Tales From The Sloaney Pony

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 28 October 2012.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United.

Four words to get the pulses racing.

After our two marvellous wins at Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur, I was relishing this one – of course – and was fearless, despite our poor performance in Donetsk on Tuesday.

Sunday couldn’t come quick enough. Saturday was a blur.

Overnight, winter had arrived. The clocks went back an hour and the temperature had dropped. Despite the potential luxury of an extra hour in bed, I was up and at’em on Sunday morning.

There is always something special about going to football in October, with the trees changing colours and the first breath of winter giving the air a chill. In fact, it caught me unawares. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I stood in my bedroom for a good ten minutes, befuddled and confused, trying to work out the best combination of shirt/pullover/top/jacket to wear for the first cold trip of the season. I eventually chose a white polo shirt. I then pinned my Remembrance Day poppy on a navy blue pullover and I was away.

I collected Young Jake in Trowbridge, Wiltshire’s county town, at 11am and we headed north to the M4 and then east to Chelsea Town.

This would be Jake’s first sighting of Manchester United and he was clearly “buzzing.” Due to Chelsea’s liking of Second Division football in the days of my childhood and youth, my first sighting of the famous red shirts took place as late as December 1984, when I was halfway through my nineteenth year. In fact, from the day of my first ever Chelsea game in 1974, the two teams’ paths only crossed on two occasions in the league at Stamford Bridge until that fateful day ten years later. In the first of these ten seasons, 1974-1975, Manchester United found themselves in Division Two while we were toiling in the top flight. In the next two seasons, it was our turn to play in the second tier. In 1977-1978 and 1978-1979, our paths crossed momentarily. Then from 1979 to 1984, Chelsea were back amongst the dead men of the Second Division.

In December 1984, I joined a season-high attendance of 42,000 who assembled on a cold post-Christmas afternoon and watched aghast as United romped to a 3-1 win. This was standard for many years; for ages, Chelsea did well at Old Trafford and United won the spoils at Stamford Bridge. From around 1967 to 1987, we were undefeated at Old Trafford. United’s ascendency over us at HQ only really lilted in 2002, after years of domination. I can still taste the bitterness of those 3-2, 4-1 and 3-0 defeats in 1994, 1995 and 2002, to say nothing of the 5-3 F.A. Cup defeat in 1998 and the Champions League loss in 2011.

However, over the past ten seasons, we have been undefeated against United at Stamford Bridge in the league. I chatted about some of these games with Jake as the rain started to increase. There have been some crackers; the undoubted highlight being the 3-0 championship decider in 2006. Thank you William Gallas, thank you Ricardo Carvalho and thank you Joe Cole. You wait fifty years for a league championship and then two come together. Superb stuff.

Of course, the best ever memory was from that incredible day in the autumn of 1999 when a rampant Chelsea defeated the treble winners 5-0. What a magnificent performance under the tutelage of Gianluca Vialli. There have been few more pleasurable afternoons in deepest SW6. Bloody hell, even Chris Sutton scored that day. Remember him?

No, I thought not.

At Reading Services, I spotted a chap wearing a New England Patriots shirt and my hackles rose. He was off to Wembley for the annual NFL game. I only heard about this match on the Saturday; the media has been strangely muted about this year’s encounter. I noted that the London Saracens rugby union team played a regular league game in Brussels last weekend. Where will it all end?

I know where it will end.

Chelsea playing a regular season game against Norwich City in Shanghai.

By which time, this particular Chelsea fan will have taken a damn good look at the way football has gone and may well have decided to hang up his boots. I’m fine with watching friendlies in the US and Asia, I’m fine with World Club Championships in Japan, but the regular season is sacrosanct.

Mess with that, dear Football Association, and you might well have lost me, and millions like me.

We rolled into London, the rain thankfully halted, at 1.30pm. Jake sought refuge in The Goose, but I headed down the North End Road and the Fulham Road to Parson’s Green, where I had arranged to meet up with Mike from the NYBs. On my way, I dipped into a betting shop and put a tenner on us to win 5-0.

It has happened before, it could happen again.

I dreamt of a £1,500 treasure chest.

