Tales From The North Bank Of The River

Posted on April 28, 2015 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 26 April 2015.

Sometimes it often feels to me that the inhabitants of Planet Football have mindfully chosen to perpetually live as if they were children stuck in a particularly spiteful schoolyard where jagged and mean-spirited barbs are continually aimed at each of the other children’s football teams. I’m sure that football is not the only sport where this happens. On “Facebook” I often become privy to some occasionally nasty and rude conversations that take place between some US acquaintances as they discuss the merits of various college football teams, NFL teams or baseball teams. You can be sure it happens in Australian cricket, French rugby, Brazilian football and virtually all major sports currently being played too. Very often the debate is not about the abilities on show in the sport in question, but the personality disorders of players of hated rivals, sexual proclivities of other coaches and managers, to say nothing of the real or perceived differences between rival fan bases.

The reasons for this are many, but I suppose that the driving force for all this constant noise of abuse and antagonism is the desire to prove that your team, or club, is superior and aims to meet its goals in the correct way.

In football, it can get out of hand pretty easily.

There is a song which occasionally gets aired in and around football stadia, and elsewhere, about a certain Arsenal manager and a certain packet of sweets and a certain cheeky smile. To be honest, when we first heard this around twenty years ago it raised a smile, but as an example of how nasty a football song can be, there are few equals. I stopped singing it years ago. I can well remember being squashed inside a tube train en route to an Arsenal versus Chelsea game around ten years ago when the whole carriage seemed to be joining in. In the carriage were a few, only a few but a few nonetheless, young children. A good friend and I both rolled our eyes and admitted to ourselves that this was not a particularly edifying moment in our lives.

Sometimes Planet Football can be a cruel and painful place.

As the Arsenal vs. Chelsea game loomed on the horizon, the relative merits of both clubs came in to focus and the “banter” and dialogue on social media intensified. Out came the barbs once more. At times, I was back in the school yard. And I wondered to myself where I personally stood in this whole “us and them” thing. Of course, I’ve never liked Arsenal, why would I? In truth, I dislike Tottenham more. And yet there is something about Arsenal which annoys me intensely. It is their essential “Arsenalness.”

It is down to two things.

For the vast majority of their existence they have produced a rather humdrum and tedious brand of football, which even the doyen of all things Arsenal Nick Hornby has acknowledged. Yet since the arrival of Arsene Wenger, this “1-0 to the Arsenal” modus operandi has been airbrushed from the record books, with everyone inside and outside the media seemingly brainwashed into thinking that entertaining football has always been the Arsenal way. What nonsense. The memory of George Graham’s defensively strong Arsenal team of twenty-five years ago still lingers.

And then we need to talk about Arsenal supporters. For a sport which has traditionally drawn its support from the working classes, I never fail to be amazed with how painfully middle class the Arsenal support appears to be; they spend their entire life chattering, complaining, bickering, but never realising how lucky they are. This sense of entitlement, which I sadly see creeping in to certain sections of our support, really annoys me. What right have do Arsenal fans think they have to silverware? When Chelsea went without a single piece of silver for twenty-six years, did we wail and moan? No. We simply fucking got on with supporting our club, through hell and high water. Just imagine if Arsenal were to be relegated. The screams of torture emanating from North London would keep inhabitants of Australia awake at night.

And, of course – of course! – the Arsenal fans of 2015 are never shy in singing the two favourites, much beloved in school yards everywhere :

“Where were you when you were shit?”

“Shit club, no history.”

Again, there is this insistence within Arsenal’s support – and other teams too – that our success of late is unwarranted due to our perceived lack of historical clout. I need to readdress this view.

Back in around 2002 or so, before anyone knew who Roman Abramovich was, I stumbled across a discussion on a Chelsea fans forum, which totally changed the way that I felt about my club. Back in 2002, even I was beginning to believe the media’s view that we were a mid-sized club. True, I knew that Stamford Bridge had hosted huge crowds, but I also knew that our support had dwindled from the late ‘seventies to the mid ‘nineties. Crucially, it was this era – the most recent – that fans of other teams had referenced in discussing our small support base. Of course, most other teams’ support had dropped in this period too, yet it seemed that it was only Chelsea that was ever mentioned.

In this forum, average attendances were being discussed, and – salvation – somebody posted a link to a Newcastle United forum which, for a lover of statistics like myself, I found to be utterly fascinating.

Here, was a complete list, ranked in order, of every Football League club’s average home attendance, taken from their first season to the most recent. My heart skipped a beat when I realised that “little old Chelsea”, far from being a mid-ranked team, was the fifth-best supported club in England and Wales.

So, as of 2002 (though I think this list might well date from a year or two later when it was updated slightly), the numbers do not lie :

Manchester United – 36,165
Liverpool – 33,591
Tottenham Hotspur – 33,386
Arsenal – 31,692
Chelsea – 31,113
Everton – 30,917
Newcastle United – 30,675
Manchester City – 28,403
Aston Villa – 27, 806
Leeds United – 25,689

Of course, all sorts of things jump in to my mind here, but one key point needs to be addressed. Whereas in 2002 all of the clubs above us in this table had accumulated many more trophies than us, our support throughout almost one hundred years had stayed remarkably buoyant. Yes, Arsenal – for example – had won twelve or thirteen league championships in their storied history, but their average home gate was a mere 578 more than that of Chelsea, who had accumulated just one league championship to that point.

So, rather than the old notion of Chelsea’s support being poor, I would strongly suggest that our support has been historically the most unappreciated and arguably the most loyal of all.

I just wish that this little gem of statistical fact could easily be relayed into a witty terrace chant.

That would shut the bastards up.

My football weekend had encompassed a nervous ninety minutes watching my local team, Frome Town, eke out a 1-1 draw with St. Neots Town on the Saturday. The draw ensured survival for the fourth straight year at our highest ever level in the football pyramid, though this was due in part to the disappearance of former Football League club Hereford United around Christmas; thankfully, only three teams were relegated, not four.

On the Sunday, Parky and I decided to do something a little different. Everyone else seemed to be meeting in a Chelsea stronghold – The Shakespeare’s Head – at Holborn, which is where I have tended to assemble for Arsenal away games for ages, but I parked by the Fullers Brewery at Chiswick and we went on a really excellent pub crawl along the River Thames. We spent a few hours in four different pubs – The Old Ship, The Dove, The Rutland Arms, The Blue Anchor – before catching the Piccadilly Line east and then north at Hammersmith. This part of London is not specifically Chelsea territory – it is closer to Fulham’s ground – and I am sure that hardly any Chelsea match-going fans drink this far out on match days, but it is a pub crawl that we definitely want to repeat. Each pub was different, each had its own charms and each had lovely views of the river. There were blue plaques everywhere. The pubs are on the course of the University Boat Race. There was history and charm aplenty. Quirky and magnificent, it was a part of London that I had not yet witnessed until then. We’ll do it again.

Our meandering walk on the north bank of the river reminded me of the peculiar nature, in some respects, of our support. Yes, Chelsea is on the north side of the Thames, yet we have an SW6 postcode, and our traditional working class support was based not only in Fulham and Hammersmith but south of the river in Chelsea strongholds such as Battersea, Wandsworth and further south into Mitcham, Tooting and beyond. Arsenal, by contrast, eked out an existence south. That meandering Thames in its last twenty miles heading through the nation’s capital city has helped define and confuse the sense of geography of two of its teams.

Chelsea – north in location only, southern in spirit.

Arsenal – roots in the south, now in the north.

As soon as we entered “The Shakespeare’s Head” – packed with familiar faces and hardly any Arsenal – a new Chelsea song entered my consciousness. For a good ten minutes or more, it was non-stop. I quickly tried to work out the words. Within a few minutes, I was joining in.

“Fabrgegas is magic, he wears a magic hat.

He could have signed for Arsenal, but he said “no, fuck that.”

He passes with is left foot, he passes with his right.

And when we win the league again, we’ll sing this song all night.”

For the current climate, in current circumstances, this was a rather light ditty, without any associated malice. The cruel school yard seemed distant. I texted the words to a couple of friends, but word had got out. The Chelsea section of the World Wide Web was heating up with references to – gasp – a new song.

Lovely stuff.

The team news came through; “no striker.” Ah, the game…I hadn’t thought too much about it. A draw would be fine from my perspective. It seemed that Jose Mourinho agreed. A draw would knock Arsenal and their 578 extra fans out of the title hunt. I geared myself up for a dour defensive battle. Mourinho doing a George Graham, but with tons more charisma.

The stations at Holloway Road and Arsenal were closed (at the latter, there was the sulphurous odour of a smoke flare, Chelsea at work no doubt) so we had to alight at Finsbury Park. This resulted in a delay; I missed the kick-off by ten minutes. There is no doubt, for all the negativity about the lack of atmosphere inside, Arsenal’s stadium is striking.

Chelsea, in all blue, were attacking the other end.

Courtois, Azpilicueta, Terry, Cahill, Ivanovic, Matic, Ramires, Oscar, Fabregas, Willian, Hazard.

My pre-match expectation of a dour defensive battle was not too wide of the mark. As the game progressed, I commented to Gary that Arsenal never really looked like threatening us.

“We can soak all this up all day long, Gal.”

The first-half provided me with more good opportunities to observe how well our defence plays as a unit. Only on a few occasions did the Arsenal players find space. In a first-half of few chances, a shot from Ramires was saved by Ospina after good work by Willian. Penalty shouts came and went; Ospina clattered Oscar and Fabregas was booked for simulation.

Our support was in good voice, with the Willian song and the new “Magic Hat” song providing the highlights. One thought kept filtering in to my mind though –

“How can 57,000 people make such little noise?”

It was not difficult to judge the mood of the home fans though. They seemed to be resigned to the fact that even a win against us would not be enough. I can hardly remember a rousing Arsenal song the entire game. There was only a rise in the volume from the home areas when Arsenal attacked. There was no solid backing throughout the game.

Jose replaced Oscar with Didier Drogba at the break. I hoped for a little more attacking verve, but there was little. Courtois dominated the box time and time again, forever seeming to thwart high ball after hall ball. I thought that Dave had yet another fine game of football, but the star of our team was John Terry, who was simply magnificent. Walcott and Welbeck entered the fray late on for Arsenal, but we kept them at bay. I noted that a considerable amount of home fans applauded Cesc as he was replaced by Zouma.

The point was well won, and the away fans roared. After the final whistle, the screams of pure delight from John Terry were captured by me on camera.

Inside, if I am honest, I felt a little flat. Yes, I would have taken a draw before the game, but this particular game of football will not live too long in my memory. I felt a little empty. I wondered if it was only me experiencing these feelings. Sigh.

Outside, a little army of away fans had congregated outside the turnstiles and were baiting the home fans in the lounge and bar areas above. One song dominated.

It was magic.

We made our way south, back to Hammersmith, then repeated our footsteps back to the waiting car. As the evening sky was reflected in a resting River Thames, thoughts turned to Leicester City on Wednesday evening. Another win there and we will almost be home.

Tales From Bloemfontein Road

Posted on April 13, 2015 by Chris Axon

Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea : 12 April 2015.

For some reason, QPR have only allowed away fans in to the twelve or so rows of the upper tier of the School End this season. Unlike on all other visits that I can remember, there were now home fans in the lower tier. Maybe they had suddenly found an extra thousand fans from somewhere. Of course on many previous visits to Shepherd’s Bush by the descending hordes from Chelsea, it was very often the case that stands housed both sets of supporters. On my very first visit to Loftus Road in 1995, I sat in the Ellerslie Road Stand – along the side – in a home area, yet surrounded by Chelsea supporters. We used to swamp the place. In fact, our away allocation on Sunday April 12 2015 would mark our smallest ever presence at QPR. I suppose our previously weighty presence needed to be engineered out of the equation. Such is life. It will surprise nobody that I will take a couple of digs at Rangers’ ridiculous claim that “West London Is Ours” in this match report; to be honest they are an easy target. Just three years ago, when a Juan Mata penalty gave us a narrow 1-0 win in an FA Cup tie, the attendance of 15,728 was some 2,500 below capacity.

Pathetic really.

On the morning of the game, I had enjoyed a rather different pre-match routine. Setting off early, at just after 6.30am, and travelling alone – Parky was one of the many unlucky ones who had missed out on one of the 1,700 tickets – I had decided to undertake a little sightseeing around central London prior to attending the match. I often rue the fact that I never take really advantage of being in one of the world’s great cities on match days. I hoped to make amends. I parked-up at the usual place for a game at QPR, just off the Uxbridge Road, at just after 9am. I caught the tube from Shepherd’s Bush Market in to town. I headed for Piccadilly Circus and spent the best part of three hours idly walking on familiar streets in the heart of the city. The weather was spectacular and the bright sun made the famous buildings look even more stunning. As I slowly walked past tourists, I was in familiar territory…the Eros Statue at Piccadilly Circus, the cinemas on Leicester Square, the church of St. Martin In The Fields, the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square, Nelson’s Column, and a glimpse of Whitehall and the Palace of Westminster, The Strand, Charing Cross Station, the Savoy Hotel. I dipped into the Strand Palace Hotel for a coffee, with good reason, and was lost in thought for many a minute. My parents honeymooned in this hotel in 1957 and my good friend Glenn’s grandmother worked in this hotel during World War Two. Down to Westminster Bridge and views – what views – of the city and the River Thames. To the east, the dramatic skyline of the city, with a plethora of new skyscrapers jostling for attention with the classic dome of Wren’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. To the west, Royal Festival Hall and the London Eye with the iconic Big Ben standing proud alongside the Houses of Parliament away in the distance.

London Town.

Chelsea Town.

There was a certain strangeness as I headed west again, via tube to Hammersmith and then bus to Shepherd’s Bush, in balancing the fact that this great city, with a population of eight million, was playing host to two of its top football teams in a stadium holding just 18,000.

Walking along the Uxbridge Road, past a few cafes and pubs, and past road signs for Loftus Road, then Ellerslie Road, and then turning up Bloemfontein Road, everything was pretty quiet. It was just before 1pm, with only half-an-hour before kick-off. There just wasn’t the hustle and bustle of match days along the Fulham Road. No souvenir stalls. No grafters. No touts. No buzz.

