Charlie’s reminiscences of playing amongst Docherty’s Diamonds. Tommy Doc was quite a character and I think there was a certain kinship between player and manager since they both came from hard-nosed working class areas in Scotland; Cooke, a Protestant, from Greenock on the banks of the Clyde and Docherty, a Catholic, from the bleakest of inner city areas of all, The Gorbals. We were whooping with laughter at the stories about Peter Osgood, Tommy Smith, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Charlton.

On the Saturday, Bob and I watched local Zamaretto League team Frome Town play Clevedon Town. My two friends from school days Steve and Francis were at the game too and it made a nice change. Steve was a big Bristol City fan as a youth and it is ironic that his eldest son Harry is now banging in the goals for one of Bristol Rovers’ academy teams. Frome came from 0-1 down to nab an unlikely 2-1 win with a goal in the very last minute. However, my elation was short-lived when Bob told me that Manchester United had also scored a last minute winner. Bloody Hell.

On the Sunday, it was Chelsea’s turn to play.

I collected Bob from his hotel in Frome Market Place and drove over to Westbury. From there, my friend Mark – with his daughter Kerry – took over the reins. By 10.30am, Lord Parky was aboard and we were on our way to Merseyside. I was feeling slightly jaded from a whirlwind pub crawl of my local town with Bob on the Saturday evening. Parky was his usual ebullient self, though, and we hadn’t reached Bath before he asked –

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

So, at last, a game in the North West without me at the wheel. I sat back and relaxed as Mark made good time. I first met Mark on that fateful day in April 1984 when we beat Dirty Leeds 5-0 and won promotion to the top flight. We reminisced about that day plus a few others from around that time. Parky and Mark’s mate Les phoned and asked about tickets for the Birmingham away game. This elicited a funny story from Lord Parky. Many years ago, Les used to work as a butcher in the Trowbridge firm of “Bowyers.” On one Saturday morning, Les did a morning shift and didn’t have time to get changed from his white butcher’s overalls. He drove Parky and a few other Trowbridge ruffians up to Chelsea in his car and parked up close to the ground. As a master butcher, he always kept his set of expensive knives in the car boot. As he hurriedly parked his car, his all-white tunic attracted the attention of a passing policeman, who was further taken aback when he glimpsed Les’ set of sparkling knives in the car boot.

“What’s going on here? What are you doing?” the copper asked of Les as the butcher’s robes were being discarded.

“Sorry, what do you mean? I’m getting out of my work clothes” replied Les, sensing the chance of some laughter.

“Why, what do you do?” the policeman asked.

Les looked him in the eyes and replied “I kill pigs.”

We drove past Tewkesbury and the Malvern Hills were shrouded in low-lying clouds to the west. Parky opened up a can of “Fosters” and almost covered himself in beer spray. After a couple of corrective gulps, he wiped his mouth with his hand and enquired –

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

I posed my favourite question about which football stadia can be seen within five minutes of each other in the Birmingham area and Kerry answered correctly. Incidentally, guess who Kerry is named after? Too easy, eh? Alan and Gary were on their way north on the Chelsea train and Burger and Julie were Liverpool-bound too. We shot past my former stomping ground of Stoke-On-Trent and Parky opened another lager.

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

Bob was taking it all in, with his excitement rising as each exit on the M6 was passed. This was to be Bob and Kerry’s first visit to the fields of Anfield Road, while Mark’s last visit was in 2002. I think Parky’s last visit was back in the ‘eighties. We flew over the Thirlwall Viaduct and then off at exit 23. Mark now had Liverpool in his sights and the chat got quicker and more intense.

We parked about a mile from Anfield and the weather was sunny, yet with quite a cold wind. As we crossed the road, a gaggle of Scousers were eyeing us up and asked the fabled question –

“Watch your car mate?”

To be truthful, Mark didn’t have a clue what they had said since it sounded more like “Washyercamate?”, that nasal Scouse accent to the fore. We ignored them and walked on by.

We walked through the Stanley Park cemetery, then out onto Utting Avenue. A chap dressed in an army uniform was playing “The Fields Of Athenry” on the bagpipes as we headed up the hill and another soldier had a bucket collecting for Remembrance Day. Our jackets were protecting us from the cold. We skipped past The Arkles as it looked too busy. Instead, we made our way to The Flat Iron. Pints were purchased and we made our way into the lounge bar just as “Going Underground” by The Jam started on the pub juke-box. How appropriate I thought. Going underground, going behind enemy lines, going undercover. We stayed there for about an hour, a little gaggle of Chelsea in one corner, surrounded by Scousers all around us. A lad called Andy joined us and it turned out that Andy has the fortune of sitting next to Parky in the Shed Lower. Small world, eh? We were then joined by Julie and Burger, then Cathy and Dog. I was still struggling with the remnants of my hangover, so regrettably didn’t join in further rounds. My mate Francis, a Liverpool fan, texted me to say that Essien wasn’t playing.

