Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2019.
On the drive to London, PD and I were not confident at all about our chances of drawing, let alone winning, at Tottenham Hotspur’s glistening new stadium, that they have decided to name – showing amazing intuition and originality – the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. We were on a dismal little run of games and “that lot” had – heaven knows how – managed to score goals for fun under their new manager Jose Mourinho, picking up wins in most of the games under his tutelage.
The signs did not look good.
I had spent the previous afternoon at Badgers Hill watching a Betvictor Southern League Division One South game between Frome Town and Thatcham Town. I had met up with a pal in the town centre, bustling with Christmas shoppers, for a pre-match drink and had assembled at the Frome ground with close on four hundred others for a top of the table clash, pitting my local team against the team in second place. Despite blustery and difficult conditions, Frome Town flew into a deserved 2-0 lead at the break, but the recent rain had left areas of mud all over the pitch. With around twenty minutes remaining, a crunching tackle took place in a particularly sticky and dangerous patch of mud, for which the word quagmire could well have been invented, and the referee brandished a yellow card, and had no real option but to abandon the game.
It was the first game in my match-going life that had been abandoned during play.
My mind had whirred into gear :
“…mmm, I wonder if I will be wishing for an abandonment at Tottenham tomorrow?”
Deep down, I wondered if the abandonment was a foretaste of gloomier things on the Sunday.
Some more bad news; Parky was unable to come with us. Not only was he unwell, his village was unreachable, isolated by flooded country lanes. So, a double whammy.
As I drove towards Stonehenge I saw a tailback and wondered if my finely-tuned journey to London was about to be disrupted and that the gloom would continue. There were police cars ahead.
“What’s this PD? Hunt saboteurs?”
No, I was quickly reminded of the date. The Winter Solstice. Within a minute or so, we were flagged through by the police as they then returned to their task of funneling the revellers away from their designated car park.
I continued on.
At least the weather was fine. The roads were clear. There was a hint of winter sun. I was grasping at positives.
“Should be a clear drive in, mate.”
PD and I chatted about the Champions League draw, and our plans for getting to Munich. I won’t bore everyone this far out, but it will be a carbon copy of 2012; flights from Bristol to Prague, a night in Prague, coach to and from Prague to Munich, a night in Munich. That’s still three months away. It will take ages to finally arrive. But it is a lovely “gift” at the end of a potentially cold winter spell.
At around 10.45am, we stopped for a bite to eat at a “Greggs” on the A303, and then I drove straight in to London, the roads ridiculously clear of traffic. At midday – exactly as I had planned – we were parked-up outside Barons Court tube station.
Inside my head : “at least this was a perfect start to the day.”
We made our way in to town. Throughout all the years of going to Tottenham, there has never been a set routine. I know that a lot mob up at Liverpool Street at “The Hamilton Hall” or “Railway Tavern” but on the one occasion that I did that, it did not look an awful lot of fun; packed pubs, loons chanting, the OB filming everyone. Not for me.
I had other plans.
We had a few hours to kill.
Leading up to my planning for this game, I remembered a pub crawl that I had sorted for the lads for our home game with Manchester City last season; it was centered on Whitehall. Sadly, I was too ill to attend, so the pub crawl never happened. Bearing in mind that we won – against all odds – that day, the superstitious part of me decided to have another stab at it.
So, from 12.30pm to around 2.45pm, PD and I visited “The Clarence”, “The Old Shades”, “The Silver Cross” and “Walkers of Whitehall”, all of which are within one hundred yards of each other. It was a lovely and relaxing time, away from the madness of Liverpool Street.
We toasted absent friends – not just Parky, there were friends that had missed out on tickets for this, the most sought-after away game in years and years – and chatted about European games past, European games present and European games future.
One thing struck me.
“Still not seen any Tottenham fans, nor Chelsea fans for that matter.”
London would be full of 61,000 match-goers, but we had seen not one of them the entire day, or at least nobody sporting club favours, more to the point.
As we walked from one glorious boozer to the next, pub two to pub three – a full six yards – PD moaned.
“I do wish you wouldn’t make me walk so far between pubs, Chris.”
Our drinking over – I was mixing my drinks, lagers and cokes, the designated driver – we moved on. We walked to Charing Cross station and then caught the Northern Line to Tottenham Court Road. From there, the Central Line to Liverpool Street.
“Still no Tottenham. Still no Chelsea.”