I bumped into a gaggle of mates outside. The big news was that Loic Remy was not playing; there were unsubstantiated rumours of his mother being taken ill. Izzy Brown was on the bench. Didier was playing. I summed things up in ten words.

“Tough game. We aren’t playing well. Didier. FFS.”

Yes, Didier Drogba is a Chelsea legend, but I am sure I wasn’t the only one who was worried about him leading the line for ninety minutes.

After a minimal search by a couple of stewards, all high-viz jackets and acne, and then a walk past a line of policemen and policewomen outside the steps to the upper tier, I was in. It is ridiculously cramped in the seats of the upper tier, and even more cramped in the narrow area behind. There was no beer sales, so I made do with a coffee. On the wall in the serving area, behind the young girls nicely bedecked in Chelsea T-shirts, were the famous words belonging to a South American football devotee;

“As a man, you can change your wife, your girlfriend, your politics, your religion and your sex, but you cannot change your mother and you cannot change your football team.”

Well said, sir.

Inside, Loftus Road looked the same as it has done for the past thirty-five years. It only holds 18,000 and, according to thousands of Chelsea fans, is a “quote, unquote, shit hole.” My personal view is that it is a neat stadium, albeit with restricted sight lines. Although it seems that the spectators in the upper tier might be able to tap goalkeepers on the shoulder if the need arises, visibility of the nearest goal line is only achievable by standing the entire game.

So be it.

Alan and Gary soon joined me in row H. We were just to the right of the goal. Above, a blue sky, flashed with the vapour trails of planes heading to and from Heathrow. The double-decked “Loft” at the other end. The ‘eighties-style scoreboard. The floodlights on spindles. The closeness of the supporters. The eccentric QPR fan wearing a sombrero, remembered from 2012, in the first row of the South Africa Road Stand.

1,700 Chelsea supporters making themselves heard.

As the game began, with Chelsea in that odd black and jade number, I was far from confident. Yes, we were league leaders and yes, Rangers were mired in the lower reaches, but previous visits to Loftus Road have not, generally, been too successful. Our last league win was almost twenty years ago. Rangers, undoubtedly, would be fighting for every ball.

The first incident of note involved Willian, out on the right, who whipped in a bending cross which “plinked” against the metal of Robert Green’s near post. Chelsea tended to dominate possession in the opening period, but our play exhibited all of the characteristics of the past few weeks; one touch too many, players unwilling to take ownership, a lack of pace. The blustery conditions made controlling the ball difficult. After a neat start, Fabregas began to fade. Up front, Didier was putting in a lot of effort, charging down space and pulling the markers away from their comfort zones.

We had heard that Roman Abramovich was in attendance, but it took me a few minutes to spot him, alongside Bruce Buck and Eugene Tenebaum, in the director’s box. Roman was watching, with his chin nestled in the palm of his hand; it is his trademark. Buck was wearing a pair of royal blue comedy sunglasses. They all look involved and worried. Chelsea will do that.

A volley from Ramires did not trouble Green. Our midfield was generally struggling, and Eden Hazard seemed especially quiet. QPR’s attacks increased steadily throughout the first period, and the twin strike force of Austin and Zamora occasionally cut through our ranks. An Austin shot from outside the box, at waist height throughout, was classically palmed away by an extended Courtois. I was the save of the match thus far. It was a warning to us all. At the other end, a mere twenty five feet away, an awkward header by Fabregas cleared the bar. We had struggled in the first-half, and as I said to Gary, regardless of our result, the poor play did not bode well for the rest of the season. At times, the noise levels did not befit a local derby. The home fans were quiet too.

At the break, the mood in the away section was of gloomy pessimism.

Soon into the second-half, a cross come shot from Phillips evaded everyone and I gasped as the ball went out for a goal-kick. Oscar replaced Ramires, who had struggled to make an impact. QPR were attacking the School End now, and it enabled me to appreciate the organisational skills of John Terry as we defended free-kicks and corners. The Rangers’ chances began to mount up, but our defence was – thankfully – on top. Crosses were headed away, blocks were made and tackles kept attackers at bay. Azpilicueta again shone. Gary Cahill, although at times looking like his legs had been put on backwards, always seemed to make a tackle at the right time. If only his distribution was better. Didier, bless him, won countless headers, and ran his socks off.

But, still, our attacks were far from convincing.

A couple of half-chances raised the spirits slightly, but the mood in the away end was still of frustration. Two more dropped points here, with games coming up against Manchester United and Arsenal…sigh.

There was a major reprieve when Phillips was allowed space to turn on the penalty spot, but Courtois beat off the shot for a corner. There was a grim realisation that the game’s best two chances had fallen to the home team.

Our support rallied a little.

“Matthew Harding’s Blue And White Army, clap, clap, clap, clap.”

The odious Joey Barton was right in the mix of everything that QPR produced. He was the game’s dominant midfielder. Another save by Courtois from Austin.

On eighty minutes, Juan Cuadrado, who has hardly enjoyed the most positive of starts as a Chelsea player, replaced Willian, and I begged of him “come on, son, make a name for yourself today.” He made his way over to the right wing, but was largely ignored by his team mates. Niko Kranjcar, who seems to have been around for ever, yet is only thirty, appeared as a late QPR substitute. He has followed Harry Redknapp around with such blind devotion these past ten years, that I have no doubt he will soon be found running baths for the retired Redknapp in his Sandbanks home.

The minutes passed.

Brighton Tony, never short of an opinion, breezed past with five minutes to go, heading for the exit, and full of alliterative scorn for “The Catalonian.” I could not deny it, Fabregas – the latest of our masked men – had struggled all game.

Moments later, salvation.

A scuffed clearance by Green, with more backspin than a Alex Higgins screw-shot back in to baulk, was picked up by Eden Hazard. He skipped past a marker on the QPR left, received the ball back from Oscar, then played it in to Fabregas.

Surrounded by players, he calmly slotted low past Green.

Surrounded by fans, I calmly photographed the ball on its way in to goal.

The Chelsea end exploded. I can barely remember a goal celebrated so wildly all season. Clasping my camera in my right hand, I continually punched the air with my left fist.

Punch, punch, punch. punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch.

Alan was away, lunging towards the front of the stand. The noise was deafening. He returned to his seat…

Albert Steptoe : “They’ll have to come at us now,”

Harold Steptoe : “Come on my little diamonds,”

With just two minutes left to play, we were winning.

Kurt Zouma replaced Cesc.

Four minutes of extra-time.

Tick, tick, tick.

At the whistle, shrieks of delight. The players’ faces were contorted with pleasure as they celebrated down below us all.

“And now you’re gonna believe us…we’re gonna win the league.”

Tales From South London

Posted on October 20, 2014 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2014

On the drive in to London, as we neared West Drayton or Colnbrook, Parky flicked through a few of the CDs that he had brought along for the day. Once a Squeeze greatest hits selection was chosen, I knew that their songs would provide the backdrop for the day, which would primarily be spent in the band’s back garden of South London. Before we knew it, there was talk of The Sweeney doing ninety ‘cus they’ve got the word to go to catch a gang of villains in a shed up at Heathrow. It all seemed very apt.

Soon there would be talk of Wandsworth and Clapham.

London – or at least the Southern part of it – stretched out before me as I climbed up on to the Hammersmith flyover. After a two week hiatus, it was good to be back in town. And my thoughts of the day would eventually be recorded here on paper; my chills and thrills and spills.

After a swift pint in the “Prince of Wales”, we caught the over ground train at West Brompton, which then took us tantalisingly close to Stamford Bridge, before stopping at Imperial Wharf. One of the alternatives to our new stadium plans of 2011, the area is now overflowing with new apartment blocks. We crossed the River Thames at Chelsea Harbour.

The trip to Selhurst Park last spring was still fresh in my mind; it made me wince. It was, in my mind anyway, our worst performance of 2013-2014, as limp and disjointed a showing as I can remember. With rumours of Diego Costa being absent for the afternoon’s rematch, I briefly wondered if our attack would be equally ineffective this time.

We changed trains at Clapham Junction and caught the 1.11pm to Thornton Heath. There were vivid memories of my trips to Chelsea in 1988-1989, when I used to stay with mates in Woking and travel in by train. Very often, my mates – friends from college, lured to London for employment, – would often join me for a post-game pub crawl around the West End. We would catch the train back from Waterloo around midnight, and as soon as we pulled in to Clapham Junction, one of us – it was usually me – would serenade the carriage accordingly:

I never thought it would happen
With me and the girl from Clapham
Out on the windy common
That night I ain’t forgotten.
When she dealt out the rations
With some or other passions.
I said “you are a lady”
“Perhaps” she said. “I may be.”

We alighted at Thornton Heath in order to prise Andy and Darren out of “The Railway Telegraph”, before heading up to Norwood Junction to meet other friends. The pub was full of Chelsea, with a healthy cluster of OB settled outside, keeping their beady eyes on proceedings. Andy, the leader of the OC Hooligans (yep, them once more) was in town for one game and one game only. It was a pleasure to see him once more. Once away from the pub, I asked a policeman for directions to Thornton Heath. We envisaged a fifteen minute walk.

We moved in to a basement
With thoughts of our engagement
We stayed in by the telly
Although the room was smelly.
We spent our time just kissing
The Railway Arms we’re missing
But love had got us hooked up
And all our time it took up.

The four of us began our walk to Norwood Junction. The weather was overcast but horribly muggy. We soon started to boil. As we walked on and on, we canvassed opinions from a local. It became obvious that the policeman should not have been trusted. We headed back on ourselves, amid consternation from Andy – from Los Angeles – who just wasn’t used to the English habit of walking.

I got a job with Stanley
He said I’d come in handy
And started me on Monday
So I had a bath on Sunday.
I worked eleven hours
And bought the girl some flowers
She said she’d seen a doctor
And nothing now could stop her.

Lo and behold, we found ourselves at Selhurst station, and we sighed. Our detour had wasted twenty minutes of our valuable pre-match drink up. Darren tried to soothe our minds by saying that it was better to have a crap pre-match and a great game than vice-versa. With thoughts of the game in March, I agreed. Still, Norwood Junction was out of view. We trundled on.

I worked all through the winter
The weather brass and bitter
I put away a tenner
Each week to make her better.
And when the time was ready
We had to sell the telly
Late evenings by the fire
With little kicks inside her.

While I was on holiday in Albufeira last May, I bumped into some Crystal Palace youth players and I promised myself to buy the match programme – for once – to see if I could spot any names and faces. One of the lads was a Chelsea supporter, from Sutton, and I wondered if he was experiencing mixed emotions on this particular match day. I wondered where his loyalties were lying. I presumed that as he was on the books of Crystal Palace, there would be a tremendous upsurge in confidence around the whole club, at every level, should they defeat the league leaders. But I tried not to think about that.

This morning at four fifty
I took her rather nifty
Down to an incubator
Where thirty minutes later
She gave birth to a daughter
Within a year a walker.
She looked just like her mother
If there could be another.

Eventually, we caught the number 75 bus to take us the last half a mile. It was about 2.15pm. This would be a very quick “hello goodbye.”

And now she’s two years older
Her mother’s with a soldier
She left me when my drinking
Became a proper stinging.
The devil came and took me
From bar to street to bookie
No more nights by the telly
No more nights nappies smelling.

At last, the bus stopped and we bundled off. As we approached the boozer, we noted a few friendly faces heading towards Selhurst Park. At least there would be more room in the pub for us. At last we stepped inside “The William Stanley.” We were almost an hour late, but we had arrived. We could relax.

Alone here in the kitchen
I feel there’s something missing
I’d beg for some forgiveness
But begging’s not my business
And she won’t write a letter
Although I always tell her
And so it’s my assumption
I’m really up the junction.

The four of us guzzled pints of Kronenburg, and then met up with Alan, Gary, Daryl and Cath. The pub was emptying. Within ten minutes, we were on the short walk to Selhurst Park.

Once inside the stadium, it was obvious that most of the away supporters had spent more than our ten minutes inside various boozers. The mood was raucous. The hoolifans (copyright Martin King) were out in force. Amid the stadia’s old-fashioned features and cramped gangways, the buzz was tangible. Home games at Chelsea might attract a wide range of social strata, but away games remain the predilection of our traditional working class hard-core of old.

Especially Crystal Palace away.

My seat was at the very rear of the lower section of the Arthur Waite Stand. Back in the ‘eighties, the lower section was standing only. In truth, the lower section would be standing only in 2014 too, albeit with the added intrusion of plastic seats getting in the way. The stand was dark and cavernous; good acoustics, though. Sadly, the rake of the terraces remained shallow and it meant that I spent some of the game on tip-toes as I strained to watch the game unfold. At times, I was unable to see any of the action in the far left corner, down where the Palace Ultras provide a noisy backdrop to the games at Selhurst.

There was a near capacity crowd as the teams lined up. Chelsea were in all yellow again. I quickly scanned the team. Diego Costa was indeed out, to be replaced by Loic Remy. The league ever-presents in 2014-2015 now stood at eight; Courtois, Brana, Dave, JT, Gary, Matic, Cesc and Hazard.

There was a lively start to the game with Campbell forcing a low block from Courtois within the first two minutes. At the other end, a free-kick was awarded to us and there was a little delay as the referee moved the wall back. This, as always, heightened the sense of drama. Oscar clipped the free-kick up and over the wall and it spun across Speroni’s goal before nestling in the far corner.

We were 1-0 up after just six minutes and Alan gave me a massive bear hug.

“Come on my little diamonds” I gasped.

A blue flare was let off around ten rows in front and the fumes were a vivid reminder that we were back in business. However, Gary Cahill was soon showing the same geographical awareness that we had shown on our lengthy walk from Thornton Hearth to Norwood Junction, allowing Campbell to lob over. With Matic covering a lot of ground, he was making up for his woeful performance last season. Fabregas was picking passes into supporting team mates. We were playing some lovely stuff. Willian fired over.