Oh dear.

Kelly was on way up from the city centre, along with his sister and wife. I met Kelly in Texas last summer and this was his first Chelsea game on English soil, albeit in that very strange part of England called Merseyside. Maybe there needs to be an asterisk there somewhere. At about 3.15pm, we decided to head off to circumnavigate the ground and take in the sights

As we headed towards the back of The Kop on Walton Breck Road, we passed five or six Scousers sitting on a low red brick wall. They were sporting tight dark jeans with old school Puma and Adidas trainers, like throwbacks to that golden era of Scallydom in the late ‘seventies. We soon found ourselves right underneath the red brick and grey roof supports of The Kop. Touts were looking for business, street traders were grafting away and there was the usual mix of sounds and smells of matchdays…those impenetrable thick Scouse accents, the shouts of fans, the smell of chips, the noise, the tribal routines and the anticipation.

The Bill Shankly statue was centre-stage. As Burger and Bob took a few photographs, I was reminded of a story which I heard Peter Osgood tell many years ago. He himself heard this story from the Liverpool hard man Tommy Smith and it centres on Bill Shankly, that tough and wily manager who first put Liverpool on the map. On a visit to Anfield in the mid-sixties, an un-named away team went 1-0 down in the first-half and endured a horrendous day, having to resort to desperate measures to keep Liverpool from scoring again and again. Wave after wave of Liverpool attacks were repelled, the woodwork was hit countless times and Liverpool should have been 5-0 up. Then, in virtually the last kick of the game, the away team miraculously broke up field and a ball was played into the waiting centre-forward. Liverpool had a ‘keeper called Tommy Lawrence at the time – he was bizarrely nicknamed The Flying Pig – and as the striker shot, the ball flew right through Lawrence’s legs and into the goal. The ref soon blew up and Lawrence was mortified. He was the last off the pitch, not wanting to face his team mates, nor – worse – the acid tongued Shankly. The changing room was silent and Lawrence took his seat. Not a word was said. Eventually, Shankly appeared and stood in the middle. No player dare look up. They should have killed the visitors off. After what seemed like ages, Lawrence looked up and spoke –

“Look boss, it’s my fault. I should have saved that shot. I should have kept my legs together.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Shankly barked in that tough Glasgow burr “No son…it was your mother who should have kept her legs together.”

Some character, Shanks.

We then edged around towards the away stand and walked through the Shankly Gates, erected soon after the passing of Bill Shankly in 1981. The gates were forged in my home town of Frome, strangely enough. We momentarily stood by the Hillsborough Memorial and I noted quite a few Scousers touching the black granite with 96 names etched in gold. I bought a copy of “CFCUK” and there was an obituary by Beth for her beloved friend Simon Turner. We heard another rumour that Drogba was on the bench.

Oh dear.

A few “hello mates” to the usual suspects as I made my way to my seat, right behind the Annie Road goal. Such a familiar view these days – this would be my seventeenth visit to Anfield, probably more than a lot of Liverpool fans. Bob and Kelly were sat just five rows behind us. Unfortunately, the pre-match rumours were true. Not only no Frank Lampard, but no Michael Essien and no Didier Drogba. The midfield three looked particularly second rate. A big game for Nico upfront. In the match programme, I loved seeing five or six black and white photographs from a Chelsea vs. Liverpool game from March 1978. I saw the game with my parents in the East Lower and we beat the reigning European champions 3-1 after going a goal down. Fantastic memories. Our goals were scored by the stalwarts from the America Tour of 2009, those likely lads Steve Finnieston and Tommy Langley. Tommy rates his first goal from that game as his best ever Chelsea strike.

Gerry and The Pacemakers did their usual turn and thousands of red and white scarves were held aloft. It seems hard to believe these days, but back in the ‘seventies and early ‘eighties, “YNWA” was not restricted to the terraces of Anfield. Back in those days, a lot of clubs used to mimic The Koppites. The Shed often used to sing “YNWA” and blue and white scarves were held overhead. Strange, but true.

We kicked-off and kept possession for 63 seconds. I think this was our best spell of that first-half. Joking aside, we were bloody awful. Liverpool chased us down at every opportunity and we had no time on the ball. Of course, Torres pounced on about ten minutes to outwit a tangled John Terry and neatly finish with a clipped flick to the far post. Seeing the net bulge made me feel ill. The home support roared and Torres reeled away. A sickening feeling. I just stared at the celebrating home fans and it hurt. Soon after, an Ashley Cole cross found Salomon Kalou who forced a great save from Pepe Reina. However, apart from a couple of long shots, I can’t remember any other Chelsea chances in that arid first period. I thought Mikel was solid, but Zhirkov and Ramires were sadly deficient. They were neither defending well, nor breaking forward in support of the stranded Anelka. I hadn’t seen a more insipid Chelsea midfield for quite a while. The one high spot of the half was watching Alex go up a gear to effortlessly beat Torres in a beautiful sprint for a loose ball. He was like a middle-distance runner turning it on during the last 100 metres of a race. Then of course, a slip by Ashley and the ball was splayed wide to Torres. I immediately sensed danger. Ivanovic should have forced him outside, but gave him too much room. Torres advanced, dropped a shoulder and craftily curled the ball past a stranded Cech and into the goal. The net bulged again and the Scousers roared even loader. Oh God. It pains me to say that the two Torres goals were of exceptional quality.

