Tag Archives: Liverpool

Tales From A Top Day Out

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 October 2009.

On Saturday evening, Judy and myself went to a surprise birthday party for a former boss ( who used to work with the both of us ) who now lives in Thailand. It was a great time. I met a few former work colleagues who I hadn’t seen for a while. I spent quite some time chatting to Steve, who also lives in Frome, but who is a Liverpool fan. How fateful that we should meet up for the first time in ages on the eve of the Chelsea vs. Liverpool game. Our first concern was to check how United had got on…he had been listening on the radio on his way to the party and confirmed they were losing 2-1 with five minutes to go.

“I daren’t text anyone, mate” I said.

“It’s OK – they’ve lost – they’ve lost…definite.”

“God – I need to know.”

Another former work colleague texted another friend and disappeared out to the road to get a signal. He returned and said the infamous words “You won’t believe this…”

We groaned.

And so we learned about Rio’s brother’s OG and yet another last minute United goal. Damn. I tried not to let it spoil my night and tried to take some solace in United dropping two home points. I got stuck into some crisp Peronis and looked forward to the game.

I woke on Sunday with an inevitable headache and a slight hangover.

I set off at 9.45am and picked up Parky on the way up to London. The usual gang were doing a few different things pre-match. Dave and Karen were making their own way up, stopping off to look at a new car and Daryl, Gary and Alan were watching the Old Firm game in a pub in the city. Parky and myself sat down to a hearty breakfast in the café at 12.30pm and that sorted my hangover out.

We stayed in The Goose for about an hour and I had a couple of pints. Rob was already there, his tan topped-up from a few days In Cyprus. Dutch Mick and a few others too. They had said that the Cyprus trip had been the best ever. They spoke of being on a beach, under a Cyprus Blues flag, with Cypriot girls giving them massages for ten euros…it sounded idyllic. The whole notion of doing some sunbathing on a beach of an island ahead of a Chelsea away game just sounded so – wrong! Especially as I wasn’t there.

My mate Francis arrived at 1.15pm. He is a friend from my home town who I have known since 1978…he has always been a Liverpool fan and has been my guest at Chelsea on quite a few occasions. He was to have Glenn’s ticket and sit next to me in the MHU. He tends not to go to too many games, but this would be his eighth Chelsea vs. Liverpool game since his first one back in 1991. Much to his chagrin, he had never seen Liverpool win at Stamford Bridge. In fact, his first ever game at Anfield was the infamous game in 1992 when Chelsea won in the league at Anfield for the first time since 1937. On that particular occasion, and with the reasons being far too complicated for me to explain here, he watched from the Chelsea section and I watched from The Kop. Despite seeing Liverpool lose, he always talks about the atmosphere in that Chelsea away section as being amazing and the late Mickey Greenaway made a big impression on him!

As I wasn’t “officially” drinking due to me driving, we said our goodbyes and set off for the ground very early at about 2.15pm. The weather had brightened up and there was clearly no need for my ridiculously warm new jacket. We spotted a few Scousers around and about. They were making a fair din in The Slug, now the away pub at Chelsea…it still grates to see away fans anywhere but in the ground at Chelsea, but I guess Chelsea go into away pubs on our travels and I guess its only fair that favour is reciprocated.

We had a quick word with the fellows on the CFCUK stall. I had brought up an 8 by 10 photo of myself and Mickey Thomas for him to sign, but he had just left, unfortunately. It seemed so strange to be walking along Fulham Road at a leisurely pace with ages until kick-off. The sun was now out in force and it was very pleasant. We idled past the main gate, up and over the railway bridge, past The Black Bull ( where I used to do my drinking from 1988-1993 ) and down to the Fox And Pheasant. This is probably my favourite pub at Chelsea…two small rooms, but a lovely courtyard at the rear…everyone takes their drinks outside and the road, or rather the mews, was jam-packed. Parky bought me a coke – I know my limits. I explained to Francis that I usually bring “The Americans” into this pub on my “guided tours.” It was very pleasant indeed. There were photos of Frank Lampard and Dennis Wise, standing outside the pub, on the wood-panelled walls. Before we left, I had a quick chat with Ron Harris’ son Mark, who used to live in a nearby town to me for a while. I had last seen him, very drunk, walking along the Fulham Road after the Cup Final.

We battled through the crowds outside the West Stand. By now, my jacket was stuffed inside my bag, the weather warm enough for just a polo shirt. My new jacket would have to wait for its official debut.

Yet more queues at the turnstiles and those damned scanners…we began lining up at 3.45pm and we hoped we would get in on time.