A fine run from Bolasie reminded us that Palace were an occasional threat. Thankfully his shot was screwed wide.

The Chelsea choir were in fine voice, with the “Steve Gerrard” song being chanted with gusto. Ah, that 3-3 draw at Selhurst Park followed our 2-0 win at Anfield. I was surprised no Palace fans joined in. Their main song gathered momentum –

“CPFC. CPFC. CPFC, CPFC, CPFC.”

After a few refereeing decisions went our way, this changed to –

“Shit referee. Shit referee. Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee.”

As far as lyrics go, Glenn Tilbrook and Chris Difford needn’t worry.

A Chelsea song was aimed at other rivals further north and further east –

“We hate those bastards in claret and blue.”

Of course, Crystal Palace used to wear these colours too, way back in the late ‘sixties and early ‘seventies. In fact, few clubs have had as many kit changes as Palace over the years.

Now it was our turn to use the same tune to goad Palace –

“Shit football team. Shit football team. Shit football team, shit football team, shit football team.”

Our position of comfort seemed in jeopardy when a silly lunge by Azpilicueta scythed down Jedinak right in front of the referee. The Palace fans whooped as he was shown the red card. Mourinho re-jigged, replacing Willian with Filipe Luis. Incredibly, Palace were then reduced to ten men when Delaney was given a second yellow for holding back Remy.

Ten versus ten.

The Chelsea support, concerned that our lead would be jeopardised, roared.

We had heard that Manchester City had walloped Tottenham 4-1, so we just needed us to hang on to the win. The first-half had been mainly positive, with a few fine periods of play, though there was an annoying doubt in my mind that Palace might threaten in the second period.

We looked at ease in the opening minutes of the half, and a fine move through the heart of the Palace defence resulted in a series of one-twos, which finally fed in Fabregas who slotted home.

2-0.

It was a stunning goal.

We roared again.

I watched as Fabregas raced towards the baying three thousand supporters in the Arthur Waite. It was party time once more. Hazard went close, but our weighty possession didn’t provide too many other scoring chances. A perfectly-timed tackle by Cahill was one of the highlights of the game. In the stands, with ten minutes left to play, it was time for us to nick the song of the day and to give it new life.

“We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league.”

This lasted five minutes, then six minutes, then seven minutes, then eight minutes. When Palace cut through our defence to score, we hardly paused.

Thankfully, the merest hint of an embarrassing draw was averted and we held on. The singing continued as the players thanked us for our support. Only four walked towards us though; must do better. John Terry, Chelsea captain for the five-hundredth time, walked right up to us, though. It was a lovely moment.

We walked back to Norwood Junction and – with great relief – I slumped in a seat on a train headed for London Bridge. Until that point, I had been on my feet for around five hours. Our route back in to the centre of London took us past The Den. At London Bridge station, under the iconic Shard skyscraper, around seventy riot police formed a formidable sight on the station concourse. Had there been an act of terrorism, or was an apocalypse close? No, Millwall had just played at home. I guess such scenes at London Bridge are common on Saturday afternoons.

Our lengthy meanderings continued as we made our way back west, via Westminster, and a pint in The Zetland Arms at South Kensington. As we got back on the District Line train, headed for Earl’s Court, we passed two inebriated Chelsea fans – faces familiar, names unknown – who bellowed once more –

“We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league. We’re top of the league, we’re top of the league, we’re top of the league.”

It had been another good day.

Tales From The Chelsea Square Mile

Posted on August 25, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 23 August 2014.

So, the 2014-2015 home opener against Leicester City on the Saturday of the August Bank Holiday weekend. A time to meet up with a few more Chelsea mates; I bumped into quite a few among the four thousand at Burnley on Monday, but here was a chance to chat to a few more. Monday’s game showed glimpses of a fine season to come. There were plenty of plusses, no more so than from the new starters Thibaut Courtois, Cesc Fabregas and Diego Costa. Leicester City, another of the promoted teams, would be full of fight but, surely, most Chelsea supporters would be hoping for a maximum six points from our first two league matches. Let’s begin strong. Let’s try to amass as many points against the lesser teams before we lock horns against the big four, five, six or seven.

It would be time for me to continue to get my juices flowing for the season too. I have to be honest though; the final home game of last season, against Norwich City, was so lackluster, with a disappointingly subdued atmosphere too, that my memory of it left me wondering if I’d have trouble in getting “up” for the home opener of 2014-2015.

This is a familiar theme here, isn’t it?

I can only tell this Chelsea story from my perspective.

Whatever will be will be, as the song goes.

After the tiring pilgrimage to Burnley on Monday, my mate Glenn took a turn to drive for the Leicester match. It was a quick and easy drive east. We were soon parked up on Greyhound Road, just a mile or so to the north of Stamford Bridge. It is a strange fact that although I attend around twenty-five matches at The Bridge every season, my meanderings on match days do not extend far beyond a square mile of terra firma centered on the green sward of Stamford Bridge. From the North End Road heading south towards Fulham Broadway – the old Walham Green – then east along Fulham Road, past the stadium, up to Redcliffe Gardens, on to Old Brompton Road – just touching the southern boundary of Earl’s Court – and then west along Lillee Road, past the cluster of pubs around West Brompton.

This marks the territory of my usual Chelsea match day experience.

And it would be the path that I would take on this particular match day Saturday.

At 12.45pm, I was patiently waiting at the bar in The Goose, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my left and saw Eric, with his good lady Megan. They are both from Detroit and in town for the best part of a week. Eric is a keen footballer and plays regularly. Crucially, he has been a Chelsea fan for a number of years. I first met him in New York City ahead of our game with PSG in the summer of 2012. Thankfully our extended Chelsea family was able to secure a match ticket for the game. We retired in to the beer garden which was predictably busy on this sunny lunchtime.

Our usual gaggle of Chelsea devotees stood in a small circle, sipping lagers, chatting, sharing jokes, laughing at Parky. It was a typical scene. It was just lovely to be sharing it all with Eric, who – I am sure – was looking forward to a Goose pre-match just as much as the main event at 3pm.

My good friend Andy was able to regale the two Detroit natives of his visit to the city way back in 1987. I must visit Detroit one day – home to the Motor City Blues, of which Eric is a member – as it is one of the few major North American cities, along with Montreal, Phoenix, Nashville, Memphis, St. Louis and Badgercrack, Nebraska, that I am yet to visit. Eric and Megan had been enjoying a fine time in London since their arrival on Wednesday. On their first evening, despite being undoubtedly tired with jet lag, they embarked on a bespoke tour of a half a dozen gin bars, which took them through several different parts of the capital city.

“Yeah. We have a similar scene in Somerset. Gravy bars. A bit different.”

Visits followed to Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey and the Churchill War Rooms below Whitehall. These are just the sort of attractions that I could or maybe should be visiting on my London excursions. While Eric would be watching the boys play, Megan was off shopping.

We met up with Darren outside the CFCUK stall and the all-important ticket was handed over to Eric. He had a prime seat; second row of the Matthew Harding Upper, right behind the goal. Despite our plans to get Eric in to the stadium in good time, so he could experience a little of the pre-match atmosphere, we still found ourselves outside the MH turnstiles at 2.55pm.

“Typical Chelsea.”

Eric laughed.

I was in, alongside Alan, Glenn, Tom and Joe, with a couple of minutes to spare. Stamford Bridge, with a sky full of small bursts of white cloud and stands full of sun-kissed spectators, looked a picture. It wasn’t easy to tell where home fans met away fans in The Shed. A thin line of stewards marked the boundaries. Leicester City would be backed by a healthy three thousand. Not too many were wearing replica shirts. I remember three specific games against Leicester City at The Bridge; the Erland Johnsen game in the 1996-1997 F.A. Cup run, a last-minute blooter from Frank Leboeuf in 1997 and Steve Guppy killing our championship campaign with another last minute goal in 1999.

I had bought a match programme on the walk past the towering West Stand and the cover, design and layout is generally unchanged from previous years; well, since 2004-2005 anyway, when a new design was used. I’d suggest a new look. I’m getting bored with it. Throughout this season within the pages of the programme, there will be a retrospective on that 2004-2005 season.

Was it really ten years ago that we assembled at Stamford Bridge to see how the new manager Mourinho would begin his Chelsea career in that game versus Manchester United? How time flies when you are winning trophies. Come April, it will be a decade since Bolton. Oh my. Incidentally, during that summer of 2004, I watched my five-hundredth Chelsea game (the Gianfranco Zola testimonial versus Real Zaragoza) and it had taken me a full thirty years to reach that mark. In the following decade, ten seasons, I squeezed in a further five hundred. Realistically, I doubt if my support for Chelsea will ever again reach such heights of fanaticism; these have been my roaring forties. It’s been magnificent.

The first-half was a rather frustrating affair. Despite home advantage, the finer players, the more experienced manager, the most expensive signings, Leicester City – the new team at the top table – matched us. As the first period wore on, the exuberant Chelsea support began to quieten. And this disturbed me. I always wonder how many of the thousands at home games are first time visitors, like Eric, who have been drawn to our football and Chelsea in particular by the promise of a white hot atmosphere and associated boisterousness, only to be saddened by the quietness in the stands. It is always a concern. I’d hate every person’s first experience of a Chelsea match day to be underwhelming. I felt for Eric as the game progressed. Our play was not only slow and without focus, but Stamford Bridge was in one of its “can’t be arsed” moods.

Despite the continued probing of Cesc Fabregas, who constantly attempted to thread a variety of balls in towards our attackers, and the earnest runs of Andre Schurrle, and the physical presence of Diego Costa, it was the away team who had just as much of the ball and just as many attempts on goal. Would this be the day that would be remembered for the individual performances of the two ‘keepers Courtois and Schmeichel? A fantastic tackle by John Terry on Mahrez was almost the most memorable moment of the first thirty minutes. Diego Costa began to be rewarded for his movement with a couple of half-chances, but his efforts were thwarted.

As the half-time whistle blew, I envisaged Jose Mourinho waiting in the home dressing room with his smart phone and eleven ice bucket challenges.

Certainly there was a need for a concentrating of mind and body. Mourinho needed to inspire and cajole, or – at worst – give the team a bollocking.

At half time, John Spencer, our little Lion of Vienna, was walked around the pitch with Neil Barnett. What a night that was; when Spenno’s little legs dashed seventy yards before dispatching the ball past the Austria Memphis ‘keeper. That was almost twenty years ago. Another “oh my.” He was given a fine reception:

“One Johnny Spen-cah, there’s only one Johnny Spen-cah!”

At half-time, whispered words with my mate Rousey. One of his friends, Nick – who watched a mere ten feet away from me – had passed away a mere three weeks ago. His was a face that I recognised, though we never ever said more than a few words to each other. He will be missed by me and others.

The second-half was a different story, thankfully. There was a more vigorous approach from the off. Soon into the half, a fine effort from the previously subdued Oscar rattled the woodwork, and then the forceful Ivanovic forced a fine save from Schmeichel. Schurrle was scythed down, but referee Lee Mason didn’t see red. Our World Cup Winner then came close. Approaching the hour mark, the home support was buoyed by this greater urgency and rewarded the team with a wall of noise from the Matthew Harding. At last! I hoped that Eric’s nerves were tingling.

The Leicester ‘keeper was enjoying a fine game; his finger-tipped save from a rasping drive from Ivanovic, now very involved, was exceptional.

Then, our hearts were in our mouths, as David Nugent – who seems to have been around for ever – broke with the entire Chelsea defence caught short. Miraculously, his low shot was deflected wide by the outstretched shin of Courtois, who had quickly advanced off his line as soon as he realised the severity of the situations. His angles were perfect. As the shot flew off for a corner, we roared.

A penalty shout was waved away, and Schmeichel foiled a Fabregas effort. Our chances were piling up. Ivanovic was again involved with a bursting advance down the right. He found Diego Costa lurking centrally on the edge of the six yard box. A quick touch to bring the ball down and then a delicate prod past Schmeichel. I jumped up on to the steps to my left and roared. I don’t always do this; only for a “big” goal. Here was proof that this one was important. This was no run of the mill goal. This might just win us the points.

GET IN!

Diego Costa was two out of two and he reeled away down below me with his arms outstretched. I instinctively grabbed my camera and snapped as he was engulfed by his new, thankful, team mates. As they eventually untangled themselves, I caught his double point to the skies. I noticed Didier doing this at Burnley after his fine touch and volley. It must be the new craze. I hope we see a lot more of this.

Ramires and Willian came on for Schurrle and Oscar. What a squad we have this season. Leicester City, although clearly second best in this half, were still threatening. I told Alan that we needed a second to make it safe. With that, Eden Hazard, weaved in from the left down below me and hit a low shot towards goal. It was a move that we have witnessed on a few times before. I snapped a photo as he shot. A slight deflection sent it past the Leicester ‘keeper. Another roar. I watched as Hazard jogged over towards the Chelsea bench in that square-on style of his.

2-0. Phew.

With the game safe – I checked and Steve Guppy wasn’t playing – Jose had a little treat up his sleeve. With ten minutes to go, the crowd roared as Didier Drogba replaced Diego Costa. I’m still trying my best to rationalise the reappearance of Didier in the royal blue after two years away. I joked with Alan :

“How about next May, in Berlin, he scores another penalty and then leaves for good?”

“I’ll go with that.”

Willian, as willing as ever, tested man of the match Schmeichel one last time.

The whistle blew.

We were top.

“See you at Goodison, Al.”

Outside at the Peter Osgood statue, Eric was all abuzz. I could tell that he had experienced a magical afternoon. He wasn’t physically shaking, but he wasn’t far off it.

“Buzzin’, man.”

The night was still young and so we set off on a mini pub-crawl after picking up Dave and Jake. We called in for a drink at The Finborough Arms after a quick shower of rain and then The Pembroke, before we met up with Megan, post-shopping, for some pizza and Peronis at Salvo’s. On the adjoining table were ten Chelsea fans from Sweden. We all watched aghast as Arsenal equalised late on against Everton.

Parky, however, hit the nail on the head.