At Liverpool Street, up on the concourse, I looked around and saw a familiar face.
Les from Melksham, but no club colours of course.
We hopped onto the 3.30pm train with only a few seconds to spare.
On the train – at last a few Tottenham scarves – we sat with Les and some Chelsea mates, no colours. We ran through the team.
“Three at the back, then.”
This train seemed to take forever.
At just before 4pm, it slowed and we pulled into White Hart Lane station, which – in order to cope with an extra 25,000 match-goers every fortnight – had undergone a fine upgrade.
In the distance, high above the shop fronts on the High Road, a first glimpse of the steel and glass of their new gaff.
We approached the stadium, time moving on now, ten past four, but realised that there was no noticeable signage for away fans. We were shooed north, through a supermarket car park – ambush anyone? – and out on to Northumberland Park. Another glimpse of the outer shell of the stadium, and then the approach to the away section. But here, it seemed that the planners had realised way too late that the away turnstiles were several feet higher than pavement level, resulting in some short steep steps being required to lift fans the final few yards.
An odd arrangement. I have no doubt that the Tottenham stadium is better than the Arsenal one, but it certainly seems cramped. There is not the space nor sense of space that you encounter at The Emirates.
Amid all of this rush to get in, I needed to collect tickets for future games.
Twenty past four.
Thankfully, I spotted one friend – “three for Southampton” – right at the top of the steps from the pavement.
I spotted lines of stewards all lined up, patting people down, and with tables for bag searches too. I had no time for that. I gazed into the distance, avoided eye-contact and shimmied past about eight stewards, with body swerves that JPR Williams would have been proud. Not one single search. Get in. I flashed my ticket against the sensor and I was inside.
The first person that I saw in our cramped concourse was the other friend – “Brighton away” – and I was sorted.
A double dose of “perfect.”
Twenty-five minutes past four.
Chelsea were banging on the metallic panels of the concourse, kicking up a mighty fine racket. I needed to use the little boys’ room. Rush, rush, rush.
As I entered the seating bowl, I saw the Chelsea players break from the line-up and race over to us.
Chelsea in all blue. Love those red, white and blue socks.
We had made it.
Two minutes to go.
Initial thoughts about the stadium?
They have obviously learned from Arsenal’s mistakes (seats too far from the pitch, a shallow rake in the lower tier, corporate tiers that get in the way of a continuous wall of noise) and – bloody hell – that single tier at the South End reaches high into the sky. It is very impressive.
(A note to the fools who still blather on about a similar single tiered Shed End at a revamped Stamford Bridge – where are we going to get the room to do that, then?)
I really do not know why the place isn’t still called White Hart Lane though. If anything, the new stadium is nearer the street by the same name by a good fifty yards.
Naming rights, I guess.
I Hate Modern Football Part 519.
Everyone – apart from Parky – was in, and the 3,000 away fans in our section around the north-east corner flag seemed more.
We were ready.
But first, a moment to remember a hero from 1966, Martin Peters, who sadly passed away the previous day. I am not old enough to remember Peters as a West Ham player, but I certainly remember him as a Tottenham player alongside Chivers, Gilzean, England, Jennings and all. He is a strong link to my childhood, so he is another one will who be sadly missed.
There was warm applause from both sets of fans.
The game began, and how.
In the first two minutes it was all Chelsea, in the first five minutes it was all Chelsea, in the first ten minutes it was all Chelsea.
It was as if we were the home team.
And I’ll say this. I was expecting great things from the wall of support from the opposite end – after all, they hate us right? – but the lack of noise from the Tottenham fans really surprised me. They had been right on it at Wembley in 2008, and at virtually every game at the old White Hart Lane around that era, but this was a very poor show.
On the pitch, everyone shone, confidently passing to each other, with the wide full-backs stretching play nicely. There were a couple of half-chances from us and yet nothing from Tottenham. From my lowly position – row seven – I did not have a great view of our attacks down the left, but it was from this area that provided some early cheer.
A corner played short by Willian to Kovacic was returned to him. The Brazilian received the ball, fleet-footed it into space and in prime territory, curled a shot (I was right behind the course of the ball once again) past Paulo Gazzaniga into the goal in front of seventeen thousand of the fuckers.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
Just before the goal, a fan had tapped me on the back to tell me that Andy from Trowbridge had spotted me; he had prime seats above the exit to my right. I seized the moment and snapped Andy’s euphoric celebrations.