I walked past the site of the former George pub and was dismayed to see that it now houses an estate agent. The George used to house the CFC Yeovil branch on match days back in the mid-’eighties and a few of us from Frome used to spend many an hour with them. Good people. I hardly see any of them these days. I only commented recently that the total of seven regular Chelsea attendees from Frome, all season ticket holders, has withered to just myself.

I walked past Fulham police station just as “Goggles” – one of the local policemen who are always present at Chelsea games, from London to Birmingham to Turin to Donetsk – left the building with four others. The wind was chilling the air, but my warm jacket was doing its job.

The White Horse pub, right on the northern edge of Parson’s Green, is a famous old Chelsea watering hole. I haven’t frequented it for years and years – 1995 to be exact – but it’s a lovely pub. As it is just off the King’s Road, it has always attracted a certain type of clientele. Back in the early ‘eighties, social commentator Peter York dubbed the pretty young things who live in Kensington & Chelsea “Sloane Rangers.” In Chelsea football circles, the White Horse was always called “The Sloaney Pony.” I spent a nice time there, supping my usual one pint of lager; this time it was a crisp Budvar. Mike was giddy with enthusiasm at the thought of seeing the team play once more. His last game was in Miami. I met up with a couple of his UK-based mates and we had a good laugh. Mutual friends were referenced and humorous stories were told. Yet again, the up-coming game was ignored. We spoke, instead, about trips to Munich and Barcelona, the summer tour and Japan.

Stamford Bridge is only a ten minute walk away, past Eelbrook Common and the Pelican pub. I was soon on Fulham Road, outside the West Stand, where a Chelsea brass band was playing “Land Of Hope And Glory”, “Amarillo” and “Blue Is The Colour.” I lost count of the number of tourists I saw with Chelsea / United scarves.

I was in the stadium early. It was too early, in fact. It was 3.30pm. I didn’t know what to do.

The stadium, as always, took a while to reach capacity and I suddenly realised that there were no pre-match songs emanating from stands like in days of old. This is another match day tradition which has slowly died out since the end of the terracing. I remember the days when…oh never mind.

The Chelsea team was unsurprisingly unaltered from the fine win at White Hart Lane. United’s defence interested me; surely we could attack them in the middle, to exploit the pairing of Ferdinand and Evans. Further upfront, Rooney and Van Persie worried me. But this was a game that we could win and win well.

5-0 will be fine, please.

After Neil Barnett had announced the teams, in that rather loud and irritating way of his, he called for silence. Both sets of fans were asked to acknowledge the life of former Manchester United and England winger John Connelly, who had recently passed away.

A short but steady period of applause resounded around the stadium.

United had their usual three thousand and the lower tier, at least, stood the entire game. The home areas eventually were filled to capacity. I tried to spot any empty seats and it was difficult. We were treated to a bona fide full house at last. Maybe we’re getting too used to sight of United and too used to the big games, but the pre-match buzz was sadly lacking inside the stadium. I felt it outside, in the pubs and in the streets, but inside, there was a strange quietness.

The teams entered the pitch. The United contingent had begun singing with a few minutes to go, but we drowned them out. The place was suddenly rocking.

“We know what we are.
Champions of Europe.
We know what we are.”

There were the expected venomous catcalls from the home stands aimed at Rio Ferdinand as the match began, though thankfully none of a racist nature. I’m personally getting bored with it all and it’s time to move on.

Well, what a game. After last season’s rollercoaster 3-3 draw, who could have thought that we could be in for another tumultuous ninety minutes of drama and intrigue, goals and calamity, ecstasy and misery?

After just three minutes, United had struck down our left flank, with Ashley Cole horribly out of position. The arch predator Van Persie struck a shot against Petr Cech’s near post and the ball cannoned in off a hapless David Luiz. And my £1,500 bounty had been blown to smithereens. I gazed skywards, sighed and then muttered something to myself which probably mirrored 95% of what the Chelsea crowd had been singing at Rio Ferdinand.

Soon after, Ferdinand walked over towards us in the north-west corner to receive a ball from David De Gea. The boos cascaded down on him. However, nobody closed him down and he had time to initiate a move down the United left which again caught Cole woefully out of position. The ball cut through our defence like a hot knife through butter. A low cross, a Van Persie shot.