“Fcuk’em.”

There was just time for one last pub and one last pint; The Imperial, just along from West Brompton underground station, where the post-Chelsea home game ska night was coming to a close, but where a smattering of a few famous and infamous Chelsea faces would be drinking long in to the night.

“Definitely a part, now, of the Chelsea match day experience these days, Eric.”

“Fantastic.”

We said our goodbyes. It had been a fine day.

Dedicated to the memory of Sir Richard Attenborough.

Tales From The Boleyn Ground

Posted on November 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2013.

As I drove in to London on the elevated section of the M4 motorway, I caught sight of the cluster of skyscrapers in the City, some five or six miles further east. London is neither Chicago nor New York, but I am always excited by the sight of the Nat West Tower, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin and The Shard. Within an hour or so, I would be beyond these monoliths to industry, trade and finance and I would be nestled in an East End hostelry. The journey to the nation’s capital had been quick and easy. The late autumnal gold and orange hues of the journey from Somerset contrasted with the light greys of the London afternoon. I was soon parked-up and quickly disappeared through the large and imposing art deco façade of Acton Town tube station. The District Line took me to Westminster, and from there the Jubilee Line snaked south, east and then north towards West Ham tube station.

A visit to Upton Park has never been an enjoyable trip for me; it is, undoubtedly, my least liked away game. Thirty years ago, the threat of violent acts was reason enough for me to be wary. The aura surrounding the tightly-knit ICF meant that a foray down Green Street was akin to walking the gang plank. Thankfully, those days have passed. Today however, there is still a general tawdriness about the locale which eats away at my enthusiasm on match days. In the violent ‘eighties, the away end was the infamous South Bank, now the site of the Bobby Moore Stand and the home supporters. My first two visits were horrendous affairs; a 5-3 loss in the early months of 1986-1987 and a 4-1 loss in the closing stages of 1987-1988. The latter game effectively saw us relegated. It was gut-wrenching stuff. Since then, my visits have been relatively rare and I’ve only started visiting Upton Park regularly over the past five or six seasons. In the years when I could only afford to go to five or six away games each season, Upton Park remained way down the pecking order. This would be my ninth visit.

Of course, with West Ham United soon to de-camp to the former Olympic Stadium in 2016, there will only be a few more trips to the scruffy, down-at-heel streets around the Boleyn Ground left. I’m not convinced that many West Ham fans are too enamoured with a move away from their spiritual home. It would be trite for me to say that I am not going to waste too much time concerning myself with what West Ham fans think, but we should all be wary about teams moving out of their historic homes into new stadia. I’d imagine that, given the choice, most Hammers would prefer to see Upton Park redeveloped rather than move a few miles north-west to Stratford. However, I am sure that the board members of Chelsea Football Club be watching with interest once West Ham United move in to their new luxurious residence in August 2016. The dream scenario for me would be for The Irons to be opening up in The Championship. In such circumstances, surely gates of 35,000 rattling around inside a sterile new stadium will be a nightmare for West Ham fans who, at times, used to produce an intimidating atmosphere in the tightness of Upton Park.

I’ll watch with interest to see how this stadium move eventually works itself out.

At just after three o’clock, I alighted at Plaistow tube station. In the ticket hall, I looked back west towards those tower blocks and skyscrapers of the City of London, the mid-afternoon sky darkening by the minute but with the slight tint of the first few moments of an eventual sunset. I soon joined up with a few fellow Chelsea mates who were drinking in “The Black Lion.” This was a first-time visit for me. Just inside the long narrow bar, Rob, Gary, Andy, Daryl, Walnuts, Dave, Steve and I spent an enjoyable ninety minutes, supping lager and sharing laughs. It goes without saying that none of us were marked as Chelsea supporters. We were a small Chelsea enclave in a hot bed of West Ham supporters. The boozer was crowded and the bar staff busy. We were in enemy territory. We kept ourselves to ourselves. We blended in well. Contrary to popular belief, the locals were neither happy, smiling Cockneys, prone to singing “Bubbles” nor psychopathic hoodlums. They seemed quite – whisper it – normal.

At just before 5 o’clock, we threw our jackets on and walked the best part of a mile east towards the ground. There was time for the briefest of chats with Gary about how watching England now disinterests both of us. In fact, International breaks tend to bore us all to death these days. I made the point to Gary that, seasoned football follower that I am, I find myself picking and choosing what aspects of the wide world of football I choose to pre-occupy myself with these days. To be blunt, I’d rather watch my local non-league team than the national team. I’d rather read a good book on football than watch a game on TV. I’d rather plan the next away day than bother listening to another Premiership team on the radio.

“Been there, seen that, got the replica shirt with number and player’s name.”

There was a brief “meet and greet” outside the away turnstiles with a few friends and this resulted in me missing the kick-off. By the time I had squeezed my way in to row N behind the goal, I’d missed the entrance of the teams and all of that “Pretty Bubbles In The Air” bollocks. I find that the away end at West Ham – formerly the Centenary Stand, now the Trevor Brooking Stand – is particularly shallow.

The first thing that hit me was how good we looked in the white / blue / blue. Next, I realised that Mikel and Ramires were in the holding positions and so this must mean that Frank Lampard was one of “the three.”

I’ll be honest; Frank has looked a little tired of late and so maybe Jose was risking it a little. Alongside Frank were Oscar and Hazard. At the back, JT was paired with GC again. After a couple of fine performances, Dave retained his place at left-back.

A quick scan of the West Ham team and it soon became obvious that Sam Allardyce was playing with no obvious striker.

The first-half began and it was a scrappy affair. A few Chelsea half-chances and a block from John Terry denied former Blue Joe Cole. Then, a silly and clumsy challenge by Jaaskelainen on Oscar resulted in a penalty to Chelsea.

At moments like that, how I wish I had put £20 on Frank to score first. True enough, with camera poised, up-stepped our leading goal scorer to blast high into the West Ham net. Frank couldn’t resist; he ran towards the spectators in the Bobby Moore, right arm lifted, and no doubt muttered a few personal epithets to the watching thousands.

Alan : “They’ll ‘Ave Ta Cam At Us Nah.”

Chris : “Cam Own Moi Li’ul Dimons.”

I even did a Cockney – arms in braces – victory jig.

To my right, the blue smoke from a flare billowed in and around the celebrating hordes.

Our play became more focussed and our goal scoring chances increased. We moved the ball intelligently and Frank Lampard found himself in acres of space in the middle of the park. He in turn moved the ball on to Eden Hazard, who flicked the ball into the path of a raiding Oscar. The away end were on tip-toes as our little Brazilian dribbled forward, with no West Ham defender able to shackle him, and we watched as he dispatched the ball into the goal, tucking it neatly just inside the left post.

We roared again.

The Chelsea fans around me had been in good voice for all of the first-half and we goaded the home fans further :

“We’re the only team in London with the European Cup.”

How I love that song…it was sung over and over and over.

And then, a song especially for West Ham’s most successful former player :

“Frankie Lampard – he’s won more than you.”

Just before the break, a sad sight. Joe Cole was substituted. I watched as he raced off the pitch. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who remembers Joe being hooked off at Fulham in 2006 after just twenty minutes by Jose.

A few hundred West Ham fans in the East Stand to our left decided to take on the might of the Chelsea away support by initiating a few songs aimed at us. One rather rotund West Ham fan was singled out and taunted :

“Gone for the salad. You should have gone for the salad.”

The first-half had been all Chelsea. There has to be one special mention for a great piece of defensive covering by Cesar Azpilicueta, who raced over from his left-back position to quell a rare West Ham attack. Top marks. The boy is doing well at the moment.

Soon into the second-half, a thunderous Gary Cahill header was hacked off the line by Mark Noble.

Then, a fine flowing move which involved an improving Eto’o, found Oscar unmarked on the far post but he volleyed over.

With the match seemingly safe, the three thousand Chelsea fans – all standing, of course – dipped into the pages of the travelling support songbook and created a roll-call for an assortment of much-loved former players. We began, as so often is the case, with a song – almost seasonal now – for Peter Osgood.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star, scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.”

Then, in a five minute period, the songs continued, praising several other Chelsea legends.

“Oh Jimmy, Jimmy – Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink.”

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Frank Leboeuf, Frank Leboeuf.”

“Eidur Gudjohnsen, Eidur Gudjohnsen.”

“Super, Super Dan – Super Dan Petrescu.”

“Oh Dennis Wise, scored a fackin’ great goal.”

“One Di Matteo, there’s only one Di Matteo.”

Then, a song which brought a smile to my face.

“He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fackin’ where – Joey Cole, Joey Cole.”

Although Joe has completed a full footballing circle now, from West Ham to West Ham, and although he joined Liverpool with a few disparaging comments aimed at Chelsea Football Club, he is still in our hearts. This was, to use the oft-quoted phrase, “Proper Chelsea” – singing the name of a rival player. In light of the abuse that Frank Lampard has received at the hands of the bitter followers of his former team, this made a refreshing change. I sincerely hope that Joe, showered and changed, was sitting within the stadium and was able to hear the words aimed towards him. As if to rub it in further, there was just time for one more.

“Joey Cole – he’s won more than you.”

The game continued on with Chelsea in the ascendency. Eto’o curled one just wide of the post. There was an air of relaxed calm in the away end, but I feared a West Ham goal might change things dramatically. West Ham substitute Maiga fluffed his lines at the far post and steered the ball wide when it looked easier to score. After an Eden Hazard shot was blocked, the ball fell invitingly for Frank to effortlessly guide the ball low and into the West Ham goal.

“YES!”

Frank raced over to celebrate in front of the celebrating three thousand and I hopped up on to my seat.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

In one photo, Frank seems to be looking at me right in the eyes.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Get in.

We quickly walked out into the cold East London night with a bounce in our step. The home fans, some with claret and blue bar scarves wrapped around their necks, were mute. Alan and Gary decided to wait in line at the back of the large queue at Upton Park tube, but I decided to retrace my steps back to Plaistow. The “clip-clop” of a couple of police horses accompanied a few stragglers as we hurriedly walked the mile west. Once at Plaistow, there was a further wait on a crowded platform, but eventually the train took us back to West Ham tube station. I can well remember the journey on this District Line that my friend Gill and I took just under a year ago, our beloved team humiliated 3-1 by West Ham amidst turmoil, unrest and acrimony in the Chelsea end with Benitez at the helm. At the time, we sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t get any worse in 2012-2013.

Actually, it didn’t.

From my perspective, Upton Park 2012 was a recent low-water mark for Chelsea Football Club.

In 2013, Upton Park provided a far rosier picture. I texted Gill and she was able to share the moment.

By 9pm, I was back at Earl’s Court, knee deep in penne arrabiata in my favourite Italian restaurant, watching Benitez’ new team lose 1-0 at home to Parma.

And we were back in the hunt for the title.

Happy days.

Tales From Kensington And Chelsea

Posted on October 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 27 October 2013.

There was a small but steady flow of fellow match goers walking past the rows of gravestones within the confines of Brompton Cemetery. Most spoke with local accents but there were a few rogue Northerners too. There was the occasional royal blue and white bar scarf of the home team. Just the merest hint that a football match was soon to be taking place nearby. However, the light grey steel of the roof of Stamford Bridge’s East Stand was clearly visible above the western boundary wall and the intrusive sounds of the stadium public address system echoed off the surrounding buildings and disturbed the otherwise quiet calm of a Sunday afternoon in England’s capital city. This approach to the home of Chelsea Football Club was a break from the norm for me; I had only ever walked through this central pathway, flanked by military-like ranks of grey gravestones of various sizes and shapes, on one other occasion. Much to my consternation, I had been unable to locate the gravestone of Chelsea founder Gus Mears when I paid the cemetery a visit on a winter evening in 2006. In 2013, the same stone was proving to be just as elusive. Many of the tombstones had subsided and the script on many had faded. In some ways, the cemetery was frozen in time; apart from a few exceptions – new gravestones with fresh flowers – most were dated from 1875 to 1915. I wondered how many of the resting souls had witnessed football at Stamford Bridge during our inaugural years.

The weather was mild; we had been warned to expect rainstorms and thunderous gales, but the day had not brought forth the expected deluge. The sky was cloudy and grey, but the autumnal air was dry.

Let me explain why my approach to Stamford Bridge involved a slow perambulation past the final resting places of many of West London’s most notable Victorian and Edwardian residents. On Friday and Saturday, I had been laid low with a sudden and searing back pain. I came to the quick conclusion that it would not be beneficial for me to be imprisoned in The Goose before the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game; instead, I wanted to embark on a walk through the streets of London and – hopefully – enable my ailing body to keep supple and to recuperate. The last thing I wanted was for it to seize up, mid-pint, in a packed and claustrophobic pub.

So, I was on my own. I had left Lord Parky, Young Jake and Young Kris to head off to the boozer at 12.45pm, while I slowly walked to Earl’s Court. My travels then took me to Knightsbridge and I dipped into a couple of famous shops. It is a part of London that I know well. Famously, our former chairman Ken Bates often used the tagline that Stamford Bridge was “only one and a half miles from Harrods” in his prolonged fight to keep football at our only home. In short, he meant that Stamford Bridge was London’s most centrally-located football stadium and that this key fact should be cherished and protected. In one of Harrods food halls, I had spotted a young boy wearing a Chelsea shirt and I managed a little chuckle to myself about this particular lad’s pre-match routine compared to the crowded interior of The Goose that I am so familiar with.

I had then left the tourists and the shoppers in my wake as I slowly headed west, my back now healing fast; I had made a wise move, I was improving with every step. I walked past the perfectly maintained town houses of Kensington and Chelsea on my slow march towards Stamford Bridge, located in the adjacent borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. Parts of the two neighbouring boroughs are quite dissimilar.

The North End Road is not Eaton Square.

Finally, on Fulham Road, more spectators appeared and suddenly the buzz was there. This was a match day; a big match day at that. Although results went against us on the Saturday, here was a chance to put ourselves right back into the mix at the very top of the division. On “Match of the Day” the previous evening, I had bristled with excitement when I heard Alan Hansen summarise this season’s championship race.