And then it was time for me to smile, to scream, to celebrate.
Good on you, Willian.
Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”
This was a dream start.
We continued on in the same vein for the next portion of the game; always in control, always looking to puncture the Tottenham defence with incisive passing, always determined to halt any approach by the home team. We had chances throughout that first-half, with Tammy looking vibrant, but they had to wait for their first one.
On the half-hour, Harry Kane skied a chance from close in, and not long after Son Hueng Min walloped a shot high too, though from a tighter angle.
The three defenders looked in control and relaxed. This might not be our standard formation for much of the remainder of this season but here it worked a treat.
Tomori. Zouma. Rudiger.
“Young, gifted and at the back.” (…thanks for the inspiration John Drewitt, the cheque is in the post.)
Tottenham – damn, another cliché – really were chasing shadows.
They were simply not in it.
Chelsea were in fine voice. One song dominated.
“We’ve got Super Frankie Lampard. He knows exactly what we need. Tomori at the back. Tammy in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”
And it repeated and repeated. I am sure the watching millions heard it on TV because it was deathly silent in all of the 58,000 seats of the home areas.
Another tried an tested chant was aired :
“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”
On the balcony walls between the tiers, electronic messages flashed.
“THE GAME IS ABOUT GLORY.”
“THIS IS MY CLUB, MY ONE AND ONLY CLUB.”
Yes, and you are fucking welcome to it.
“COME ON YOU SPURS.”
Fuck off you Spurs.
There was a worrying moment when Kepa hesitated to reach a ball into the box and he was clattered by Moussa Sissoko. Just after, there was a kerfuffle involving Kovacic, Kane, Rudiger, Zouma and Delle Ali. It was clear that tensions were rising.
Over on the far touchline, Frank Lampard was the more animated of the two managers by far, constantly cajoling and encouraging his players whereas Jose Mourinho looked unresponsive.
Some in the Chelsea end roared “Fuck off Mourinho” but that chant was not for me.
Forty-five minutes were up, but the first-half was far from finished. Willian lobbed the ball in to the box but the Tottenham ‘keeper bizarrely, and dangerously, chose to claim the ball with a ridiculously high challenge (reminiscent of Schumacher versus Battiston in 1982) and almost decapitated Alonso. For reasons known only to the referee Anthony Taylor, he awarded a free-kick to Tottenham.
We were rightly incandescent with anger.
“His legs were up before Alonso even got close. For fuck sake.”
I made a pact with myself – as did Alan, two seats along – not to cheer if the decision went our way.
VAR – penalty.
All eyes on Willian. A halt in his run, but his shot was to the ‘keeper’s left as was the first goal.
What a half of football.
The referee blew up and the Chelsea faithful roared. It had been, make no mistake, a beautiful half of football. At half-time, as I gleefully trotted through the away seats and out to the concourse, shaking hands with a few, and hugging a few more, and I can rarely remember such a joyous bunch at half-time anywhere. And it was great to see a few old stagers present – you know who you are – who had managed to beg, steal or borrow to get in.
On the way up in the car, we had highlighted Son as probably Tottenham’s most influential player, but Christian Eriksen was surely not far behind. It was a surprise that Mourinho had not picked him to start, but he replaced Eric Dier as the second-half began.
There were two early attempts on goal from Tammy, and as the game continued it was the away team who still dominated.
Inside my head : “bloody hell, we can do this.”
Willian was bundled off the pitch, and found himself way below the pitch behind the goal. Just like at Old Trafford, there is a marked “fall-off” from the pitch to the surrounds of the stands. I was reminded that there was a retractable NFL – another reason to hate the twats – pitch under the grass pitch for football at this new stadium.
Inside my head : “and below that, a fucking full size circus ring.”
At around the hour mark, my visibility not great, I was vaguely aware of the “coming together” of Son and Rudiger down on the Spurs left. I honestly did not see anything, and perhaps my mind was elsewhere.
Out of nowhere, VAR became involved. Nobody around me really knew what was going on. The TV screen displayed “possible violent conduct” but we were clueless. After a good minute or so, probably more, came the message :
“Decision Red Card. Violent Conduct.”
And Taylor brandished the red to Son.
Oh my days.
Could life get any better?
In the aftermath of this incident, we spotted a few Tottenham fans getting up from their seats and it appeared that they were doing one of three things :
Heading off to try one of the craft ales on sale at the “Moustachioed & Bearded Hipster” bar.