Long faces at half time. I said to Gary “I can’t see us getting back into this, mate. In fact, I can see us conceding more.” I wanted a big team talk from Carlo at half-time. He’d have to change things. Bringing on Drogba was a no-brainer.

The second-half was, of course, much better. However, could we really have played any worse? We enjoyed a lot more of the ball. On 59 minutes, Ramires rose and headed over from a Cole cross and this stirred the away support. We had been standing all game and we never stopped cheering the lads on. As we got more and more into the game, the Scousers quietened down. This was a lot better and we urged the team forward. I was thoroughly enthralled in the game – though it never felt like we would get the goals back. However, I was kicking every ball, heading every cross, sliding in with every tackle.

The Scousers sang of “No History” and “Rent Boys.”

“At least it’s a job!” retorted Alan.

One thing annoyed me. Drogba was tackled but was not given a free-kick. With rising anger, I watched him slowly get up – with a Chelsea attack developing around him – and slowly walk twenty yards towards the penalty area, oblivious to the play to his left. At one stage, the ball was played to him and he was facing the wrong way. Groin strain or no groin strain, this sort of behaviour is not wanted at Chelsea Football Club. However, I suddenly realised that Liverpool had hardly touched the ball during the previous fifteen minutes.

“Come On Chelsea.”

A great show of strength from Drogba – at last! – and a ball was slammed into Malouda, but his shot was saved at point blank range by Reina. We groaned like never before. Despite good wing play from substitute Bosingwa and the lively Ashley Cole, we didn’t carve out many real chances. John Terry often raced forward to support the attack, but Liverpool defended resolutely. Carlo made some changes and Sturridge had a couple of half chances. I couldn’t believe that Ramires wasn’t substituted, though. The game passed him by completely. I was really pleased that hardly anybody amongst the 3,000 Chelsea loyalists left before the end of the game. We stayed with it. We all knew how important this game was. Anelka hit the bar from close in with five minutes to go and the ball spun back into the lucky Reina’s arms. We just knew it wasn’t to be our day.

Where was The Flying Pig when we needed him?

We marched back to the car and we were soon headed south. Within a few minutes of getting onto the M6, Parky inevitably asked –

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

We had the predictable post-mortem…why didn’t Didier start, why were Yuri and Ramires so poor, how did we give Liverpool so much space? I felt tired and, for once, I was able to get some sleep…a rare luxury for me on Chelsea match day journeys. By the time we had stopped at Stafford for some refreshments, the mood had lightened a little. I commented to Mark that we ought to put this into perspective. We were depressed after an awful first-half, but there are thousands of football fans who travel the congested roads of England and Wales in support of their teams and, for many, there is no end to the agony, no end to the run of defeats, no cash, no future, no light at the end of the tunnel. Only the friendships of fellow fans to get them through the murky gloom.

Back in the car, Parky opened up another can.

“Are we there yet, Mark?”

Mark made good time and Parky kept us all in good spirits with joke after joke. It was great to be laughing again. I’m not saying that the Liverpool debacle was swept under the carpet, but I was pleased that we were reacting to defeat with typical gallows humour. Proper Chelsea. We chatted non-stop for a while about all sorts…Tiswas, Sally James, The Liver Birds, favourite sandwiches, Lily the Pink, beans on toast, Donald McGill seaside postcards and yet more Parky jokes. Some good, some bad. After one particularly poor example, nobody laughed and there was a pregnant pause…

“Are we there yet, Mark?” I asked.

Parky was shoved out of the car at 10pm…”see you on Wednesday, mate.” Goodbyes to Mark and Kerry at Westbury and a goodbye to The Bobster in Frome. It had been a bad day at the office, but we have two winnable home games coming up.

Let’s regroup and go again.

Tales From Anfield Road

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 2 May 2010.

I awoke – ahead of the alarm, never a good sign – at 5.30am and after pouring myself a coffee for the journey, I set off for Liverpool bang on 7am. This had the historic feel of the momentous trip up to Bolton in April 2005.

A day of destiny.