“Some people say the race is wide open this year. I don’t think it is. I think it’s between Chelsea and Manchester City.”

I had to agree. Although both Arsenal and Liverpool have begun their respective seasons with surprisingly fine results, I simply don’t see their strength of squads being able to withstand a thirty-eight game onslaught for the title. Manchester United, struggling under a new manager, seem uncharacteristically brittle. Tottenham show promise, but there are question marks. Southampton and Everton are fine teams, but way off a title challenge.

Chelsea and Manchester City however, appear to be best set for a sustained title bid.

As I skirted past the programme sellers by the main gates, I knew that City would provide a very stern test for us. They did, after all, have our number in all of the games – all six of them – we played last season. We only had one measly draw (0-0, Benitez’ first game…) to show for our efforts against the light blues of Manchester. Chelsea were treated to nothing but defeats in Birmingham, Manchester, Wembley, St. Louis and New York. Physically strong in midfield, potent in attack, they were formidable opponents. If anything, despite the loss of Tevez, their team has improved since 2012-2013. And yet…and yet…should Chelsea inflict a defeat on Manuel Pelligrini’s team at Stamford Bridge, City would be staring at three defeats out of just nine league games.

I bristled with excitement again.

I was inside the stadium with time to spare. Manchester City had again sold their full allocation of three thousand; it isn’t always the case. As I have said on numerous occasions, I’ve never really had much of a problem with Manchester City. Their old stadium deep in the heart of South Central Manchester, nestled alongside the red brick houses of Moss Side, was a favourite away ground and their supporters, inflatable bananas and all, always seemed to be able to take the piss out of themselves, which is a trait that I admire. It was always Ken Bates’ boast – sorry, him again – for Chelsea to be the Manchester United of the South. However, for many seasons, as Chelsea lunged and lurched from one near-miss to another, I couldn’t help but think that we were more like the Manchester City of the South. Both clubs had massive potential, exuberant fan bases, but limited successes. Both clubs lived in the shadows of others.

In 2013, the two clubs have been twinned once again; new money, an expanding fan base, success.

If I’m honest – brutally honest – I’m finding it hard to develop much of an antipathy for them. Chelsea has obvious long-standing loathing of Tottenham and Leeds, maybe even Arsenal and Manchester United. We have nurtured a relatively new dislike for Liverpool since 2005. Is there room for another club to hate?

“Only if City are successful” I hear the cry.

My usual match day companion Alan was on holiday in Spain and so I chatted to Tom, who was concerned for my safe passage back to Somerset later in the day in light of the threat of gales and rain.

The teams entered the pitch. After Tuesday in Gelsenkirchen, it was no surprise that Fernando Torres got the call. Elsewhere, Juan Mata had missed out in favour of Andre Schurrle. At the back, Gary Cahill continued to partner John Terry. Jose Mourinho again favoured Ramires and Sir Frank. It was reassuring to witness the return of Ashley Cole.

City’s team of superstars included the excellent Toure, Aguero and Silva.

Game on.

We were forced to attack the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

We began well and Gary Cahill squandered a great chance within the first few minutes, but Manchester City soon rose to the challenge. After a while, the youngsters Kris and Jake sidled in next to me.

“Good time in the pub, boys?”

“Oh yes.”

Throughout the match, I was constantly annoyed to see that Toure was afforded yards of space. His was a brooding presence, pacing around the midfield, waiting to pounce like only he can do.

Then, Torres had a couple of chances to strike. Although he looked offside on the second one, he shot wildly over with only Joe Hart to beat. Instead of yells of abuse, the crowd were seemingly sympathetic.

In the far corner, the City fans were quiet, rousing only occasionally.

“We’re Not Really Here.”

I have to be honest, despite a 4pm kick-off (code for “more beers”) and a top-of-the-table clash, the atmosphere was pretty quiet. Then, the game changed. Torres picked up the ball around thirty-five yards out and decided to run at Clichy. On some occasions, Nando appears to be running in quick sand. On others, he glides past players. With his turn of pace catching Clichy on the back foot, he easily outpaced the former Arsenal left-back. He drilled a low ball across the six yard box and the trailing Demechelis was unable to stop the ball reaching the onrushing Andre Schurrle.

1-0 Chelsea and The Bridge awoke in a crescendo of noise. Schurrle pumped his fists towards the MHL and then pointed towards Torres. It had been a superb run. Torres’ earlier miss was soon forgotten.

Next, Torres on fire, down below me, teasing a City defender before striking a rasping shot which curled enticingly on its trajectory toward goal. The ball thundered against the bar. It was a fantastic shot. How unlucky. City issued a warning signal in the dying moments of the half as Aguero shot at Cech from an angle but our ‘keeper fought away the strike with the minimum of effort.

It had been an interesting game of football in the first-half. I sensed that it had been bubbling along nicely and that, as so often is the case, the game would provide more adventure in the second period.

Sadly, Manchester City soon struck in the second-half. Samir Nasri sent through a slide-rule pass to Aguero, with our defence unable to match his movement. With hardly any back lift, the striker unleashed a bullet which beat Cech at his near post.

1-1. Game on, again.

Although I think we edged the first-half, Manchester City now seemed to step up a gear and were on the front foot. Our defence, previously well-marshalled by the excellent Terry in the first-half, appeared vulnerable. In midfield, there was little bite. However, with the indefatigable Ivanovic charging up and down the right flank with all of his old spirit, we managed a foot hold in the game. A header from Torres was aimed straight at Hart and a Terry effort was touched over. Cech saved superbly from Silva. This was brewing up to be quite a game. The mood inside the stadium was of nervous concern though; here was evidence enough that the home supporters viewed City as an accomplished team. The atmosphere again struggled to get going.

Mourinho rang the changes. A clearly tiring Lampard was replaced by the steadying calm of Mikel and Schurrle was replaced by Willian. A few chances were exchanged and then Samuel Eto’o was chosen to replace Hazard. I was still nervously expecting a City goal at any moment. A free-kick from Willian flew past the far post at The Shed End.

The minutes ticked by.

Then, with not long to go before the final whistle, a Willian header was lofted high into the City half. Nastasic was being chased by Torres and headed the ball goalwards, but his touch was heavy and cleared the on-rushing Hart.

The stadium gulped.

We watched, breathlessly, as Torres continued his run and then stabbed the ball in from an angle.

Mayhem. Absolute mayhem.

2-1 Chelsea.

The place was pumping now alright.

Torres raced over to the corner and was soon mobbed by team mates. I was so pleased for him. Please God let him enjoy these moments of salvation. Under the astute man management skills of Mourinho, there is a bright future ahead. I’ve certainly noticed a greater show of strength from Torres this season; he looks more robust, his chest seems more muscular, his body more tuned for the rigours ahead. If his head stays positive, goals will follow.

In the ensuing thirty seconds, I still expected City to score.

We all did, right?

The ball was pumped into the Chelsea box one last time.

It was cleared.

All eyes were on the much maligned Howard Webb. I punched the air as he signalled the end of the game.

Manchester City – one of the title favourites – had now lost three out of nine league games.

Chelsea – on a roll – were up to second place.

The future looks fine.

And back ache? What back ache?

Tales From Both Sides Of The River

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 17 April 2013.

I was able to leave work slightly earlier than usual at 3.45pm. Unfortunately, Parky was unable to attend once more. It would be me – just me – alone with my thoughts on the familiar drive to SW6. There was certainly much to dwell upon. Firstly, my mind was full of thoughts of my father. Wednesday 17th. April 2013 was, sadly, the twentieth anniversary of his passing. My father was taken ill while shopping in Frome during the afternoon of Friday 16th. April 1993. He sadly passed away at the Royal United hospital in Bath in the small hours of the following day. In truth, much of my grieving twenty years later had taken place on the Tuesday; virtually all of the tearful memories and the strongest emotions came from the Friday 16th. April 1993.

Dad wasn’t a massive football fan; his sports were swimming, diving and badminton. He once boxed in the RAF during World War Two. However, once I fell in love with Chelsea Football Club, he soon realised how much the club meant to me. That shouldn’t be taken lightly. I often hear stories of friends saying “my dad hated football and never took me to any games.”

Not so my father – and mother.

My Christmas present in 1973 – the best ever – was the news that my parents were going to take me to Stamford Bridge to see Chelsea. Oh my; just writing these words some forty years later brings it all back. That realisation that I’d be seeing my heroes in that iconic royal blue kit – in colour, for real, not on our black and white TV – made me so excited. As I have said before, I owe my parents so much.

My father attended many games with me over the years. His last one was against Everton on the first day of 1991. As I drove past Swindon on the M4, I remembered a game from January 1988. My father finished work in Frome and drove home to collect my mother and I to take us all to Swindon for Chelsea’s Simod Cup (aka Full Member’s Cup ) game against Swindon Town at their County Ground stadium. At the time, we were plummeting towards the First Division’s relegation zone while Swindon was a Third Division side. We were caught up in traffic, however, and found it difficult to find a parking place. The plan was for my parents to sit in the main stand while I joined 2,000 Chelsea in the cramped corner terrace. We were so late arriving that I heard the roars from the home crowd celebrating Swindon’s second goal as I was still trying to get in.

“Oh great. This is going to be a great night.”

In the end, we lost 4-0. We were awful, even though our team contained stalwarts such as Kerry Dixon, Steve Clarke, Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Tony Dorigo; good players one and all. I remember chants of “Hollins Must Go, Hollins Must Go, Hello, Hello” all night long. It was a dire night and it was a grim fore-telling of our eventual fate come May.

We were kept inside for ten minutes while the local hoodlums were pushed away from the stadium. I looked around the terraces where we had been stood all evening. Twenty yards away, looking out of place amongst hundreds of young Londoners, were my mother and father. I trotted over to greet them. It seems that they had arrived too late to gain entrance to the main stand; they had not bought tickets beforehand, we hadn’t thought it necessary. In those days, paying on the day was the norm. My parents had informed the club officials that they were Chelsea supporters and so, unbelievably, had been led around the pitch by stewards and put inside the away pen.

I think if I had seen them, I would have thought “oh no, what have they done now?”

Twenty-five years on, the image of my Mum and Dad, dressed in his suit, with a sheepskin coat, still brings a smile to my face.

Later that season, they were in The Shed for the Charlton Athletic game. But that’s another story for another time.

I stopped at Reading services on the drive east. As I returned to my car, I strangely noticed the incessant roar from the traffic hurtling towards London on the eastbound carriageway of the M4 motorway. I was thrilled by it. I smiled. It reinforced my love of travel, of moving, of visiting new and old places, the constant desire to see new cities, new landscapes, new towns, new villages, new people. There is still romance in travel; from seeing the ocean as a four year old boy – the wonder of that vast body of water – to visiting foreign lands in my middle years. I never want it to stop.

During the last hour of my journey, this was enforced further as I attempted to put some plan in place in order to visit Old Amsterdam for our potential participation in the Europa Cup final and New Amsterdam for our friendly at Yankee Stadium. I have already block-booked that fortnight from work; now for the intricate fine tuning…schedules, dates, hotels, flights, just lovely.

My pre-match plans for the evening’s game at Craven Cottage actually stemmed from my visit to Yankee Stadium in July. After the Chelsea game in Philly, I returned to NYC to catch a Yankees vs. Red Sox game before I returned home. In “Stans Sports Bar” that evening – before and after the game – I got chatting to Britt, an American who was over from London, visiting NYC with friends. I was wearing a CFC T-shirt and she soon announced she was a Fulham season-ticket holder. We exchanged email addresses and promised to meet up for a pint during the season. We had arranged to meet that night at The Spotted Horse in Putney at 6.45pm.

On the approach into London, high on the elevated M4, I was again mesmerized by the panorama of London’s skykline which was particularly clear in the early evening sun; Harrow On The Hill to the north, the Wembley Arch, the Post Office Tower, Canary Wharf away in the distance, a quick glimpse of The Shard, the hills around Clapham to the south. Up close were the new high-rises at Brentford, the old art deco buildings, the Lucozade sign, the floodlights of Griffin Park, Earls Court and Olympia.

Travel. I love it.

I soon drove around the Hammersmith roundabout and down the Fulham Palace Road. No need to turn off along Lillee road this time; I was heading south to Putney, not east to Stamford Bridge. As I drove on, I caught glimpses of the floodlight pylons at Fulham’s classic stadium to my right. At the Golden Lion pub I saw a sign which stated that access was for FFC season ticket-holders or membership card holders only. I was stuck on Putney Bridge for a while as neon-clad cyclists, cars and London buses jostled for position.

Just after 6pm, I was parked up.

Walking past a few pubs by the River Thames – The Half Moon, The Duke’s Head – I soon realised what a lovely pre-match this would be. There is nothing quite like a game of football at Fulham. I looked up and saw a modern red bus crossing Putney Bridge. It wasn’t the old classic shape of a Routemaster, but it was still an iconic sight.

I needed sustenance and so looked for options. Unlike my expensive meal in Turin in November, there was no gastronomic treat for me this time. I ended up with a typical football meal of chicken and chips. Bloody hell, even KFC even sounds like a football club.

I reached The Spotted Horse at 6.30pm. Britt soon appeared and it was lovely to see her again. She was with her bloke Chris – an armchair Liverpool fan – and we had a quick catch up. As I quaffed a pint of Peroni, we chatted about all sorts. In addition to being a Fulham season ticket holder, she also follows Saracens rugby union. She is originally from DC and we spoke about that area’s sports teams. In fact, it was a similar conversation that I have had with various US guests to Stamford Bridge over the years. It felt almost liberating to be chatting to a fan of a rival team though. I had promised myself not to have too many digs at Fulham during the evening; I almost succeeded. In truth, Britt summed things up when she said –

“You don’t care about us, though, do you?”

Broadly she was correct, though I have a little soft spot for Fulham, which I am sure winds most Fulham fans up further. It’s true though. Long may the SW6 derby continue in the top flight.

Before we left The Spotted Horse, I briefly mentioned my father and we toasted him.

“Cheers Dad.”