Throughout the build up to the game, I knew there was a black cloud hanging over me. We had leant that our match day neighbour Tom had lost his beloved wife, Josey, on Monday. We had heard from his daughter that Josey had gone into a care home the previous week, but her passing had shocked us. At 3.50pm, Alan – who was already inside – phoned me to say that Tom was there, he was emotional, and asked me just to talk about the football. As Francis and myself ascended the stairs, I braced myself.

We reached our seats with a minute to spare. I reached over and gripped Tom tightly by the hand and briefly looked him in the eyes. I gave his hand an extra special squeeze.

Let the game begin.

It was a perfect day for football.

Programme Quiz.

1. Name three of the four players who scored for us in our 4-1 over Liverpool at Anfield in October 2005.
2. How many times have we played Liverpool in the CL?
3. Which striker scored his one and only goal for us in our 1-1 draw with Liverpool in the 1998-99 season?
4. John Barnes famously rapped on “World In Motion” but which two Chelsea players also featured in England’s 1990 World Cup song?

Francis was to my left, in my seat, I was in Alan’s seat and Alan was sitting next to Tom in Glenn’s seat. We settled down for the game – as we had done every other week since we first had season tickets in the Matthew Harding Upper in August 1997. Tom had been with us all the way. It seemed wonderfully normal that he should be with us once more.

Liverpool began the stronger and we struggled to get into the game. It felt odd for Chelsea to be attacking our end in the first-half. Drogba, despite a week’s rest, didn’t appear to be firing on all cylinders. We gave Liverpool too much space. Things weren’t going our way. Hilario did well to get down to turn away a free-kick which he appeared to see late. Our chances were few and far between.

At half-time, Tore Andre Flo and Mickey Thomas came onto the pitch and we applauded them. We also noted Dennis Wise in the Sky studio. We serenaded him with his song from 1999.

I looked around I noted that all of the people who had been to Cyprus had all returned with tans.

The Liverpool support was sporadic…noisy at times, quiet at others. They only had three flags. Into the second-half and we grew stronger. However, Frank appeared to be having a quiet game. Deco was shining, though. He was full of twists, flicks and enjoyed a couple of strong runs at the heart of the Liverpool defence.

Liverpool began singing “The Fields Of Anfield Road” and I commented to Alan that they even nicked that from Celtic ( the Irish “Fields Of Athenry” ). This seemed to stir the Chelsea support and we replied with first boos, but then our second-half standard of “Chelsea Chelsea” being sung to “Amazing Grace.” This usually gets sung in the second-half of away games, but we all joined in with gusto. Straight after, we moved the ball down the left and Drogba danced with the last defender, rocking him one way and then the next.

A cross – on the money – and an easy tap in for Anelka.

Yes! The place erupted. Alan shouted at me –

“They’ll Have To Come At Us Now” and I shouted at him –

“Come On My Little Diamonds.”

The place was bumping. Liverpool came back, but their finishing was awful. We noted that Torres was quiet. John Terry crunched every tackle and roared us on. What a leader. My friend Steve, on Saturday night, had said that JT would only smell his aftershave, but JT closed him out of the game. We taunted him.

“Ladyboy! Ladyboy!”

The game continued on a knife-edge…it seemed like a cup tie…we had to hang on. Hilario patrolled his area with great confidence and did a superb job as Cech’s replacement. A last-minute challenge from Ashley saved the day, too. Soon after the board was held up to signify three extra minutes, Drogba muscled his way past Carragher, right in front of Parky in The Shed Lower, and superbly set up Malouda to make the game safe.

Get in!

It had been a strange game for Drogba…at his embarrassing worst in the main – falling, diving, feigning injury – but a World-beater in setting up the two goals. The Chelsea support responded –

“We Are Topotheleague, Say We Are Topotheleague.”

Francis shook my hand and I invited him back next season. I had a word, after Tom had said his goodbyes, to another inhabitant of our little section of the stadium. Joe is around 82 and has been coming to Chelsea for 72 years. Imagine that. He comes with his two sons and he told me he wishes he could write all of his memories down. Top man.

As I waited for Parky outside the CFCUK stall, a few friends bustled by – Gary, Walnuts and Jonesy – and they were all beaming. Let’s not kid ourselves, though. We hadn’t played brilliantly, a few players did not play that well and – if I am honest – it could so easily have swung the other way.

But we’ll take it.

We were hit with atrocious traffic on the way out of Chelsea and then on the M4 around Windsor. We eventually got home at 10.15pm.

Dedicated to the memory of Josey Crowe. RIP.

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Tales From A Shaking Matthew Harding Upper

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 14 April 2009.

In some ways, I am tempted to keep this a really brief one and – tried and tested football cliché coming up – let the football do the talking for me.