2-0 to United and the game had hardly started.

I looked on as I saw Ferdinand punch the air.

A horrible feeling.

Midway through the first-half, with Chelsea seemingly chasing shadows, Alan leaned over and summed it up.

“They’re better than us. No point disguising the fact. We’re not in it.”

I had to agree.

Every time United broke, we were sent into a tense period of panic. Although Andrei Kanchelskis, Lee Sharpe and Ryan Giggs were not playing, this was so reminiscent of the rapid thrusts of the United team from the mid-‘nineties. Alan then made another telling point.

“Our wide men in midfield aren’t providing extra cover on the flanks.”

I had visions of more United goals. It was so imperative that we nabbed a goal before the break, or else I could see United running away with the game in the second-half.

The away fans were bellowing – that bloody awful Cantona song always annoys me – as United punched deep into our defence and we were reeling on the ropes. And then, miraculously, we found our feet and retaliated. I had commented to Alan that “we haven’t even had a corner.”

With that, the rest of the first-half was Chelsea corner after Chelsea corner.

They must have heard me.

De Gea was tested with a dipping and swerving Luiz free-kick, which the ‘keeper chose to save with his feet as he scrambled across his goal. This then set the tone for the rest of the half. De Gea’s goal lived a charmed life as headers from Cahill and then Torres were saved. We kept pushing and the crowd responded. This was more like it.

Just before the break, we were awarded a free-kick. Every outfield United player crowded into the penalty area, forming a formidable barrier to Juan Mata. I clicked my camera just as the little Spaniard clipped the ball past the tight huddle of intertwined red and blue shirts and into the goal.

It was an inch-perfect strike and the ball caressed the side netting as it entered the waiting goalmouth.

Stamford Bridge shook as the 38,000 home supporters roared.

Phew. We had scored that all important goal before the break.

Game most definitely on.

At the break, Neil Barnett appeared by the tunnel with a little girl and he announced that she was watching her first-ever Chelsea game. Her face appeared on the large TV screen above the United fans just as Neil told the story of her father scoring at Old Trafford in 1996. I quickly computed that little Amelia’s father was none other than Gianluca Vialli. As Luca was seen nut-megging the United ‘keeper, the memories flooded back. I am sure this was Luca’s first official return to the Chelsea fold since he was unceremoniously sacked in September 2000, though he is a season ticket-holder to this day.

He remains one of my very favourite Chelsea heroes.

The Juventus background, the cheeky smile, the cashmere cardigans, the self-effacing humour, the hilarious use of cockney phraseology, the goals and the glory.

A proper gentleman, a lovely man, a funny guy, a true Chelsea legend.

Ah, we loved Vialli.

One memory always brings a smile to my face to this day. After a game at Nottingham Forest in 1999, my then girlfriend Judy – who had a massive crush on Luca – and I waited for the players to board the team coach in the Forest car park. I took a few photos of the players as they were being mobbed by the crowd, but I then realised that Judy was missing. After a few moments, I looked up to see her standing right next to Luca by the door to the coach. She had simply sidled up alongside him and had held his left hand for a few seconds as he signed autographs with his right hand. He then realised what was going on and gave Judy a smile, and then signed her hand.

Judy bounced over to show me, her face beaming.

She didn’t wash her hand for a week.

The United players were first to appear back on the pitch after the break. I wondered what extra words of encouragement Di Matteo was imparting to the team. Di Matteo is from the same stock as Luca; calm, modest and a gentleman. I struggle to think he gets overly irate about anything. This was a big test for him, though. We waited for the Chelsea eleven to reappear.

The second-half was a travesty.

We began with gusto, as we attempted to prise gaps in the United defence. After some sustained Chelsea pressure, the impressive Oscar clipped the ball in to the six yard box where a seemingly unmarked Ramires was able to head the ball home.

He doesn’t score many, but when he does…

Now the stadium almost went into orbit.