On that never-to-be-forgotten day, I drove up with Glenn and Frank, but this was going to be a solo trip north. Unfortunately, the first signs were not good. The weather which accompanied me for the first hour or so was sombre and grey with rain showers. I had an Elvis Costello CD on the go – a mixture of old classics, plus a few new songs which my mate Pete ( a United fan, no less ) had compiled especially for me. I had never realised how far Costello looked towards America in his musical leanings. As I headed past Bristol on the M5, my car was reverberating to the sounds of blues and country. The trees lining the motorway were now full of leaves and for a few moments, with Costello’s guitar providing twangs usually associated with America, I could easily have been headed north of Atlanta, heading up through Georgia towards The Smokies. These trees – in Gloucestershire – though, were not suffocated by kudzu, that bizarre plant of the south-eastern states which envelops and masks anything that gets in its way.

My mind was being easily distracted from thoughts of the game and I was very happy about this. On the rare occasions it entered my mind, I quickly moved onto something else…I didn’t need the worry, the anxiety, the possibility of failure. I thought about allsorts as I raced north. It was a shame that Parky would not be accompanying me on this one, but I knew that a few other mates were heading north too. Alan and Gary on the coaches, Daryl and Rob in a car, Beth with Gill and Graeme.

The last of the Costello songs ended as Tewkesbury Abbey came in to view. I then kept the American vibe going by putting on some John Lee Hooker.

“Boom Boom Boom Boom.”

Better some blues, I thought, rather than the red of Costello, a Liverpudlian in terms of place of birth and football team alike.

Thankfully, the rain stopped at Worcester and, soon after, a streak of blue was spotted in the sky. Although the sun soon broke through, this was a false dawn as it stayed pretty cloudy for the rest of the day. I spotted the first “Liverpool car” at Droitwich, then my first “Chelsea car” on the M6 around Wolverhampton. I stopped at Keele services for a coffee refill and noted the place was filling up with Adidas shirts of both the red of Liverpool and the royal blue of Chelsea.

My mind was still doing a grand job in blotting out any thoughts of the game. I thought back to a funny tale from my early childhood. My grandfather once went on a coach trip for a week – to North Wales I believe – in around 1971 and was told by my father to “bring Chris back something to do with football.” I would have only been six, but it was obvious that my love of the game was clear for all to see. To my horror ( and to my parents too, no doubt ), my grandfather brought me back a red Liverpool duffle bag, with white liver bird crest. I am sure I rolled my eyes heavenwards and my parents gave my poor grandfather ( who wasn’t a football fan at all, unlike his late wife ) the third degree on why ( oh why! ) didn’t he bring back a Chelsea bag. I think his response was along the lines of –

“Oh, I’m sorry – I just thought it was OK to bring back anything to do with football.”

Even at the age of six, football equalled Chelsea in my eyes.

So – for the next few years, whenever we went swimming at the old baths in Frome, my swimming trunks and towel were taken in using this red Liverpool bag and I was forever having to defend the actions of my poor grandfather. The friends, who obviously recognised my status as a keen Chelsea fan, couldn’t understand it either. I seem to remember that I stuck a couple of Yogi Bear badges on the bag and unconvincingly claimed that it was Yogi’s team, not mine.

So – Liverpool and Chelsea…it goes back a long way!

This was my fifteenth trip to Anfield and I had only seen us win a league game on one occasion before, that momentous game in 1992 which resulted in Chelsea’s first victory at Liverpool’s stadium since 1937. Since 1992, there had been a further three victories, but I had not been present.

Of course, the build up to the game in the media was dominated by Liverpool’s relationship with Manchester United…and their pivotal role in the destination of this year’s title. It could be a case of most Liverpool fans wanting Liverpool to lose and all United fans wanting Liverpool to win.

A funny game, football.

I reverted to type and whacked the old stalwarts New Order on the CD as I drove the last hour into Merseyside. I know I have mentioned it before, but that view as I headed over the Manchester Ship Canal is the classic North-West away game moment for me…let me recreate it again. Manchester, full of worried and paranoid United fans, just 15 miles to my east and Liverpool, full of depressed and confused Liverpool fans, just 15 miles to my west. And ahead – Winter Hill and The Reebok, scene of that game at Bolton in 2005.

I headed west on the M62, the road linking the old adversaries of Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds ( whatever happened to them? Ho ho ho ) and was soon hurtling along Queens Drive, the road which provides the final few miles of my trips to Anfield and Goodison. I’m always superstitious and, in lieu of last season’s CL triumph at Anfield, I parked in the same road as on that momentous night when Ivanovic became an instant Chelsea legend.

I was parked up at 10.45am. Job done. But now, with the stands of Anfield clearly visible at the top of Utting Avenue, the nerves began again. There was a chill in the air.