What an incredible, pulsating game of football. If anyone of us live to see a richer example of a sporting contest, we should feel very blessed.

I had to pull a few tricks to get away from work at 4.15pm. However, I soon ran into trouble – an eleven mile tailback on the eastbound M4. For an hour or so, I was convinced that I would get in late…very late in fact. In the first 90 minutes, I had covered just 40 miles. Luckily, I had my wits about me and diverted south at Marlborough and was back on the M4 at 6pm. As I drove past Heathrow, Radio Five’s Mike Ingham was reporting from The Bridge with the great news that Steven Gerrard wasn’t even on the bench. I forwarded this info to a few people and two replied exactly the same way…

“Sweet.”

Believe it or not, I parked up at 7.15pm, and – programmes purchased, rush, rush, rush – I entered the seating area with the Liverpool players hovering over the ball at kick-off. I sat down and the game began. Perfect timing. The place was buzzing from the start. How familiar those Liverpool scarlet red banners are. This was the twenty-fourth time the two teams had met since the start of the 2004-2005 season. By any stretch, that’s a lot of familiar contempt. Arriving so late, I had no time to acquaint myself with the team. I had to grasp at some notion of who was where. Riccy in for JT, a solid midfield, Malouda and Kalou. What fates would befall us all over the next two hours? Well, we didn’t have to wait long.

A free-kick, not sure why…all eyes on Torres, offside, onside, offside, onside, leading Ivanovic a merry dance. The focus was towards that cluster of players on the penalty spot. Then Arbeloa’s strike and Cech woefully beaten at the near post. Game on.

Chelsea struggled in the first-half…we weren’t at it. Despite a head cold, I was bellowing at the midfield who were allowing the visitors untold space. We all agreed Drogba should have been carded for rolling – “injured” – back onto the pitch. What a loon. Then, an intelligent ball was played into the box – right in the danger area, but Cech gathered. Relief. Then – NO! – the referee pointed to the spot. We were dumbfounded. Alonso scored the penalty and my jaw dropped. This was a horror story being enacted right in front of us all. I glanced at the Scousers celebrating. It was a terrible sight.

All was doom and gloom at the break. I chatted to a few fans and we were doubting our ability to limit the damage to just two. We began the second-half in much the same manner. One particularly poor passage of play left us fuming…miss-placed back-passes, balls being miss-controlled, no unity. Then the ball found Anelka just as I commented to Alan about “the one way to get our confidence back is to run for everything and work harder.” Bless him – Anelka must have heard me. He held off a challenge and played in a great ball, hard and low. Drogba was lurking – in fact, his run was perfectly timed. To my eyes, Reina appeared to palm the ball into the net.

Mayhem – oh you beauty. We all got up and yelled our support. I gathered myself and reached down for my camera and took a few telephoto shots of Drogba, alone, yelling at the MHU to get behind the team…he was in his element. That posturing gait we all know. With the crowd rejuvenated, we got back into the game and our confidence grew. A Drogba free-kick flashed past the goal.

Soon after, it was Alex’s turn. I held the camera still and caught him in mid air, just after the ball was smacked. It flew into the net and the stadium bounced. I took nine photos of the players collapsing in a beautiful pile on the pitch right in front of me.

Carnage. What a game. It was now 5-3 on aggregate and we heaved a collective sigh.

Now the crowd was rocking. The noise thundered around the four stands and it was a bloody lovely sight. The Shed were singing “One Man Went To Mow” and even the West Lower was animated. A lovely shuffle from Malouda made us all gasp – was that really happening? Then, as memory serves, a sublime reverse ball from Ballack found Lampard. I can’t remember exactly what happened, but Frank scored a third. He came over to celebrate on the same piece of turf where he had pointed to the sky after the penalty against the same team in the semis last year. More photos. As Frank pointed skywards again, I crouched down on the steps and felt myself “going.” I wiped away a tear.

Bloody hell – don’t do this to me. What a game – what emotion. I was right…words simply cannot do it justice.

“We’re going to Rome, we’re going to Rome – F your history, we’re going to Rome.”

Soon after, Drogba unselfishly set up Ballack, but the shot was weak. Amongst the goals going in, a few of us had to be reminded of the score…and what the aggregate was. Get that abacus out, boys.

At this point, I wryly noted that the Liverpool fans had changed their tune. Instead of talking of cup glory, they were singing about “winning the league.”

“Yeah, you won’t win that either!”

Yet more drama and a deflected shot made it 3-3. For there to be so many goals was sensational. I was getting texts from the most unlikely of people. Our good friend Tom – who had a heart attack after the semi-final last May – had decided that enough was enough. He left his seat. I wished him a safe trip home to Sutton and watched him head out just as a Kuyt header made it 3-4.