The United fans fell silent as the Chelsea legions bellowed –

“You are my Chelsea.
My only Chelsea.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You’ll never notice how much I love you.
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA
LA LA LA LA LA
OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Stamford Bridge was the loudest it had been since that date with Barcelona last spring.

But then, just as we were in the ascendency, smelling blood, our game plan was forced to change. A quick United break, Ashley Young through on goal, with Ivanovic giving chase. Within a blink of an eye, a tangle of legs and Young was sent sprawling.

It was a clear red, even allowing for David Luiz in the vicinity. It was unlikely that Luiz would have covered.

Damn it.

Chicarito, who scored against us at home last season, came on for United. Di Matteo brought on Azpilicueta.

It got worse.

Fernando Torres, who was tending to hold the ball a little too long for my liking, set off on a run deep at the heart of the floundering United defence. I didn’t think that he would be able to get past the defenders, so it was with relief when Evans hacked him down. I then wondered if Evans had been booked (he hadn’t) and if the referee would send him off for the second offence.

Imagine our horror when Clattenburg decided that it had been a dive from Torres. This was a second yellow and so, Torres was given his marching orders. Torres looked heartbroken. I was speechless. The United fans gleefully waved him off the pitch. After last season’s miss at Old Trafford, I really felt for him. He acts as a totem of all that is wrong about Chelsea in the eyes of many opposing fans.

We were down to nine men with twenty minutes to play.

With the crowd galvanised against Clattenburg and the opposition alike, the noise levels stayed high and the atmosphere was certainly intense. However, United soon seized their chance to strike. Van Persie wiggled one way and then the other before striking low at Cech’s goal. The ball squirmed away from his grasp and spun slowly towards a post. No United players were on hand to poke it home but the ball was knocked back into the crowded box by Raphael. Chicarito – it had to be him – prodded the ball in after coming back from behind the goal line. Incoming texts suggested that he had been offside when he delivered the final coup de grace. However, the area was so crowded and the ball in was so quick, that it was not readily apparent in my eyes at the time.

With the odds heavily stacked against us, an equaliser seemed impossible. We never gave up the fight, though. Our nine men gamely searched for that illusive goal. A fine example of this was a scintillating run by the impressive Eden Hazard deep into the United box.

The game continued on with five minutes of extra time, but it wasn’t our day.

All around me, Chelsea fans were moaning about Clattenburg, but I really wanted to get home and watch the match highlights on TV before I made up my own mind.

By 10.45pm, I was moaning too.

There were defensive lapses during the game for sure. David Luiz can be world class and class clown in the same passage of play. Our defence misses John Terry. Against United, frailties will always be exposed. But we showed a lot of fight and courage in that middle third of the game. I saw promising signs. Against Arsenal, Tottenham and United we have gathered six points. Both United and us will be in the mix at the top end of the table come May.

And on Wednesday, we meet again.

Tales From A Chelsea Pub Crawl

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 5 February 2012.

On the Saturday, most of England was hit with a snowstorm. As I hardly live around the corner from Stamford Bridge, I am always faced with a dilemma when the weather conditions take a nose dive. Even if the weather had cleared in the morning, there was always the risk of further snow on the Sunday, with the possibility of myself being stranded in London. Late on Saturday night, I decided that I would not be too upset if Chelsea were to call the game off. If so, this would have followed the same pattern as in 2010-2011. Our game in December against United was postponed until March. At the time, we were going through Ancelotti’s “bad moment” and so it all worked out for us. Obviously, we are hardly firing on all cylinders right now and so there was an additional reason behind my ambivalence to the game going ahead.

Let’s play United when we have a full set of players to choose from. Let’s regroup. Let’s beat them later in the season.

And yet, there was a further problem. I was well aware that there were five friends from various parts of the US who had travelled over to see the game. None of them had the added security of an extra Chelsea match, so my heart went out to them. What a terrible shame if their mission to see Chelsea play was derailed at the last minute.