There was talk of Peter Osgood, my first game, a Chelsea vs. Fulham game from 1982, a game from 2002, the banter was flying, it was super.

We then moved onto an even better pub – The Coat & Badge – and I had another pint while talking to more US Fulham fans. I had to stop and think –

“Shouldn’t I be talking to Chelsea fans? What will my mates think?”

To be honest, I was revelling in the change of scene, seeing new people, new places. I spoke to a Fulham fan from Philly and he was baffled by our club’s decision to sack Roberto di Matteo. To be truthful, I was stuck for words. I couldn’t – still – validate Roman’s decision. I also chatted to a girl – another American – about her experiences watching Fulham and living in London. Her accent suggested she was from The South, but I recognised a few cadences which lead me to believe she was from North Carolina or Georgia. To be honest, her accent was very similar in places to that of Mary-Anne from Knoxville Tennessee. I decided that I had to quell my inquisitiveness and so I asked her if she was from North Carolina or Georgia.

“Yes! North Carolina, Tennessee.”

“Ah, I thought so…you sound like a friend from Knoxville.”

“Knoxville is my home!”

“Damn…I should have gone with my hunch and said Knoxville…would have freaked you out, right!”

At 7.30pm, it was time to depart. We had a fantastic walk across Putney Bridge, with Britt leading the way, nothing getting in her way. It was quite an aerobic workout. I again commented that there is something quite therapeutic and hypnotic about walking towards a football stadium with thousands more.

It was a lovely spring evening as we strode through Bishop’s Park. The Oxford and Cambridge boat race starts on the river at Putney Bridge of course. It’s a lovely part of the world.

I wished Britt and Chris well – “may the best team win and all that bollocks” – and then turned towards the red brick of the away turnstiles where more familiar faces were everywhere I looked.

I soon bumped into two lads from Melksham, near where I work; “no Parky, mate?”

I looked down at my phone…what was the time?

1955.

A good year.

Up into the seats and I was soon alongside Alan and Gary and Kev from Bristol.

We were lower down than usual. Not far from the pitch. Excellent.

Before I had time to blink, the teams were on the pitch, walking across from the cottage to my right. Chelsea were in all blue. Although I love the design of our kit this year, I still think the blue is not dark enough, not vivid enough, too light, too muted. There was to be no show of hostility that we saw at Griffin Park as Benitez strode across the pitch. I quickly ran through the team. John Terry back, Ivanovic at right-back, Lamps back, Moses in, Torres in. I looked at the Fulham team to see if Duffer was playing, but didn’t spot him.

Let’s go to work.

This was a game that we simply had to win to stay in the hunt for a top four place in the league. We all knew that. But it wouldn’t be easy. The last two visits to Craven Cottage were draws.

Gary mentioned that he had seen some American Fulham fans on the tube on his journey from work. I can see the attraction, what with the pleasant setting of Craven Cottage, plus the former US players such as McBride, Bocanegra, Dempsey, Keller and Johnson who have represented Fulham recently. I wonder if those Fulham fans were aware of Fulham’s first batch of American players in the ‘thirties; the often forgotten trio of Lou Schattendorrf, Farmer Boy O’Malley and Chuck Rosencrantz III.

Fulham began strongly, much to our chagrin, and we heaved a massive sigh of relief as Ruiz volleyed over from close in. We weren’t playing well and a Karagounis effort bounced against the top of the bar. There were murmurs of disquiet in the away end. I looked around the trim stadium. I noted small pockets of empty seats, but it was near capacity. The Chelsea choir decided to start mocking our neighbours with a few choice ditties –

“We don’t hate you – ‘cus you’re 5hit.”

“Michael Jackson – he’s one of your own.”

“Nonce for a statue. You’ve got a nonce for a statue.”

I felt that Dimitar Berbatov was their main threat, yet we seemed to be offering him too much space. He was often unmarked. A few half-chances came and went, but it clearly wasn’t a great start by Chelsea.

The Chelsea fans were in good voice, though, with a variety of songs being aired. I could hear some sort of noise emanating from the Hammersmith End – where Britt and Chris were watching – but I couldn’t decipher it. I never heard once their usual “We are Fulham, fcuk Chelsea” song once.

On the half-hour, with frustrations rising, the ball was played square to David Luiz, some thirty-five yards out. Many fans behind me simultaneously yelled “shoooooot!” and I am sure this was mirrored in bars all over the world. Luiz touched the ball once, it sat up for him, and he unleashed a curling, dipping, thunderbolt which crashed into Mark Schwarzer’s goal.

Oh boy.

What a cracker. Schwarzer was beaten before he could move.

The Chelsea end roared.

In truth, the goal had come against the run of play. Until then, we had looked disjointed.

Just after, Emanuelsen had the ball under his spell, looked up and painstakingly aimed a shot at the far post. I was right behind the path of the ball and expected a goal. From the middle of the six yard box, Petr Cech stretched low and touched the ball out for a corner. It was a phenomenal save. Just after, a lovely flowing move out from defence found Torres in space and in the inside-right channel. His shot was crashed over and we sighed.

A shot from Berbatov went wide, a Lampard free-kick went close. Just before the break, the previously quiet Juan Mata floated a cross towards the far post and John Terry, making a great blind run, was able to rise and head home. How he celebrated that one.

With us 2-0 up, we were able to breath a massive sigh of relief. A Ruiz penalty claim was waved away by Mike Dean. We had ridden our luck, but the two goal cushion meant there were smiles at half-time.

Soon into the second-half, with the pressure seemingly off, we were able to relax and sing. The Putney End, which seems to have excellent acoustics, was rocking to a fantastic foot stomping and hand clapping rendition of a song from Munich.

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

The place was rocking. What noise.

To be honest, despite the awful anniversary, this was turning into a just magnificent evening down by the banks of the Thames. The jokes were coming thick and fast between Alan, Gary and myself, the boys were winning 2-0 and the Chelsea fans all around me were turning in the best vocal performance of the season.

The majority of Chelsea’s play seemed to be coming down our right flank, with Torres putting in a great night’s performance, full of energy and application. I was able to capture a lot of Hazard’s dribbles on film. The team were creating more chances and the fans were responding. A great Torres cross almost resulted in a goal, but Mata was unable to connect.

A Moses curler forced a fine save from Schwarzer. From the corner, Torres flicked on Mata’s delivery and John Terry made sure, heading it in from beneath the bar. The Chelsea fans in the Putney End believed that Nando had scored and so soon serenaded him. John Terry smiled at us and pointed towards Torres, while Torres dismissively waved away the adulation. Texts soon confirmed that it was JT’s goal.

Whatever.

Fulham 0 Chelsea 3.

Time for more song.

“Amsterdam, Amsterdam – we are coming.
Amsterdam, Amsterdam I pray.
Amsterdam, Amsterdam – we are coming.
We are coming in the month of May.”

Towards the end of the game, the Chelsea fans began looking ahead towards Sunday and our game at Anfield by warming up with a smattering of Liverpool songs. This was almost Mourinho-esque…with games won, he would often change the focus, ask players to conserve energy and start to think about the next challenge. Alas there is no Anfield for me on Sunday but I am not disappointed. With all of the noise about Benitez which will undoubtedly dominate the day, I am happy missing it.

There was a cooling wind coming off the Thames as I hurriedly walked back through Bishop’s Park. The lights alongside the river created flickering reflections on the water. It was a lovely scene. The Chelsea fans were still in good voice. The Fulham fans, who must have been taking part in an odd oath of silence since half-time, were unable to be heard.

Tales From A New Dawn

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 25 August 2012.

My very first Chelsea game was over thirty-eight years ago. The opponents on that life-changing afternoon were Newcastle United. Since then, our paths have crossed with alarming regularity, including some very memorable battles in the old second division. Our third Premiership game of the new 2012-2013 season would be my 31st Chelsea vs. Newcastle United match at Stamford Bridge. I have only seen Liverpool on more occasions at HQ. In those thirty previous games, our record was excellent; just four defeats. Our 2-0 loss to the Geordies in early May was our first league loss to them at home since a 3-1 defeat in November 1986.

There was a sense of revenge in the air. That game will be remembered, of course, for those two wondrous Cisse strikes. Strangely enough, while I was over in New York recently, I got chatting to a Newcastle United fan at the New York Yankees game on my last night. She had been at the game in May, one of the 1,500 away fans who had been rewarded for their support by a rare away win at Chelsea. I told her that there aren’t many times that I want to check out an opponents’ goal as soon as I reach home, but that was one occasion. We haven’t seen a goal like Cisse’s second strike at The Bridge for quite a while. Its trajectory seemed to defy all laws of physics. It was a cracking strike.

After our maximum six points being garnered from our two league matches, and our play improving over the past three games against City, Wigan and Reading I was truly relishing this one. Newcastle United would be a stern test. It had the makings of a classic. And this brought me a great deal of joy; I love the fact that teams outside of the big four or five have their moments. How boring it would be if our only tests each year were the same opponents.

With the evening kick-off, there was no need to leave until lunchtime. Out shopping in Frome in the morning, I bumped into Dave and Karen, fellow Chelsea fans and season ticket holders for around six or seven years. Regretfully, Dave informed me that they didn’t renew for 2012-2013. A few years ago, there used to be six season ticket holders travelling up from Dodge each game; Dave, Karen, Frank, PD, Glenn and myself. Only the latter two remain.

I collected Young Jake from outside Trowbridge train station at 1pm and Old Parky from his house soon after. There was a look of joyful glee on Jill’s face when I collected Parky; she often calls me her respite carer.

“Don’t worry, Jill, I’ll take care of the old bugger today. Send the cheque to my office.”

We chatted away as I headed east. Parky was fortified by a four pint pack of Foster lager. I made use of the new “Starbucks” drive-in at Membury Services near Swindon; another American innovation that has found its way over the Atlantic. The weather was bizarre; fine one minute, rain showers the next. We must have had twenty individual rain showers on the drive in.

As I drove past Slough to the north and Windsor to the south, it was obvious that London was in the middle of a pretty intense rainstorm. The sky was wild and wonderful. A great towering cumulonimbus cloud dominated the vista in the centre, but huge billowing white and grey clouds were everywhere I could look. We spotted occasional lightning forks. It was like a gatefold album cover from some hideous prog rock group in the ‘seventies. I almost expected to see dragons, serpents or bare-breasted Nordic goddesses.

Calm down Parky.

But then it got serious. The rain became heavier. We got drenched as we had a quick pit stop at Heston. The last twenty miles into town were painful. The rain came down in a never-ending deluge and the traffic slowed. The spray made visibility difficult. We drove past Brentford’s Griffin Park and saw that the floodlights were already on, even though it was only 3.15pm. Heading around Hammersmith, the rain bounced back up off the road and we saw great puddles of surface water.

“Honestly can’t see the game taking place, Parks…all this rain, bloody hell.”

The streets and pavements were virtually deserted. The sky was a brooding, dark shade of grey. It felt like a mid-winter evening, not a summer afternoon. The lightning strikes grew more frequent. There were even thunderclaps.

At least there were no text messages to say that the game had been postponed. We spoke about the last time that a match was called-off on the day of the game at Chelsea; we have been lucky, it was as long ago as 1998. Jake needed to meet Mick down at the Copthorne Hotel and so I decided to drive down to Stamford Bridge as the poor tyke would get soaked if he was to walk from The Goose. I turned left at the bottom of the North End Road and onto the Fulham Road. Where was everybody? Again, the streets were deserted.

It was, without doubt, a very eerie sensation. As I headed past the Hammersmith & Fulham town hall, the rain continued to fall. There was an apocalyptic air to what was before me; these familiar streets, usually so full of brightly coloured pedestrians and football supporters, were virtually devoid of people, save for a few poor souls sheltering under shop fronts and secluded nooks and crannies.

Dark skies, incessant rain, the wind howling and solemn streets devoid of life.

Like a terrible vision from the future.

Is this what Fulham Broadway will be like when Tottenham next win the league?

We dropped Young Jake outside the main entrance -“go, go, go!” – and I then drove around the block, past The Black Bull, The Finborough and up to the Brompton Road. Then, miraculously, the rain eased. By the time I drove past West Brompton tube, the newly-arrived passengers were briskly walking towards the gaggle of pubs as if the thunderstorm had not happened.

I then saw a sight which saddened me and stirred me in equal measure. Chelsea fan Kyle Broadbent tragically passed away during the week. He was just 26. Although I did not know Kyle, the eulogies being posted on Facebook during the week were enough for me to know that he had touched so many lives and was loved by many people in the Chelsea fraternity. Draped over the metal railings of the “Prince of Wales” pub, I spotted a damp, limp flag which simply stated –

“Kyle Broadbent 1986-2012.”

Several of his friends had walked that morning in his honour from Euston Station, some three miles away, to Chelsea. It seems that Kyle often went on wild and wondrous walks at various Chelsea games; it was his thing.

Oh boy. What to say?

Rest in peace, Kyle.

Miraculously, the rain stopped just as I parked up on Bramber Road. A few minutes later, Parky and I were with the usual suspects in The Goose. Another pint of Peroni. I’ll get a new nickname at this rate; “One Pint Axon.” I guess it’s better than “Half Pint Axon.”

The scores were being monitored on the TV screen. The place was packed. A little group of around ten away fans were spotted a few yards away. No malice, times have moved on. However, I don’t think Chelsea have any real problems with Newcastle. Everton fans are sometimes spotted in the pub. West Brom, Blackburn too; no big deal. None of our main rivals would take these same liberties, though.

It simply wouldn’t be allowed to happen.

For once, The Goose was rocking with loud and boisterous singing, no doubt inspired by the presence of the away fans. We all joined in. We couldn’t let the Geordies win that battle. With our trip to Monaco for the UEFA Super Cup coming up, Andy and I spoke about our memorable coach trip to the 1998 game in Monaco when we beat Real Madrid 1-0.

The coach broke down on three separate occasions on that trip; it was, however, a great excursion which was full of many great memories. A few lads from Burnham-on-Sea in my county of Somerset were on the coach and soon got stuck into many flagons of “Rich’s” cider. One of the lads, attending his very first football game, unfortunately bore a striking resemblance to the notorious killer Fred West and his experience on the night of the game proved to be the funniest moment of the whole trip.