The Liverpool support erupted again.

For a few moments, the highly unlikely ( after the first game, then at 3-2 a mere ten minutes earlier ) was now looking a possibility. I think it was at this moment that we all aged ten years.

NO!

Then, more Chelsea pressure and another Lampard effort. This really is a blur, but I have a memory of the ball coming off a post or the bar or maybe Peter Osgood’s leg. Who knows? And there was Frank, running away once again, this time towards the West Lower, followed by Malouda and then Ash.

Another point heavenwards towards his dear mother.

Alan and myself were gasping for breath and struggling to find the right words to describe what we had just witnessed.

“Best Champions League game ever. Bar none.”

Daryl joined us – I think he had been in The Shed, but couldn’t take much more and so he decided to come and join us for the last few seconds. Approaching the final whistle, the white and blue flags came out and the place was at its photogenic best.

Click. Click. Click.

The shrill sound of the whistle and then a familiar sound.

“One Step Beyond!”

I was one of the last few to leave the stadium. My eyes were moist and I knew that I had witnessed one of the greatest games I could ever wish to see. Another cliché coming up – it was like a heavyweight boxing match…each brave team slugging it out, exchanging punches. This had to be one of my all-time favourites…in fact, the game at Anfield last week was in my top ten. This one had to be in the top two or three. Maybe the best ever.

I briefly dipped into The Goose on the slow, trance-like, walk back to the car. I attempted to have a meaningful chat with a few friends, but for some reason my brain let me down and all I could utter was a lot of banal babble such as “what a game.” I had been sapped of all strength and intelligence, including the art of communication. I had a little chuckle to myself.

“Go home, Chris.”

I left London at 10.15pm. The texts from everywhere slowly subsided and I drove, silently, peacefully, home, totally mesmerized by this wonderful game of ours. Let’s not fool ourselves, there were many defensive frailties in the game, but sometimes you just have to stand back, take a deep breath, and thank our lucky stars for such a monumental match.

Phew.

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Tales From Heaven

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Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 8 April 2009.

Cilla Black, Ken Dodd, Lily Savage, Arthur Askey, Bobby Grant, Jimmy Tarbuck, Ringo Starr, Alexei Sayle, Margi Clarke, Phil Redmond, Derek Hatton, John Conteh, Dickie Mint – We gave your boys one hell of a beating.

And I thought last season’s game was good!

My colleague Paul was unfortunately made redundant last week and so I have been working solo this week. I am based at my client’s premises and so I did originally think that I may not be able to go to the game as I might be needed to cover the latter part of the afternoon. However, with a bit of trickery and polite conversations with the client, I was cleared for take-off at 2.30pm. I had been in early at 7am anyway – and work is quiet at the moment. I was sorted.

I don’t need to bore you all to death with details of my drive up the country to Liverpool – God, it’s a familiar one of late. I think I have overdosed on Scouse these past four years. Haven’t we all? I went to the knock-out semis in 2005, 2007 and 2008 but didn’t go to the boring group phase game in the autumn of 2005.

In all the visits to Anfield with Chelsea, I have seen us win there just once – that memorable game in 1992, when I got in free and watched, silently, on The Kop. But that’s another story.

I made good time until Birmingham, but from there on in, the traffic was horrific. There were lots of road works, lots of delays, lots of stopping and starting. Andy had downloaded some of the recent CIA Podcasts for me and from Bromsgrove to Knutsford, I listened to the Ken Shellito and Paul Canoville interviews. I really enjoyed them. Lots of great stories. It occurred to me that the history of Chelsea – thousands of players, millions of fans, characters, cups and disasters – were all behind us and that the game at Anfield would be the next instalment in this story…and I took a great deal of pride and satisfaction in the knowledge that I would be part of it. At the cutting edge of this club as it grinds its way into the future.

We all live for the present to a certain extent, but this notion really got to me. I was being part of it. I thought of the – let’s say – millions of people who would be watching on TV around the World and I would be there at the game, within the cramped claustrophobic stands of Anfield. I briefly pondered that my decision to attend was through my fanaticism but also because my finances and health allowed it.

I was very grateful.

The cloudy skies gave way to blue skies over Liverpool as I began the approach into the city at around 6.15pm. It had already taken me much longer than I had hoped. Thankfully, I wasn’t too tired. I texted my mate Alan that I would be in the ground at 7.30pm. Too rushed for my liking. Believe it or not, until I got to within about five miles of Anfield, I had only seen one Chelsea car and two Liverpool cars en route…and the way I identified them? Air fresheners! As I turned onto Queens Drive, I took my Chelsea and Juve air fresheners down – just in case the locals took exception.