I awoke on Sunday morning and quickly peered out of the window; no further snow in rural Somerset. The roads were icy but clearly navigable. However, I wondered now the Home Counties had fared. By the time I had collected Lord Parky at just after 10am, I had already received a text from Alan to confirm that Chelsea had confirmed that the game would go ahead. OK – glad to hear that. I knew that the guests from across the pond would be elated. On the drive east, the fields adjacent to the M4 showed more and more signs of snow with each passing mile. We diverted into Reading and swapped cars at my mate Russell’s. He had kindly volunteered to drive the last forty miles. This meant that I could relax a little and have a few beers as I wouldn’t be back in my car until around 7.30pm that evening.

The weather was actually quite mild, though the visibility wasn’t great. It was a murky old day in London. For a change, we didn’t head straight to The Goose. I have often commented on how lucky we are at Chelsea; Stamford Bridge is surrounded by pubs and restaurants, bars and cafes. There must be twenty-five boozers within a fifteen minute walk from the stadium. I can’t say I have visited everyone, but every season we say we’ll try out some new ones. To this end, Russ parked a good mile and a half away from Fulham Broadway and we had a mini pub crawl.

First up was The Pear Tree. Jesus was already inside, nursing a pint at the bar. Inside, the décor was of an Edwardian front room and the place was packed with Sunday diners launching into their roasts. To be honest, we stuck out like sore-thumbs. This was clearly a pretty expensive gastro-pub and we stood at the bar like uninvited guests at a society wedding. I have often wondered how far out Chelsea fans drink on match days. Well, there were no Chelsea fans in this one. The pretty Australian barmaid actually asked us the question –

“Are you watching the rugby?”

We gave her a withering look and explained we were off to Chelsea.

Soon after, Parky spotted another barmaid slowly pulling the pump on one of the draught beers.

“Looks like you’ve pulled” he said.

It was now his turn for the withering looks.

“Is that a joke?” she replied.

With that, we decided to move on.

A hundred yards along, we called in at The Idle Hours, a pub which had obviously been recently modernised. It was very quiet though. Still no other Chelsea fans. Jesus, who loves his stay in London on his internship, had decided that he could not afford to miss the United game and so had paid out a mighty £150 for his MHU ticket. He was very worried that he had bought a fake, but it looked fine to my trained eyes. The seller had made a tidy £90 profit on the ticket; nice work if you can get it. Jesus is clearly in love with football (he has already visited The Valley and Selhurst Park during the past fortnight) and is getting wrapped up in the football culture of these isles. He reminds me so much of Farmer John, who was with us for four months in 2009; a football fanatic, overdosing on Chelsea. As long as we have passionate overseas fans such as Jesus we’ll be fine. We chatted about the differences between sporting culture in the US and the UK. Jesus sneered that many US gridiron fans change their teams as often as they like. Over here, it’s different. We both quoted the famous line –

“You can change your job, your politics, your name, even your sex. But you can’t change two things; your mother and your football club.”

I like the addendum to this –

“Never trust anyone who changes their football team.”

The red brick wall of Queens Club was to our left as we continued our slow walk towards The Goose. The icy pavements were turning to slush and we had to watch our steps; Parky especially. I mentioned to Jesus about the Stella Artois tennis tournament which takes place at Queens, just ahead of Wimbledon each June. Next up was the tiny Colton Arms and at last a couple of Chelsea fans. I’ve often driven past this pub, but this was my first visit. The place was tiny and the snug was only around eight feet wide. Another bottle of beer, more football chat, more corny jokes from Parky. We even had the chance to give Jesus a little history lesson; 1066 and all that…King Harold, the Battle of Stamford Bridge, the Battle of Hastings and the Bayeaux Tapestry.

It was now 2.15pm and The Goose was calling us. We turned a corner and I pointed out a blue plaque on the side of one of the red brick houses, denoting the former residence of former Formula One champion James Hunt. As we approached The Goose, youngsters on a rooftop bombarded us with snowballs. Inside, the place was absolutely jam-packed with Chelsea supporters. Over in our corner, beneath a TV showing the Newcastle game, sat Starla, the first of the US visitors. It was great to see her again; having passed her degree recently, this was her gift to herself. Alan slipped my Napoli away ticket into my hand; what pleasures await on that little trip into that crazy city? It’s only two weeks away now and I just hope we get some of our big hitters back for that tough away game.