After popping into The Arkles, already full of Chelsea, I then headed down to meet Chopper from New York in The Flat Iron. It gave me a moment to mull over the immediate environment around Liverpool’s home ground. The area to the north is dominated by Stanley Park – the intended site of their new stadium ( start date 2075 ), but on all other sides there are stereotypical terraced streets, with houses of various colours, some red brick, some painted, some clad in various materials. It’s a solid working class area. The area around Goodison is the same. Maybe I imagined it, but the streets looked bleaker than normal. I found Chopper at the bar in The Flat Iron, nursing a pint of Strongbow. He was glad to see me. He was wearing a variety of neutral colours ( purple sweatshirt, green baseball cap ) and was just a bit paranoid about being “outed” as an away fan. The pub was OK, though, half and half home and away fans. Only the Liverpool fans were wearing club colours. We spoke about Liverpool – its role as one of the World’s great ports, but now a UK Detroit, on the decline forever.

We then moved further away from Anfield, down to The Cabbage Hall, where an entertaining time – as always – was spent with Cath and Dog. At 12.45pm, we wanted to move on. I fancied stopping just outside The Kop, just to gauge the mood of the restless natives, but everyone was so quiet. We moved all of the way around the stadium – what a lot of gloomy faces. As we moved past the south-west corner, I mentioned to Chopper that at the 1992 game, I remembered seeing a “half-time” turnstile ( for people locked out at the start of any games, this would open up if anyone were taken ill during the first-half, or if the stadium authorities believed The Kop to be safe to squeeze any more into its packed interior ). In all my travels, I had never seen such a feature at any other ground.

At the Hillsborough Memorial, we took our caps off and stood silent for a few seconds.

A chat with a few faces outside the away turnstiles and then inside. The place was buzzing.

Alan, Gal and myself had prime seats, row 8, just to the left of the goal. After all these trips to Anfield since 2005, what a familiar place it is. That scoreboard – and clock – in the corner of The Kop seemed to hover menacingly. How often have I begged for that clock to stand still at so many games. Beth was in, but way over by the Scousers in the main stand. Graeme and Gill were spotted a few rows below. Cathy and Dog a couple of rows behind. I took some snaps of the boys “kicking in” out on the green carpet of the pitch.

Before the game, our Chelsea away flag was held overhead as a reaction to the home fan’s ritual singing of “that song.” I’ve never heard it sang so quietly.

The teams re-entered the pitch and I took many shots of the Chelsea players hugging, high-fiveing each other, shaking each others hands and offering encouragement against the backdrop of those brightly coloured Liverpool flags and banners at the base of The Kop.

Just a great scene-setter.

The game began and I quickly glanced over our formation.

We began poorly and gifted too much early possession to Liverpool. However, the Chelsea choir were in great voice. The home fans were eerily silent. The pace of the game was slow and – bit by bit – the significance of the game became oh-so apparent.

Lose – and we’d be out of it.

A couple of early Liverpool corners and two identical Drogba headed clearances. That’s the spirit. On 13 minutes, Aquilani hit a rasping drive right towards me which just clipped the bar. Liverpool continued to pass the ball around at will and our midfield were second-best. The defensive line – JT and Alex especially – were being tested again and again, but were repelling every attack.

Cathy did a Zigger Zagger and we all joined in.

“Oi oi oi.”

We urged Malouda to get involved but he seemed to be playing a deeper role. He needed to find his form of late. We had a few sporadic attacks, but nothing to give us much cause for comfort. Half an hour had passed and we were anxious. Our singing continued and we called on The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” to inspire the team. Our end was rocking. Elsewhere, it remained deathly still. What was going through the minds of the Scousers? We tried to rattle Gerrard with a song about his recent alleged misdemeanors.

“She’s only sixteen, she’s only sixteen – Steven Gerrard, she’s only sixteen.”

I can’t claim he even heard this, but soon after, he had more worrying things on his mind. A bizarre back-pass ( we knew not from whom until half-time ) and Drogba pounced. He went wide of Reyna and stroked the ball into the empty net with The Kop looking on, aghast.

I lost it. I probably celebrated like at no other time since Frank’s goal in Moscow. I’m sure it looked great on the TV. Loads of screaming faces, loads of arms pumping.

Who needs drugs when football can do this to the brain?

Chelsea came on a bit stronger after the goal and peppered The Kop goal. Of course, we couldn’t see the fine detail involved in the tangle of legs which resulted in Kalou ending up on the floor inside the box, but texts from TV Land suggested he fell over his feet.

Typical Kalou.

At half-time, I couldn’t stand still and so went on a bit of a wander down to the front. A chat with Lovejoy, a few words with a couple of others. Then a tap on the shoulder and Kent Blues Graeme appeared alongside me. We shared a few words and returned to our seats.

Soon into the second-half, Kalou went on a beautiful run deep into the Liverpool box, right in front of me, but his ball across the goalmouth travelled the length of the six yard box without a touch. Oh boy.