I was parked up at 7pm – I thankfully found a space – and the 200 miles had taken me four and a half hours. Up the hill of Utting Avenue, past a busy pub and a few “chippies” and “offies.” There is something hypnotic about joining hundreds of football-goers on the final approach to a game…it’s a clear link to the past. How many millions have walked these same streets. I marched towards the ground. I didn’t want to be late. I was walking in front of a Scouse couple who were having a discussion about the year in which the two clubs first met in the CL. I found it hard to believe that they were unsure. I turned around and said to the woman –

“It was 2005, love.”

I thought that they were the ones who knew all about history. I tutted to myself as they overtook me.

Chatted to a couple of lads from The Goose – Alan and Nish. There was Lovejoy, as ever, in the middle of it all. Then the two Neils, Sophie, then Alan, Ed and Whitey.

“Alright boys?”

Sam Allardyce walked past – funny, he had been mentioned by Ken Shellito on the podcast, the Bolton game of 1978 et al.

I got inside Anfield at 7.38pm. Just in time. As I walked up the steps, more familiar faces. “You’ll Never Walk Alone” was in full flow as the pitch appeared before me. The usual riot of colour, but with a fair smattering of blue in our section. More scarves than normal. I noted a new Liverpool flag – as we all know, Scousers see themselves as a pretty political bunch – they are red in more than one dimension. The flag said “Scouse Solidarnosc” – after the Polish Solidarity party of around 1981. Quite clever I thought – if you like that sort of thing. I add this, not to make a statement, just to add colour.

I was three or four rows from the rear, just inside the penalty box. A good seat. I stood the entire game.

A terrible start, eh? For the first fifteen minutes or so, our defence were pulled out of shape and a few key errors took place. The midfield were giving the advancing Liverpool players far too much room. I was not alone in my desperate shouts to “close them down!” Ballack – as always – the main culprit. The goal from Torres…horrible. I tried not to watch the home sections leap to their feet, but I couldn’t avoid it. There is some macabre fascination watching other fans go wild at our detriment. Hateful. Before the game – if I was to be pressed – I feared a 0-2 or even 0-3 loss.

“Come on Chels – step up.”

And, guess what? We did.

From the sixth minute, our possession increased and we knocked the ball around purposefully and I was amazed with the movement of people like Malouda. For once, chances were being created at both ends and it was a gripping encounter – so unlike other CL games at Anfield. A Cech save down low in front of us, then two Drogba gilt-edged chances in front of the red wall of The Kop. When the second one was blazed over, we gulped in astonishment…not that he had missed, but that we had almost scored!

“We can do this – COME ON!”

Chances were exchanged. I was getting carried away, but the bloke next to me was trying to reign in my wild enthusiasm. When Liverpool attacked, we did look a bit suspect. A great game.

Then, a corner – into the near post and a blue player headed home…I thought it was JT to be fair, but who cares? Wild celebrations – an away goal! Behind me, a bloke I had sat next to at Watford – we hugged and yelled wildly. Next to him, I noted a West Country accent – a chap from Swindon.

At half time, word got out that Ivanovic had scored. And Barca were 4-0 up. Gulp.If the first-half was good, the second-half was even better. It was all a bit of a blur really – I hadn’t been drinking, but I was getting carried along on a wave of pure adrenalin. I was getting hot in my warm coat so I took it off and stood in my shirt sleeves. After the equaliser, the home support wilted. Whereas in 2005, when 75% of the Scousers stood, only The Kop did so this time.

I took a few photos of a few attacks. Then another corner down below me…I pointed the camera at the melee of players in the goalmouth. I heard Frank strike the ball and I saw players move. I snapped, then saw the ball thunder into the net, on a trajectory aiming straight towards me. Reina was beaten.

We were 2-1 up. Unbelievable. Un – SWEAR WORD – believable. Our fans went crazy and – I don’t know how I do this – I remained steady enough to take a couple of shots of what I call the aftermath…players hugging on the far touchline, with fans’ arms thrusting in the foreground.

This was unbelievable. What a game. Our movement was brilliant. Even Ballack was doing well. Gerrard was quiet…I have to admit, I wasn’t aware Esien was shackling him man to man. Sometimes aspects of the game pass me by. We were dominating. Then a dream move to my right. We stood on tip-toes as Malouda played the ball in and witnessed Drogba arrive to sweep the ball I with a clinical finish.

Too much.

I turned around and looked the two guys behind me in the eyes. We were both screaming, mouths wide open, like an incarnation of Munch’s “The Scream.” We kept our gaze going for a few seconds.

My name is Chris and I am an addict. I am a goal addict.

Oh man – isn’t that why we go to football? That moment when we are just transplanted to another place, when our heads just explode.

Chills just thinking about.