Heading off to buy some Christmas presents at one of the ninety-seven retail outlets at the new stadium.
I suspect the latter, don’t you?
There were a couple of long announcements about “racist chanting” on the PA, but I did not think that this was in any way related to any one incident that had just taken place. I only learned about this while heading back in to London long after the game had finished. For the record, there was only a barely audible “Y” word at the end of the “Barcelona, Real Madrid” chant from the Chelsea contingent, most people deciding not to join in, and many deciding to “sssshhhhh.”
The game continued. It was eleven against ten, we were 2-0 up at the home of our bitterest rivals on our first-ever visit to their new gaff.
Oh, and our Frank was having the best of it against a formerly-loved, but now derided, manager.
“We used to love you Jose, but you’re a bit of a twat really aren’t you?”
Although there was not the high quality of the first-half, everywhere I looked there were sublime performances. Kante was his usual self, winning virtually all the 50/50 battles. One strong run was the stuff of legend. Mount ran and ran and ran, his energy just fantastic. Willian was sublime, the man of the match by far. One piece of control on the far side was worth the admission money alone. Special praise for Marcos Alonso too, a game that reminded me of his special role in 2016/17. I loved the spirited Azpilicueta too. I admired how he stretched – and reached – for a high ball that was going off for a throw-in, thus keeping the ball “live.”
Inside my head : “if I had tried that, I would have sprained seven different muscles, two of which weren’t even mine.”
Jorginho for Kovacic.
A Kante swipe from distance went close.
Reece James for Azpilicueta.
Michy Batshuayi for Abraham.
We dominated still. Tottenham were now launching balls high from deep.
Or “Huth” to be more precise. Remember Mourinho playing him upfront a few times? I think we should have seen that as a warning sign way back in 2005.
Eight minutes of added time were signalled.
There was still time for a couple of lightning breaks – Willian usually involved – and Michy went close with a left-footed strike from outside the box. At the other end, the stadium now full of empty seats, Kane – who? – forced Kepa to make his very first save of the entire game.
I watched as the referee blew up and a forest of Chelsea arms flew into the air.
There was a little lull…a feeling of “I can’t believe this” permeated the mild North London air, and then the players and managers walked over towards us. I clambered up on to my seat (I noted that there are horizontal retaining bars above the back of each seat, almost paving the way – I suppose – for safe standing…well done Tottenham) and waited. I then photographed the frenzy of smiles, laughs, hugs and fist punches.
Then, ridiculously, the Tottenham PA chose to play the de facto Christmas song from my childhood (I can vividly remember sitting around the lunch table at my primary school in December 1973 when Slade’s “Merry Christmas Everybody” took over the number one slot).
“Are you hanging up a stocking on your wall?
It’s the time that every Santa has a ball.
Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer?
Does a ton-up on his sleigh?
Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?
So here it is, Merry Xmas.
Everybody’s having fun.
Look to the future now.
It’s only just begun.”
It wasn’t quite ten thousand Jocks singing “Rocking All Over The World” at half-time at Wembley in 1996, but it felt good enough.
What a giggle.
Frank was a picture. Look at the evidence below.
Outside, PD and I darted into “Sam’s Chicken” on the High Road to let the crowds subside. The food warmed us, and the dead man’s stare of many a Tottenham fan made me giggle some more.
We had not let them play, and they had been oh-so poor. It was a lovely Christmas present from them on our first-ever visit to their new home.
We caught a train back to Liverpool Street at about 7.30pm. Who should scuttle past me on the platform but Dan Levene? I would soon learn about the “racist chanting” and I wondered what spin he would put on it all.
Inside the train compartment, I spotted the actor Matthew Horne who plays Gavin in the excellent “Gavin & Stacey” comedy series on the BBC. He is a Tottenham fan in the show and I knew that he was a Tottenham fan in real life too. He was with his girlfriend so I left him alone. He was, oddly, combining a white and navy bar scarf with a Stone Island jacket.
Inside my head : “typical Tottenham.”
I overheard him say :
“We just didn’t show up today.”
That raised a giggle too.
After changing tube lines a few times, we eventually reached Barons Court at 9pm. It was a quiet but peaceful ride home and we reached Frome at 11pm.
It was, after all the initial worry, a bloody perfect day out.
Next up, Southampton at home on Boxing Day.
See you in the pub. Don’t be late.