Quite a few rows behind me, a gaggle of Chelsea fans sang “Three Little Birds” but it wasn’t a very loud or sustained effort. I was just about to comment to Gary that Frank was having a quiet game, when the ball was played out to Nico and we realised that the angle was perfect for the ball to be played into the “corridor of uncertainty” in front of the ‘keeper. In it came and we all held our breath. Frank arrived, stuck out a leg and in the ball went.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS.”

We lost it again. I immediately knew that it was so similar to the “cross – anticipation – shot” goal from Drogba in the CL game last season. My adrenal glands went into overdrive and we again cheered manically. I managed to scramble onto my seat, above the flailing arms, to take a few snaps of an exultant Lampard. I had to fight to keep my hand steady…snap, snap, snap. Frank’s face was a picture. Shades of Bolton 2005.

OK – Party Time, Liverpool 2010. Let’s this baby started.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”

We were on fire – the players, the fans, the entire away end bouncing as one. I lost count of the number of timers that we raided down the left wing. Kalou was on fire and Malouda’s second-half performance was much better. Down below me, I chuckled at a young boy wearing a 1981 original home shirt. It seemed a long way away, but 1981, eh? Clive Walker, Ian Britton, Micky Fillery and Colin Pates.

“Come along, come along, come along and sing this song – we’re the boys in blue from Division Two, but we won’t be there for long.”

Then – a new song for the Liverpool fans, so obsessed with their past.

“We saved your history.”

We had a few chances, Liverpool wilted. Never have 40,000 fans made less noise.

Before I knew it, the whistle went and the players came over to celebrate with us. A few more snaps – I looked for Frank and JT, our two leaders, as always. I was beaming and really didn’t want to leave. But I had a long drive ahead and I needed to be away. I bounced down Utting Avenue and took a short-cut back to my car. While I answered the first of many incoming texts from friends far and near, I found myself walking down a terraced street, but it was lined with tree after tree full of white blossom. It was a beautiful, idyllic, almost surreal scene.

I thought to myself – “Heaven must be a bit like this.”

Please excuse the sentimentality – I was in Liverpool after all.

Even my getaway was perfect as a lot of the Scousers were still inside Anfield, applauding their team for a magnificent season of mediocrity. I was soon on the M62 at 4pm and headed south. I was so pleased and contented, that I didn’t want Manchester United to spoil it. I avoided their match and listened to more music…Cocteau Twins, Keane…but then gave in to the last five minutes of the United game. Sigh.

I raced home, getting home in just over three hours. I popped into Frome where I knew that a few old school friends ( Leeds United, Manchester United, Liverpool, Bristol City and Portsmouth ) were meeting up after the usual five-a-side at Frome Sport Centre. I made sure I was the first to arrive. I wasn’t finishing second at anything.

We had a great time, talking about football as always – it was the first time all six of us had been together since about twenty years ago, as the one Leeds fan has moved to the Far East.

The laughs and smiles continued for a while, but I then realised – with United winning – “oh hell, we have to go through this all over again next week.”

So – it boils down to this…

One Game – One Win – One Champion.

Tales From February 13th. 1982 And February 13th. 2010

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Cardiff City : 13 February 2010.

An early kick-off at HQ meant that I collected the two Glenns by 8.30am and, by the time we hit the M4, the banter was flying. We passed quite a few coaches from South Wales en route. We spoke of the FA Cup…May 2009 was fresh in our minds, but I was more interested in remembering a game from my youth.

Leading up to our encounter with Cardiff City, I was well aware that there was a favourite Chelsea game from the past which also took place on February 13th. At the time, it was the best game I had ever witnessed in the flesh. Throughout this week, my mind was full of memories of our game with Liverpool on FA Cup Round Five day in 1982. On the Friday, in order to get the juices flowing, I emailed a few CFC mates and we bantered back and forth with memories of that day…we mentioned the players, the atmosphere, the thrill of that great game. I’m lucky – so lucky – to have so many Chelsea mates who “know their stuff” and can help rebuild memories of games in the distant past.

In 1981-82, Chelsea were floundering in the old Second Division, but had hit a bit of form over the Christmas and New Year period. This was our third season in the second tier. Our swish Le Coq Sportif kit was worn by such stalwarts as Clive Walker, Mike Fillery and Colin Pates. Personally, I was floundering in the Sixth Form – I had soon realised I had picked the wrong subjects – but was living for football. Playing for my school team kept me sane, but following Chelsea was my passion. For the first time, I was travelling up to games at Chelsea by myself. I was sixteen and the train fare was only £6. I had seen us play against Bolton and Wrexham and had watched these two games in The Shed for the first ever time. For the Wrexham game, a red-head from Texas was watching her first ever Chelsea game and we must’ve been no more than twenty yards away from each other. We had struggled to get past Hull and Wrexham, after replays, to meet Liverpool in Round Five. Liverpool, meanwhile, were in their absolute pomp…European Champions and on their way to three consecutive titles. It was a huge miss-match. In the Daily Mail, Ian Wooldridge had written that “the only hope I can give Chelsea is that they have no hope at all.” I think I knew what he meant. To add to our plight, I’m pretty sure that Liverpool had lost to Ipswich in a League Cup semi-final first-leg on the Wednesday and were looking for revenge. We looked easy targets. Things were mighty ominous.