In the last quarter, we could have scored more. Liverpool were devoid of a plan and on many occasions they lost possession…and there was Frank, running the game from midfield, probing away. I have never seen Florent Malouda play better. Big Pete was as good as any.

“We’re Going To Rome – We’re Going to Rome…F Your History, We’re Going To Rome.”

Still more chances, but then – shame! – the final whistle. The home support drifted away and we were kept in for a few minutes. By the time I left – I was one of the last few hundred to leave – the home stands were empty, completely devoid of life. We sauntered out into the night and I hugged a few Chelsea acquaintances, names unknown.

Heading down Utting Avenue, past the Chelsea coaches, I pulled up my coat collars. I gave the thumbs up to some Chelsea fans in one coach, then looked towards the back of the coach as a few lads were banging the window. There was Gary and Ed giving me the big one. I punched the air and smiled the widest of smiles.

The traffic was slowly edging past me and within a few moments, as I headed towards my car, the night fell silent. It was eerily quiet, save for my phone jumping to life every minute with incoming texts from England and various parts of America. I got back to my car at 10.15pm and my mate Glenn phoned me. He is always concerned for my safety in Liverpool. Yet more horrendous traffic leaving Liverpool, but I didn’t care.

I headed out onto Queens Drive. Depeche Mode were on my CD.

“Enjoy The Silence.”

It was tough going on the way home. I had to buy two Red Bulls to fend of the tiredness enveloping me…they worked. I was euphoric, but well aware that I probably felt just as happy after the Riise game last year. Thoughts were of Barcelona and Rome. What a life.

I eventually got home at 3am, knackered but happy

Liverpool?

We murdered ‘em.

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Tales From The Passenger Seat

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Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 1 February 2009.

I feel unsurprisingly deflated, so this one might be a bit on the brief side.

This is how my fourteenth trip to Anfield with Chelsea panned out.

The trip up to Liverpool was a bit different to usual. My friend Buller had contacted me during the week and had asked if I fancied going up in his car. I didn’t need much persuading as it meant I could relax a bit and even have a few beers before the game. He used to live in the next town, but has moved down to Christchurch on the coast the past year. He was staying with his friends Becky and Chris in Warminster and so I drove over to Warminster Services for 7.45am.

Becky and Chris are Liverpool fans and go to a few games at Anfield.

It seemed strange sitting in the passenger’s seat on that familiar road north. Alan and Gary were on the official Chelsea coach and pulled out of Stamford Bridge at 8am, although Al had to catch a night bus at 5.30am in order to get up to Chelsea in time. His was to be a long day – more of that later. We stopped at Keele Services and the weather was bitter. A coffee apiece soon warmed us up. There was a slight hint of blue skies as we approached Liverpool but we expected a grey day. I had my thermal socks on, plus four layers of clothes. I had come prepared.

Buller had to meet some friends at The Marriott Hotel just opposite Lime Street Station and we were parked up in good time at about 11.30am or so. I used to travel up to Liverpool from my college town of Stoke for the Liverpool v. Chelsea games in 1985, 1986 and 1987. I was once chased by a pack of scallies from Liverpool Lime Street around the corner to the National Express Coach Station after a game in 1987. In those days, they used to keep the away fans penned-in for thirty minutes. All well and good, you might think, but of course it just gave the locals time to regroup and plan on picking off loose stragglers on the walk down Everton Valley, along the famous Scottie Road and down into the bear pit of Lime Street on match day. That wasn’t particularly pleasant.

I spent about two hours or so in the cosy bar of the hotel, getting stuck into a few pints of Staropramen. There were a couple of Chelsea fans there, but mainly red-shirted Liverpool fans. We couldn’t believe the room prices – £170 for a standard double. I joked that for Everton home games, the prices were probably £50! Of the two clubs, Everton always appear to have more locals attending games. The foyer was full of Liverpool fans from Scandinavia and Northern Ireland. I waited for Ohio John ( mgoblu06 ) to arrive. He had travelled up to Merseyside on the Friday and was making his way in to town from Studentland out near Edge Hill. He showed up and we had a couple of pints and a review of Wednesday’s game at The Bridge and we also looked ahead to the Juve game in March. John is certainly making the most of his time in Europe.

At about 2.30pm we caught a cab from Lime Street up to the ground where we were to meet three of John’s mates. As it happened, we headed for King Harry’s, tucked away by Stanley Park, which was the same boozer that myself and NYC Mike popped into before the game in April at Goodison. I hoped it would be a lucky omen. I called Mike to tell him – he was on his way to Nevada Smiths. There were a few other Chelsea in King Harry’s. It was jammed. John and myself popped outside to wait for the arrival of the three Liverpool fans…perfect timing, it began snowing! Anyway, the Scousers arrived – I said enough to be polite – and we exited at about 3.30pm. We walked along a back alley, the garden walls with barbed-wire and glass to deter break-ins. The cladding of The Kop loomed in the distance.