Fred West – I can’t remember his name – was out on the Nice seafront in the small hours after the match had long finished, chatting with a few ladies of the night. After things got a little boisterous, one of the street-walkers approached Fred and, to his absolute horror, pulled her skirt down to reveal that “she” was in fact a “he.”

With that, Fred started to recoil in horror, only for the same individual to pull out a shotgun, which was fired into the air.

The image of a startled Fred West sprinting back to the hotel had his friends roaring with laughter. I bumped into one of Fred’s mates at the Reise game at Anfield in 2009; Fred hasn’t been to a football game since.

Ed bought Parky a double Jack Daniels and Coke. I wondered if he should have bought me a shovel, to allow me to scoop Parky out of my car when I would eventually drop him off later that night.

We left the pub just as the Tottenham let in a late – a very late – equaliser.

Happy days.

At “the stall” I had a quick chat with a few acquaintances. Mark W had lost a lot of the new edition of “CFCUK” during the deluge’ leaving Dave to try to hawk a few dry copies of the August edition. Cliff A gave me a flier about a “test the water” meeting to look at setting up a Chelsea Supporters’ Trust. The meeting is scheduled to take place after the Stoke game; watch this space. I accompanied Steve M on the walk to the ground; we spoke about the great time we had in the States.

Despite the torrential downpour which had hit south-west London, the pitch looked stunning. There was no surface water at all. Well done the ground staff. Neil Barnett introduced the new signings Victor Moses and Cesar Azpilicueta before the game. There were team changes from Wednesday; the big surprise was Raul Meireles partnering Mikel at the base of our newly-evolving midfield.

The game was indeed a cracker.

Despite the concerns over the summer about the new players taking a while to settle, we produced a very mature performance, with all players interacting well, against one of the fancied teams of the division.

The Bridge was soon rocking to the newest song of the moment. Out on the pitch, our play flowed in a way that was missing for vast tracts of last season. We simply purred. We began the livelier, with a few chances being carved out, with only sporadic Newcastle retaliation. In the 22nd minute, Fernando Torres spun into space and prodded the ball past a Newcastle defender. An outstretched leg, a fall, a penalty.

Three games, three penalties.

With Lamps side-lined, we pondered the options. Mata has missed a few penalties of late and so it was no surprise when Eden Hazard stood up.

A short run, a confident finish.

1-0 to the European Champions.

Alan and I had our “YHTCAUN – COMLD” exchange in a Geordie accent and, indeed, spoke in Geordie accents for the vast majority of the game.

The 1,500 away fans in the corner were clearly not impressed with the volume of our support and hit us, predictably, with the boring “Your Support Is F***ing S***.”

We yawned.

Fernando Torres, clearly now enjoying his permanent role at the front of our team, touched the ball past Coloccini and fell. Much to our horror, not only was a free-kick not awarded, but the Spaniard was booked.

Revenge came soon after. Although Alan was full of moans about Phil Dowd’s decision to allow five minutes of extra time at the end of the half, we were smiling in the 50th minute. A quite delightful move, which resulted in a Hazard back-heel into the path of an on-rushing Torres, ended with a delicate flick from the outside of Torres’ right boot. The ball simply flew into the net and The Bridge erupted.

Two goals in two games; Fernando Torres, you know what you are.

We all agreed how well we had played amidst our half-time chat. Out on the pitch, Neil Barnett was with former striker Joe Allon – famous for his jump over the Shed End advertising hoardings during a 2-2 draw with Wimbledon in 1991…but not much else.

Newcastle came at us in the first part of the second period. Our flow had been interrupted by the half-time break and the visitors’ new found thrust. But, in all honesty, we were hardly troubled the entire game. Ryan Bertrand hardly put a foot wrong. Both Mikel and Meireles covered a lot of ground and were the unsung heroes.

Three moments to cherish from the second period.

As the heavens opened again, a delightful back heel from Eden Hazard which almost reached Torres. I think we can expect similar moments of inspiration from our new Belgian as the season progresses. I noted that he has a very low centre of gravity – always an advantage for a dribbler – and, once he sets off on a forward run, he almost hugs the turf.

Fernando Torres was a man reborn and often ran at the Newcastle defence. His close control is one of his brightest assets. When he was on the edge of the Newcastle box, he fooled everyone by crossing the ball with his right foot from behind his standing left foot. Lovely stuff.

Eden Hazard, now full of running, teased Coloccini down below me and left him for dead over ten scintillating yards. His change of pace was amazing.

Newcastle had two or three goal scoring chances at the Shed End. We were slightly edgy, knowing that a goal from the visitors would bring them right back into it.

We held on. It had been a lovely game, which augers so well for the rest of the season.

With no trip to Monaco for me next weekend, I now have to wait three whole weeks for my next game; a feisty trip to our neighbours at Loftus Road. Who knows, by the time we reconvene there, we might still be top.

Tales From Victoria

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 21 April 2012.

Throughout the build-up to the game with Arsenal, my thoughts had been full of past games. Should we prove to be triumphant at The Emirates, I’d wager that the trio of wins within seven days would represent our greatest ever week. The only other week that was comparable – and one that sticks in my mind for some reason – was from April 2000. On April Fool’s Day 2000, Chelsea won 1-0 at Leeds United when Leeds were a top four team. On the following Wednesday, Barcelona were humbled 3-1 in the Quarter Finals of the Champions League. On the following Sunday, Chelsea beat Newcastle United 2-1 in a great F.A. Cup Semi-Final. Three massive wins, one massive week. Following our momentous double of Tottenham and Barcelona, could we surpass these three wins from 2000? It was the main train of thought in my mind as I collected Parky at 8am.

Well, I’m lying.

My head was full of the second-leg at Camp Nou. I don’t apologise for this – I am sure I am not the only one prioritising the return leg on Tuesday. Images of 95,000 crammed into the multi-tiered layers of the Catalan edifice, with 3,000 Chelsea fans clinging on for dear life in the very top corner. Images of a Chelsea team in Real Madrid white taking on FCB in red and blue. Images of a Barcelona team, riddled with feelings of revenge, putting us to the sword. The occasional image – flickering, out of focus – of us nabbing an improbable draw…or win. Images of pure joy in the lofty heights of Camp Nou. Images of quite easily the best away game ever. Images of a mad scramble for flights to Germany – Munich, Stuttgart, Berlin, anywhere.

But first – Arsenal.

We’d surely field a team of players who would, generally, not feature in Catalonia. Parky and I may have mentioned a few of di Matteo’s options as we drove to London, but the Depeche Mode CD soon quashed much talk of football. I made great time and I was parked up at Barons Court – for a change – at 10am. As we approached the station, I noted that a young lad who sits in front of me at Chelsea – Dane from Bracknell – had just arrived at the station, too. We exchanged “hello mates” and then Parky and I set off for a pre-match meet at Victoria.

At 10.30am, Parky and I strode into The Shakespeare Tavern and ordered two pints of “Becks Vier.” It made a really pleasant change for us to have a change of scene on a match-day in London. This was a first-time visit for me, but I was well aware of its role in Chelsea lore. This pub, just outside Victoria train station, was the anointed meeting place for the Chelsea firm back in the ‘eighties, when it was known by the typically ‘eighties moniker “Shakes.” I’d imagine that Chelsea fans regard Victoria as base camp on match days; it is the station where vast swathes of our support head for, before going off on a pub-crawl down the Kings Road, or catching tubes into Earls Court, West Brompton, Fulham Broadway or Parsons Green, the four tube stops which services Stamford Bridge on match days.

Victoria, Pimlico, Kensington and Chelsea – our heartland.

We had arranged to meet a little posse of Chelsea fans. Steve Neat, from Staten Island, was the anointed leader but he came with four others. Andrew used to live in NYC but now lives in Kent. Paul and his son Jeff are from the US (though, if I am honest, I am not sure where) and a new face – Orlin – is from San Francisco. Andrew reminisced about a lot of the old pubs at Chelsea which have gone by the way-side since the ‘eighties. I’ve never really spent much time on The Kings Road on match days, but it always used to house the de-facto Chelsea Pub Crawl, from the Chelsea Potter down to The Worlds End and further south to the Hand and Flower. This was Parky’s old stomping ground of course.

I really enjoyed chatting to Orlin, who remembers me from a few “Zigger Zaggers” at the Club America game at Palo Alto in 2007. We spoke about the San Francisco pub “Mad Dog In The Fog” which I know sometimes houses the SF Chelsea fans. Orlin’s story fascinated me. He is originally from Bulgaria and was a boyhood Levski Sofia supporter. He told me that Chelsea is well-supported in Bulgaria and I wondered if it was linked to Chelsea’s games against Levski’s arch-rivals CSKA in the 1971 ECWC campaign. It seems that a lot of Levski’s fans aligned themselves with Chelsea. Levski also play in blue. Of course, we played Levski Sofia on two occasions over the past ten years. He told me how drawn he was when his two teams competed against each other; he realised he was referring to Levski as “we” and that was his brutal awakening to who he feels closest to.I understand that, no worries. I referred to him as “Mr. 49%” for the rest of the chat. He comes over to England 5 or 6 times each season and was at the Leverkusen away game. I loved to hear his emotional story of how he missed the 2008 Champions League Cup Final in Moscow because his daughter Victoria (if only, eh?) was born the day before. Her birthday is the day after this year’s final in Munich and he owes himself a CL Final trip. Watch this space.

Jesus, sporting a beard which is getting more prominent each game, arrived at 11.30am, fresh from picking up his Barcelona away ticket. I reckon Jesus isn’t shaving until we win the CL Final in Munich. So there we have it, in a corner of a pub in Victoria, Chelsea fans from all over the world, gathered together.

Parky, Andrew and Chris – England.
Steve, Paul and Jeff – USA via England.
Orlin – USA via Bulgaria.
Jesus – England via Mexico.

We sped off to catch the tube up to Arsenal. I noted that Jesus was wearing a little Chelsea pin-badge on his shirt, the only sign of allegiance to Chelsea, thus mirroring the dress code of Parky and myself.

We cut it fine, but reached Arsenal tube, just a hundred yards from the old Highbury stadium – one of my favourites – at 12.25pm. Every time I slowly walk up the steep incline at Arsenal tube, I am always reminded without fail of my first ever visit in August 1984. It was one of our most famous ever away games – and one of my most cherished memories. It was such a seminal game that Mark Worrall wrote a whole book about it.

This was Steve’s first visit to Arsenal’s new pad and he was suitably impressed. It is, of course – putting club loyalty to one side – a magnificent stadium. I must admit that I wish it was called Arsenal Stadium – like the signs on the art deco East Stand at Highbury – since I know Emirates will one day withdraw their funds. I also like the large images of current and former players adorning the high walls of the stadium, arms linked; Tony Adams, Cliff Bastin, Thierry Henry, George Armstrong.

Quite effective.

I reached the away segment in the south-east corner at 12.44pm; perfect timing. I was stood next to Alan and Gary, but it soon became apparent that the group of four Japanese tourists behind me were very annoyed that everyone was standing. At one stage, the mother – sitting right behind me – sat still, with her eyes closed. I guess she would rather be at Harrods or the Hard Rock. I wondered how they got ticket; one of life’s great mysteries. They left with five minutes to go; no surprise there.

The game was something of nothing. The Chelsea team was essentially a “B” team, with only Petr Cech, Gary Cahill and The Captain likely to start on Tuesday in Barcelona. It was, of course, lovely to see Oriel Romeu back on the pitch after his extended absence. The sky was a brilliant blue, the stadium large and almost full. I noted more Arsenal banners than on previous visits; they have obviously taken a leaf out of our book. As the teams came onto the pitch, a large flage was hanging over the north stand – I don’t suppose it is referred to as the North Bank – which said –

London Our City.

With 13 league championships, 10 F.A. Cups and 2 European trophies, I guess they have a point. They are a large club and it would be foolish to think otherwise. However, I’ve always regarded their fans to me the most pompous and boring of all London’s clubs. Arsenal fans could never sing anything as beautifully obscure as “If she don’t come, I’ll tickle her bum…”

I spotted one banner was ridiculously infantile –

“We Don’t Need Batman – We’ve Got Robin.”

Of course, all of this boasting by Arsenal will account for nothing if we become the first London club to bring home the European Cup on Saturday 19th. May.

The game was a stinker to be honest and neither team deserved three points. Arsenal themselves seemed decidedly out-of-sorts and I expected more from them. I know it is a well-worn cliché, but how 57,000 fans can make so little noise is a mystery of the modern era. Our woodwork saved us on two separate occasions in the first-half, but Arsenal rarely got behind us. Those three goals against from last December were never likely to be repeated.

The Chelsea fans seemed subdued, too and the noise only really got going occasionally. The three favourite songs of the day were –

“She said no, Robin, she said no.”

“Seven years – you’ve won fcuk all.”

“We won 5-1, Wembley.”

I had no complaints with the back-line of Bertrand, Cahill, Terry and Bosingwa. I have nothing but praise for Gary Cahill; he has adapted to life in SW6 so well. A bright future in blue beckons. Ryan Bertrand looks like he has an equally secure place in our hearts, too. The midfield two of Essien and Romeu were steady, but it was the forward four of Malouda, Kalou, Sturridge and Torres which caused most anxiety. Of the four, Torres’ hold up play was the only bright spot. The other three were at times quite woeful. Sturridge worries me; his choices are usually the wrong ones. I guess he is suffering with a lack of games. Confidence can’t be switched on and off like a tap.

At half-time, I had a quick chat with Beth about the games in the US in July. Jason Cundy was spotted amongst the 3,000 Chelsea fans.

Did we have any real chances? I remember a towering header from John Terry from a Malouda corner in the first period but little in the second-half. By that time, the wayward runs of Sturridge had contrived to frustrate the hell out of all of us. Van Persie was clearly not himself – he was kept at bay by Cahill and Terry – and rarely troubled Cech. A sublime interception by the substitute Mikel was magnificent, just as it looked like Arsenal had eventually breached our rear-guard.