I remember so many things from that day. Let me share more of them. My parents and myself caught the 8am train from Westbury and there were a gaggle of Doctor Marten-wearing Chelsea fans on the platform…no doubts, I would get to know some of these lads over the next few years. At Paddington, Mum and Dad went off to do some sightseeing, while I headed down to The Bridge to savour the pre-match atmosphere. I arrived at Fulham Broadway at around 11am and the place was already buzzing. No doubt I walked up to the East Stand, but I remember staying down by the entrance to the old West Stand for ages. I had never been to the Bridge so early and I was amazed how many fans were milling around the area by The Brittania pub ( now The So Bar. ) There seemed to be many more street vendors than usual. I specifically remember an old chap in his seventies selling old black and white photos of players from the ‘forties and ‘fifties. For some unfathomable reason, I bought one of United’s Duncan Edwards. Like all of this chap’s photos, he was pictured as he ran out onto the pitch, on those wooden running boards which used to go over the dog track.

We had West Stand seats and I remember being thankful. I am pretty sure that the game wasn’t all ticket, hence the massive crowds outside. For the 24,000 fans who would be using the terraces, it would be a case of “first come, first served.” I remember looking at the ever-growing line of Liverpool fans lining up outside the buildings of the Oswald Stoll Foundation. I looked on in awe. These lucky so-and-sos had enjoyed successes since the early ‘seventies that I could only dream of. I can’t, unfortunately, remember if the legions of scallies were wearing Adidas Stan Smiths or Slazenger and Lacoste pullovers.

The gates opened at 1pm and, for the first time since my debut in 1974, I ascended those lovely steps on that huge embankment of the West Stand. Our seats were right by The Shed – seats 1, 2 and 3, row 2 or 3. Magical stuff. My parents arrived at about 2.15pm. By then, The Shed was heaving. I believe the gates closed at 2pm. For an hour, I watched on as 14,000 Chelsea fans in The Shed sang and swayed, anticipating the game ahead. A few hundred fans were watching from atop a block of flats across the Fulham Road. I watched aghast as the shared North terrace bore witness to several charges by the Chelsea boys at their Liverpool counterparts. Two pens were Chelsea, two pens Liverpool, with a line of police somewhere in the middle. I remember seeing some Chelsea scamper through the Brompton Cemetery behind the East Stand, rush over the train lines and attack the Scousers from behind. I had never seen the like of it. To be truthful, I was sick of it. Our big day, the whole of Britain watching and these loons were dragging our name through the dirt. I was yet to learn the nuances of hooliganism. I was only 16 remember.

I remember, right down below me, about twenty Chelsea kids in their late teens, jumping over The Shed fence into The Benches in order to run up to the North Stand to join in the fray. To my huge displeasure, my mother was shouting at them to get back! I grimaced, as you can imagine.

The game kicked-off at 3pm with 41,412 jammed inside the grand old stadium. I can distinctly remember looking across at the towering East Stand, so out of place with the rest of the stadium, and noting that every single seat – row upon row – was occupied. I saw 10,000 heads, with not one single gap. Surely that doesn’t happen often. This reassured me of our massive potential. We were a middling second-tier team, but could draw in 41,000. As a comparison, our highest league gate in 1981-82 was barely 20,000.

The game was a classic. Liverpool boasted such legends as Rush, Dalglish, Souness, McDermott, Hansen and Lawrensen. After just eight minutes, we won the ball in midfield and Peter Rhoades-Brown broke away in the inside left channel. He shot early and I had an unimpeded view as the ball crept into the goal by the far post, just evading Grobbelaar’s dive.

The Bridge erupted and so did I.

For the rest of the game, Liverpool probed away without creating too many chances. Colin Pates and Kevin Hales were an odd choice in midfield, but they nullified Liverpool’s midfield maestros. At half-time, we heaved a sigh of relief. We wondered about the task ahead. Could we do it?

All I remember of the second period is the action down in front of me at The Shed End goal on about 84 minutes. We had held on – teeth grinding tension throughout – and after a goalmouth melee, the ball broke kindly to Colin Lee, who stabbed the ball in from close-range.

In that split second – I can still see the net bulge – I knew we were safe at 2-0 and I celebrated again. A different kind of celebration…the fear had gone. We were going to beat Liverpool! The thrill was almost too much. I had seen us beat Liverpool 3-1 in 1978 and we had done it again. Unbelievable.