I wanted John to take it all in…the busy match day scene on the Walton Breck Road, The Kop, the takeaways, the colour, the buzz. OK – the area around Anfield is not pleasant, but it’s certainly vibrant. I took a photo of him underneath the Shankly statue. One last photo of us together outside the Centenary Stand ( where John watched the game from ) and I then walked around the corner to take my seat in the away section.

All the familiar faces. Had a quick chat with Cathy and Dog. Having had nothing to eat since 7.15am, I was quite, how shall we say, light-headed. I had plum seats, row 11, right behind the goal and level with the cross-bar. Oh, and about four seats away from the plastic mesh separating Us from Them. I had pre-warned John about the noise from The Kop at the start of the game when they do a rousing rendition of “YNWA.” Well, I thought the noise from The Koppites at the start was pretty awful. There just wasn’t the gung-ho fervour of the European nights which I had been part of in 2005, 2007 and 2008. No whistling, no “Ring Of Fire.”

Whether or not it was because of the biting cold, the atmosphere was poor the whole game really. Maybe both sets of fans were of the same opinion – that this would be Manchester United’s title. This game was not as special as the media were portraying it.

Well, what a poor game. I didn’t take many photographs in the first-half as I was grimly hanging on to the notion of plenty of Chelsea attacks in the second period, plenty of close-ups of goalmouth scrambles. I couldn’t be more wrong. Both teams were guilty of misplaced passes, over-hit through balls and a generally lacklustre game of football. The silence from the 43,000 at times was deafening.

Of course, the Frank Lampard incident was the turning point. I wasn’t particularly well sighted, but it didn’t appear to be a bad challenge. The subsequent barrage of text messages, from Chelsea and Liverpool fans alike, bore witness to that opinion. One from a co-worker, Del, a Liverpool fan –

“Poor poor decision.”

There were obvious grumbles around the 3,000 away fans. If we could nick a point, this would be a tremendous achievement. Although we created very little – was it just one shot in the second period? – I got the impression that Liverpool appeared to be a team low on confidence too.

I noted orange and yellow snow clouds over The Kop roof.

Of course, as we all know, two late Torres goals gifted Liverpool the three points. Suddenly Anfield came to life. The noise was sickening. I patronisingly conducted the nearby Liverpool fans, their faces suddenly joyous. Received a few “Liverpool” texts. The final whistle came and we were put out of our misery. As I used the gents before exiting the stadium, Morrissey’s new single was played on the stadium PA. A native of Manchester piling on the gloom in Liverpool. The irony was not lost on me, nor Alan, who muttered

…”Christ, as if I wasn’t depressed enough.”

I met up with Buller, Becky and Chris outside the Hillsborough Memorial. The snow was now falling again. We set off on a route march down to the city centre, alongside the locals. I had my jacket up around my ears, I just walked and walked, heads down, let’s get out of here. At least this time, unlike in the ‘eighties, we were relatively safe…I looked up at the tower blocks and recounted the oft-told story of locals taking pot shots at the away fans with air rifles. Thank God those days are behind us, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

I texted a few close friends…

“Just lost, it’s snowing, I’m in Liverpool, 200 miles from home…CAREFREE  ”

Oh that gallows humour.

We had a post mortem in the hotel bar – time for one more pint of Staropramen – and on the long drive south. Liverpool weren’t great were they? However, we showed all our usual tendencies of late and simply didn’t deserve it. Buller, who played a bit when he was younger, thought Ballack and Malouda were woeful. I had to agree.

What would become of our season? We mulled this over as we ate up the miles.

Home at midnight. It had been a grim day out alright. My record now stood at one win out of fourteen at Anfield. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Ho hum.

( Alan texted me this morning to say that he got back to Chelsea late in the night, got as far as South Kensington, but due to the snow, all night buses were not working. He had to walk to Victoria and book into a fleapit hotel…from 5.30am on Sunday to 10am on Monday and he still wasn’t home. )

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Tales From The Fulham Road

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 26 October 2008.

So, the match report I was hoping I would never have to write.

But let’s not be too down-hearted. Think back on those 86 games and I think I can remember a few where we were a little lucky to escape with this beautiful record intact. How about being 0-2 down against Villa last year – or United just a few games ago? I personally think that this record will stand forever. It will go down in the record books as one of the great records, akin to DiMaggio’s 56 games hitting streak.

So, let’s take a moment to look back in wonder on this record – and a grateful word of appreciation to every Chelsea player involved.