Mata came on but offered little. Cole entered the fray and triggered a noisy reaction from the snoozing Goons.

The game petered out and I – for one – was happy with a draw.

The players slowly walked over as the Chelsea fans showed support.

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Three points from the B Team would have been stretching it even for us in this week of weeks.

I met up with Parky and Jesus and we slowly trudged alongside the home fans on the way back to the Highbury & Islington tube station. I had received several texts from friends which said that both of them had been spotted on TV. Jesus, bless him, was amazed that anyone anywhere knew what he looked like.

I spotted small pennants adorning the lampposts on the perimeter of the walls surrounding the stadium. They were of photos of various Arsenal fans, with a brief description of their story. I thought this was another nice touch. I spotted one fan – I think his name was David Smith – who has not missed a home or away game for 50 years. I immediately thought of our Cathy – 35 years of unbeaten support to her name – and raised my eyebrows. And then I felt a tinge of sympathy for Mr. Smith. As his beloved Arsenal have never experienced league football outside the top flight – how boring of them – I realised that he had yet to experience league visits to Shrewsbury, Bristol Rovers, Bournemouth or Rotherham United.

And it is that aspect of Arsenal’s support which so grates; their support has never been tested. They squeal about a lack of trophies but I often wonder if they would simultaneously combust should their club ever suffer the embarrassment of relegation. Manchester United, West Ham United, Leeds United, Tottenham Hotspur, Newcastle United and Chelsea have all been relegated in living memory. Should Arsenal ever suffer the same fate (unlikely, I know), expect suicides off the top tier of The Emirates.

We slowly edged down the Holloway Road, where I once went for an interview at North London Poly in 1983 – what was I thinking? We eventually slipped onto the waiting tube train and we were away.

We serenaded Jesus with a song on the tube south –

“You’re not going home.
You’re not going home.
You’re not going.
You’re not going.
You’re not going home.”

Two QPR fans were on the tube, heading west to see the game versus Tottenham. I wished them all the best. We may dislike QPR, but we hate Tottenham.I was feeling weary by the time we had eventually reached Barons Court tube station. I popped next-door to a lovely little café and ordered a Panini and a double-espresso. Who should enter the café right after me, but Sebastian Coe – or Lord Coe to give him his full title? This is weird because I was only mentioning Seb Coe to two friends at work on Wednesday, when I was re-calling the time I bumped into him along the North End Road after the Barcelona game of 2005. Seb is, of course, a bona-fide Chelsea fan of many years standing. I remember seeing him being introduced to the crowd at the home opener in 1981, a mere 24 hours after breaking yet another world record. He wrote the introduction to the “Chelsea Story” (1982) book which was lovingly written by the recently departed John Moynihan. In that introduction, he used a phrase which I often thought was wonderful –

“Following the club could be as frustrating as chasing spilt mercury across a laboratory table.”

In September 1982, I knew exactly what he meant.

While I waited for my espresso and Seb waited for his two teas, we spoke about the day’s game. He was clutching a match programme. I know it sounds silly, but we chatted away like old friends. We both said we were happy with the draw. We both mentioned the joyous defeat of Spurs on Sunday. Regarding the game we had just witnessed, he commented –

“Arsenal are a bloody miserable bunch, aren’t they?”

If I had met Lord Coe, away from a match day, in an airport or somewhere, I expect I may have been stuck for words, but our Chelsea bond made the conversation flow. Parky asked him if he was running in the London Marathon on the Sunday –

“No, I’m too old.”

I asked him if he was going to Spain on Tuesday –

“No, I’m too busy.”

And in that moment, I felt a tinge of sadness for Sebastian Coe.

We stopped off for a drink at Beckhampton, between the market towns of Marlborough and Devizes – a pint for Parky, another coffee for me – before eventually returning home. QPR had indeed beaten Tottenham – good – but Newcastle had won again – very bad. Our challenge for a fourth place finishes is starting to falter now. However, our thoughts now turn to the Champions league.

There is no time to stop and think now. There is no time to breath. Barcelona awaits and who knows? As I said earlier, it has the potential to be the best away game in 107 years.

Let’s go.

Tales From Team Torres

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 18 March 2012.

I awoke on Sunday, fearing the news. I was obviously concerned about the awful episode involving Fabrice Muamba at White Hart Lane but I had also heard on Saturday that one of my favourite uncles – Ken, from Vancouver – was also poorly. I gingerly flipped the computer on, waited for the gears to whirl into action and sat still. Thankfully, no news was definitely good news. However, there was a certain low-lying fog, not outside, but in my mind, as I scrambled a few things together ahead of my third trip to London in nine days. I was clearly finding it difficult to garner massive amounts of enthusiasm for this third game of the week. After the euphoria of Wednesday, I suppose that this was only natural. Just before I left for London, I quickly checked on the CIA website to see what was being said about the game with Leicester City.

Oh. There wasn’t a thread about the match.

I tut-tutted to myself and departed.

Parky could tell I was a little bit low as I collected him at just after 9am. He started cursing me, I replied similarly and, by the time we had stopped off for our usual McBreakfast in Melksham, things had been restored to their normal equilibrium.

Parky talking, Chris driving.

Despite a little delay due to a road accident near Swindon, it was a decent drive up to London. Tuna – from Atlanta – was over for the week and was soon in touch. It’s always a pleasure to see him at HQ. Tuna plays a special role in my gradually evolving relationship with the burgeoning American fan base; he was, as I remember it, the first Chelsea fan in America I remember meeting at my first ever game in Pittsburgh in 2004. On that trip, I spent the day with friends from North Carolina and didn’t really mix with any Chelsea fans at all. In fact, to be honest, there weren’t many Chelsea fans present at Heinz Field for that match against Roma. Even the main Chelsea section only housed around 150. We watched behind one of the goals, in the front row, and if only I’d known how some of those Chelsea fans along the side would become friends over the following few years.

At the end of the game, as we were walking underneath the stands, Tuna saw my Chelsea shirt and spoke to me. At the time, I wasn’t sure if he was an Englishman with an American accent, or an American putting on an English accent.

I’m still not sure.

I bumped into Tuna again in New York the following summer, but I still wasn’t familiar with too many of the fans Stateside. It was only when I joined up to CIA ahead of the Chicago trip in 2006, did I start to make major in roads into putting names to all of those faces. It has been a great ride ever since.

The coffee was going down well and the banter was flying as we headed into Berkshire. With mild weather forecasted, we were both in our summer gear.

Lacoste Watch

Parky – purple
Chris – chocolate

With the chat finally stalling, Parky put a Jam CD in the CD player and the volume was cranked up. I have mentioned it before, but no band takes me back to my youth – of Chelsea trips in particular – like the Jam, in that 1978 to 1980 period especially. Working class heroes, singing about urban angst, the Jam struck a chord like no other band and were much loved by the football fraternity in that period.

“the distant echo of faraway voices boarding faraway trains to take them home to the wives that they love and who love them forever.”

As I rose above the streets of west London on the raised section of the M4 motorway, memories of my childhood raced through my mind. My Dad used to take me up to London for matches at The Bridge from 1974 to 1980; by the time his car reached this section, my excitement reached stratospheric levels. Each few yards of tarmac throws up tons of memories…a massive traffic jam caused by Southampton fans on their way to Wembley on League Cup Final day 1979 when we got to Chelsea just in time for the kick-off, tooting the car horn after promotion in 1984, the first sighting of the Griffin Park floodlights to the right, the massive Chelsea / Adidas advertisement on a building in 2006, the Wembley arch to the left way in the distance, the famous Lucozade sign to the left, the old art deco Beechem building to the right, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin, The Shard in the distance, the grey hulk of Earls Court…Chelsea tantalisingly close now.

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This section of the M4, as it rises and turns, always gets my blood pumping. Long may it continue.

Straight into The Goose at just before midday. The place was again rather quiet. Talk amongst my mates was mainly of the Benfica away game. As always, Rob seemed to have the best prices. I think he must have easyJet’s flight schedules from Stanstead and Gatwick memorised by now. I had a nice chat with The Fishy Boy, who is around for the games against City and Spurs, too. We chatted about mutual friends, the upcoming tour, and the CPO debacle. Everything but the game. You know the score.

Jonesy and Jokka mentioned our game in New York in the summer and I am hopeful that they will be joining me. A couple of pints of Peroni and it was soon time to head off to The Bridge.

I quickly bought a copy of “CFCUK” and the match programme. I noted that “CFCUK’ had an extra “Sheditorial” as the original was written just before AVB got the “Spanish Fiddler” two week’s ago. On page 41 of the programme, there is a lovely photo of none other than Cathy, with Roberto di Matteo, on the occasion of her fiftieth birthday. There was a large article about the 1997 F.A. Cup Final (thank you Robbie), but only a fleeting mention (in Johnny Vaughan’s column) about the iconic Chelsea vs. Leicester City replay (thank you Erland) in the fifth round that season. That was some night.

I did my usual “check the East Upper for empty seats” routine when I reached the entrance to the MHU. Yep, there were hundreds empty in the corners. I had heard that tickets were still being sold to personal callers in the morning. Away to my right, the 6,000 away fans were already ensconced in The Shed.

So, a question to Mr. Buck and Mr. Gourlay.

On the back of our best performance of the season against Napoli, how come we can’t sell 35,000 tickets at only £30 a pop for the quarter finals of the F.A. Cup?

And you say we have out-grown Stamford Bridge?

Think again.

I received a text from Tuna, who was watching in the MHU too…

“What’s with all the empty seats in the East Upper?”

Just before the teams came onto the pitch, I looked on with glee as the “upper tier” flag continued on past Gate 16, then Gate 17 and into the upper tier of the East Stand. It appeared to be seeking freedom as it went on unhindered, over the heads of the spectators who are not usually troubled by it. I quickly sent out a quick text to Steve and Daz, who are usually trusted to gather up the flag in the NE corner of the upper tier.

“Where’s that fcuking flag gone?”

It finally came to rest at the southern end of the upper tier.

It reminded me of the original “Pride of London” flag which made its debut at a game before the Chelsea vs. Wolves F.A. Cup quarter final some 18 years ago. On that day, it began in The Shed and ended up travelling over the heads of us in the West Stand. At the end of that particular game, the flag ended up on the pitch, along with thousands of ecstatic Chelsea fans, enjoying the thrill of our first F.A Cup semi final in 24 years. I remember that Glenn and I ended up on the pitch on that Sunday afternoon in March 1994; it was the day that “The Blue Flag” really came into its own too.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley, We’ll Keep The Blue Flag Flying High.”

With F.A. Cup semi-finals coming to us in 1996, 1997, 2000, 2002, 2006, 2007, 2009 and 2010, I acknowledged the fact that a return to Wembley in April would be met with hardly a raised eyebrow, let alone mass hysteria and a pitch invasion.

This is how far we have travelled and – I’ll be honest – it saddens me to the core that I will probably never again be as excited at reaching a semi-final as I did all those years ago in 1994.

The game was over as early as the twentieth minute really. Chelsea got out of the blocks and had a couple of early chances. A Juan Mata corner dropped into the six yard box and Gary Cahill rose to head down and in for his first goal in Chelsea colours. He decided to race past the silent away supporters and head towards the family section in the East Lower. Not many goals are celebrated in that area of the stadium; I hope that the inhabitants of that section took a few rare photos.

A shot by Juan Mata was cleared off the line. Fernando Torres showed great skill and awareness by breaking down the right before looking up and playing in Salomon Kalou, who painstakingly waited for the ‘keeper to move before slotting the ball past him. We all commented how cool a finish it was from the much-maligned Kalou. Further chances came from a Daniel Sturridge shot, a Torres header at the ‘keeper and a Torres shot which was saved. After a lovely piece of play by Gary Cahill, Alan commented –

“Gary Cahill is the nearest to JT we’ve had down here since Wayne Bridge’s ex-girlfriend.”

We were well on top to be honest, despite a few Leicester attempts on our goal.

At the break, I had a few words with the chap who was sat alongside Alan. Gordon was from Yeovil, a fellow Somerset fan, and knew of a few of the local lads who I used to occasionally meet up with on the Yeovil supporters’ coach in the mid-‘eighties; all of whom still go, but I’ve not seen them for ages. The midfield dynamo of that mid-‘eighties team, Johnny B, was on the pitch with Neil Barnett, at the break. I never tire of seeing these Chelsea heroes of my youth.

Attacking the Matthew Harding stand, we were rewarded with a flurry of chances down below us. Florent Malouda had replaced Juan Mata and forced Kasper Schmeichel to save down low. Unselfish play from Torres set up Studge, but he was annoyingly dispossessed after hanging onto the ball for an eternity. Studge was having one of those games. Torres then moved the ball nicely, but his shot was blocked.

Michael Essien replaced Kalou and a goal soon followed. After a great performance against Napoli on Wednesday, Torres had been the star attraction against Leicester. Meireles cleverly set up Torres who quickly and nimbly struck a shot goalwards. At last, he endured a little good fortune; the shot was not cleanly struck but just made it over the line, just inside the post, just beyond the despairing dive of Schmeichel Junior.

At last. His latest goal drought was over. Phew.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley, We’ll Keep The Blue Flag Flying High.”

A firm shot from Nando flew over the bar just after.

At the other end, the visitors forced a great save from Petr Cech. Then a shot from Dann ricocheted off the base of the post and Beckford slotted the ball in. There was a little anxiety in the Chelsea ranks.

David Luiz replaced Brana.

I took a photo of Raul Meireles as he clipped in an in swinging corner towards the near post. Who should be there to meet it, but the blond head of Fernando Torres. We looked on in amazement as the ball bounced down and in. This time, the celebrations were down below me.

Click, click, click, click, click, click.

I missed the second goal from the visitors; I am reliably informed it was a scorcher.

With everyone in the stadium begging for Torres to shoot once he dribbled free, he unselfishly set up his compatriot Meireles, who slotted the ball in past the off-balance ‘keeper.

5-2.