Back to 2010. It took a while for us to find a parking space, but I eventually found one near The Elm pub. Who should be outside, pints in hand, but Cathy and Dog. There were police outside. We were on the look out for Cardiff, but hadn’t spied any apart from on the M4. We were expecting a big show from them. This was the first time I had seen Cardiff at Chelsea since 1983. I remember they sang the Welsh national anthem throughout the minute’s silence for a Chelsea fan killed at Huddersfield. We responded with boos and a chant about Aberfan, the site of a landslide which wiped out a primary school in the Welsh valleys in the ‘sixties. A different era.

Parky dipped into The Elm – he later reported that the pub was full of some Chelsea faces from the past – while Glenn and myself sat down for a fry-up at the refurbished Yadana cafe. I met a mate from work. Tickets were exchanged. The Goose was shut – not opening until 12.30pm – and I can understand why. The threat of violence pervaded most of our conversations throughout the morning.

On the walk down the North End Road, the bitter chill still in evidence, we saw no Cardiff, except in The Kings Head, which was guarded by twenty policemen and around five on horseback. For a change, we had a pint in “Jimmy’s” inside the Matthew Harding.

Unbeknown to me, Petar Borota had passed away on the Friday. How ironic that this player from 1981-82 ( he didn’t play in the Liverpool game, his place was taken by the young Steve Francis ) which a few of us had mentioned in our emails on Friday should be taken from us that very same day. He was as mad as a bucket of frogs, but was well loved at Chelsea. We applauded him for a minute before kick-off.

RIP Petar.

I spotted two inflatable sheep being passed around the MHL. There is now a “Malta” flag in the West Stand. About time more American flags showed up, I reckon. I almost missed our opener. I was looking down at the MHL singing “Ingerland” at the Welsh hordes when I looked up to see Didier clean through on goal. An easy finish and 1-0 to us after a couple of minutes. Good stuff. The rest of the first period was a bit messy. A few long-range efforts…a lob from Drogba from just inside the Cardiff half, a thunderous strike from Sturridge, a tame Lampard effort. At the other end, Bothroyd and Chopra were being given too much space and Cardiff were getting into the game. Their support was roaring. We accused them of doing “unmentionables” to sheep. Virtually all of the Cardiff fans were standing, but I did see gaps. Maybe they hadn’t made it past The Elm! A cross from Burke and Chopra headed in, totally unchallenged. Not a set piece this time, but as good as. Like Dracula, we hate crosses. With The Bluebirds flying high, I became mesmerized by three pigeons flying around the stadium. Suffice to say, it wasn’t a great game! Joe Cole was poor…he’s trying too hard. A sublime ball from Ballack, into space, was the highlight.

Mumbles and grumbles at half-time. Daryl’s son Ed came down to bemoan our woefully quiet support. Charlie Cooke was paraded at the break by Neil Barnett. I spotted Michael Essien watching from the same seat in the West Middle as Jose Mourinho versus Fulham. How we miss Essien.

We played better – much better – in the second period. Kalou came on for Joe Cole and he did well. Drogba was akin to a one man wrecking crew, full of strength and running. His ball to Ballack carved open the entire Cardiff defence and was just gorgeous. Ballack finished with aplomb. Phew. Cardiff’s support soon quietened down – and their team tired.

I had said to Alan at Preston that Daniel Sturridge would go on to emulate Peter Osgood in 1970 by scoring in all of the rounds – a pretty rash statement, I’ll admit. He wasn’t playing particularly well, but the ball broke to him down below me. The trouble was that it was on his right side…”and he hasn’t got a right foot” I said to Alan. With that, the ball broke kindly and he slotted it in wuith his left. How we laughed. Up and down we bounced. Three-one and coasting. Salomon capped a fine performance with a lovely header from a stunning Ferreira cross. Roman’s smiling face was shown on The Shed screen and we serenaded him…he responded with a wave. About time we gave him some love – his reign has not been without flaws, but he’s no Glazer, no Hicks, no Gillette.

On the walk back to the car, police sirens were wailing and we heard rumours of post-game naughtiness. We were soon on the road West. It felt strange heading along the M4 at 2.45pm…so odd to be heading back so early on a Saturday. I spotted the Wembley Arch in the distance, as we listened to some Depeche Mode. They were in the charts with “See You” in February 1982 and, like us, are still going strong. We drove past The Madejski, where Reading and West Brom were eking out an FA Cup draw…and we then overtook an armada of Cardiff City coaches. We pondered options for the Quarters. With us due to play Pompey in the league on March 6th., we wondered if we just might get them on that same date in the cup instead.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Liverpool

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Tales From The Fog

Tales From Scouserbowl XXXIV

Tales From Miseryside

Tales From Anfield Road

Tales From February 13th. 1982 And February 13th. 2010