Thank you.

The gang of five left Frome at 9am and, via a coffee stop on the A303, we were in the café for 11am. A horrible rainy old day in deepest London. The news about Harry Redknapp jumping ship and joining Spurs was the main topic of conversation. I was amazed, but – after a few moments – it makes sense. How far further could he take Pompey? I like Redknapp to be honest, but this will have to be put on hold while he is at Tottenham for a year or two.

We trudged the few yards to The Goose. Only time for three pints this time – another reason why I yean for 3pm kick-offs. One of these days, maybe when the match report is of a particularly poor game, I will go into some length about my closest CFC mates, about how we all met up.

Let’s have a roll-call though.

Frank, Andy and Mark were already in The Goose. The Frome Five ( Dave and Karen, Glenn, Paul and myself ) arrived, soon to be joined by Daryl, Simon and Milo, Rob, Walnuts and Gary. Plus there are a few Goose regulars we know, but not really in our crew…Dutch Mick and his mates Nish and Gary, Zigger Zagger Martin and his lot, Alan and Bob from Eastleigh, plus a few we “nod” to, but don’t really hang out with. A simple “alright mate” is enough in some cases. It’s a good crowd. Many a happy hour has been spent within those four walls. It has been our regular at Chelsea since we moved out of The Harwood in about 1999. And it’s cheap. A round of four pints cost me just over £9.

On Friday afternoon at work, Daryl, Alan, Andy ( oh – one of the Nuneaton lot, some six or seven strong, but they frequent another pub ) and myself were having a great email session at work. Like me, Daryl appreciates the significance of the 1983-84 “Silver Jubillee”. He, too, has a great memory for Chelsea facts and figures. However, on this occasion music and not football was the topic as we discussed the music that was in the charts 25 years ago. I correctly guessed that “Karma Chameleon” was at number one, but then the email thread hopped about all over the place. Some fifty emails later, we departed for our respective homes, but our memories of that 1983-84 season had been refreshed by the kaleidoscope of musical memories from 1983.

Music and football – the twin staples that got us British males through our teenage years.

Anyway, this discussion was continued in the boozer, along with a colourful discussion on the terrace fashions of that time, inaugurated by the presence of Glenn’s new pink Robe Di Kappa polo-shirt.

Damn, the time flew past and it was time to get ourselves to the game. Sometimes you just wish these pre-match chats could go on forever.

The rain had continued unfortunately. Into the ground and we wondered what fates lay ahead.

I guess you all saw the game. I think that Liverpool, as the away team, deserved the win. Too much of our approach play was laboured, but Liverpool did not make it easy for us with a packed midfield. Again, I thought John Obi Mikel played very well – our best player. But too many players underperformed – Deco, Malouda and Kalou especially.

Gerrard bossed the midfield as much as it hurts me to admit it.

I met up with Pete from San Francisco again at half-time…his season ticket seats are in the back row of the MHU in the next section over. We were a bit disgruntled to say the least. He has promised me that he will get involved with the CIA site and will try to get his little gang of West Coast Ex-Pats involved too. They were at all of the California games last summer. He comes over a few times each season and will be back again for the West Ham home game before Christmas.

We had a lot of possession over the course of the whole game, but how many times did we really threaten? Liverpool’s shots on goal seemed to be nearer the mark.

Our support was very poor.

Hardly heard The Shed Singing Section. And I swear that the 12,000 in the West Stand never sang once. Pitiful. We clearly dislike Liverpool, but I – for one – won’t join in with the “Murderers” or “You Killed Your Own Fans” chants which get louder and louder every time we play them. Whoever was responsible for Hillsborough ( and the Liverpool fans do not come out blameless ), I feel it dishonours the dead and does nothing for us as football supporters. Just my opinion. Please respect it.

So, the game drifted away from us. The Scousers were singing. We were silent.

The final whistle and – for the first time since February 2004, a home league defeat. I wonder how my mate Russ feels ( he is on holiday in NYC and Vegas this week and rarely misses ANY home games ). He will be thinking it’s all down to him.

I spotted Daryl queueing up for a burger along the Fulham Road.

“See you at Hull.”

“Yes, mate.”

I texted a few people – got my “congratulations” in first to a couple of Liverpool fans. Glenn and me were very philosophical about the defeat. Let’s not be too downhearted. I texted Teri in LA with a comment about Rudyard Kipling’s wonderful poem “If “ and I love the lines about “treating the two imposters the same!”

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

Back to Frome at 6pm, just in time for five-a-side. As fate had it, three Liverpool fans were on the opposing team and I did my best to “out-skill” them.

I did OK.

Hull on Wednesday will be a corker.

Let’s move on.

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