After quickly guzzling a pint, we had to make one last call before the game began. Starla, Jesus, Parky and I strode down the North End Road and entered the equally busy Malt House. Out in the beer garden, we quickly spotted the other American guests Andy, Tom and Steve-O. More chat and laughter, mainly at Andy’s expense. The last time I saw Tom and Steve-O was for Torres’ debut one year ago. Altogether now – where does the time go?

As we squeezed out of the pub, I bumped into a chap holding a replica of the FA Cup, asking for donations for a charity. Although I didn’t stop to ask for details, I guess the idea was for punters to have their photos taken holding the cup. I wondered if the chap would fare better outside the away turnstiles; the only chance United would get to hold the trophy this season. I walked the last four hundred yards alongside Steve-O, who hails from the far sunny climes of LA. The snowfall that he had witnessed the previous day was the first of his life. Its truly humbling to walk alongside fans such as Andy, Starla, Steve-O and Tom. All this way for one match. Fair play to you all. As we approached the West Stand, Jesus began singing along to the Chelsea songs which were being aired and he did so with a noticeable cockney twang. It made me chuckle. From his home on the US/Mexico border to Chelsea, Jesus was loving it.

He gets it.

At the turnstiles for the MHU, though, he was tense. Would that expensive ticket which he purchased prove to be legitimate or not? He held the ticket’s bar code up to the scanner and the message flashed up –

“Welcome to Chelsea FC.”

I saw him go through the turnstile and he punched the air as soon as he was inside.

The look of joy on his face was one of the highlights of the season.

I arrived at my seat just after the teams had lined-up, so was not able to witness the “will they / won’t they shake hands” nonsense involving Rio Ferdinand. I quickly scanned the players going through their pre-game hugs and I spotted that Branoslav Ivanovic was like a man-possessed, bouncing his chest off several players. Without John Terry, we needed leaders out there.

Over in the far corner, the three-thousand United fans were standing; a solid mass of black, grey and navy jackets with the occasional flash of red. Only two United flags were draped over the balcony wall. I looked over to the other side of The Shed Upper – the west wing – and wondered what was going through the minds of the CIAers. I quickly ran through the Chelsea team. With our squad so depleted through injuries and internationals, I am not so sure the manager had too many options. There was a call for the youngster Ryan Bertrand to start at left-back, in place of the suspended Ashley Cole and instead of Jose Bosingwa. I wasn’t so sure. With Gary Cahill’s debut in defence, I was worried that another fresh face in the back four would be too risky. We all know that Boswinga has his doubters, but I think I would rather play him at left back rather than risk Bertrand. This wasn’t Bolton. This wasn’t Blackburn. This was Manchester United, the reigning champions, never afraid to attack with pace on the flanks. I feared Bertrand being shell-shocked after being ripped apart by the flying United wingers. His time will come – against Birmingham City in the cup, maybe. He’s one for the future.

Elsewhere, the other contentious position was taken by the floundering Florent Malouda. I guess the only other option was to play a midfield of Romeu/Essien/Meireles. Against United, maybe that would have been a sounder bet. But who am I? I haven’t got any coaching badges.

This would be the 22nd consecutive season that I have seen a Chelsea vs. Manchester United league game. This run goes all of the way back to a cold and depressing Sunday afternoon in December 1991, as a Ryan Giggs-inspired United beat us 3-1. I had travelled up with my old school friend Pete’s brother Kevin (a United fan) and we watched in The Shed. Pete (also a United fan) had travelled up separately with his girlfriend’s son, and watched from the old West Stand. We were pretty dire. The weather was cold. The Stamford Bridge pich was shrouded in mist. The crowd was only 23,000. In those days, the away fans were treated to the vast expanse of the open north terrace, holding some 10,000. It’s unlikely that United brought more than 4,000 for that game. The game was live on ITV – quite a rare event really. As was the way in that era, live games would often result in lower gates than usual. Sky TV were not yet at the party, but that would change the following season with the advent of the Premier League. That 1991-1992 season was pretty grim from start to finish for us, under the blundering stewardship of the late Ian Porterfield. The highlight was a run in the FA Cup, but we lost to Sunderland in the heady heights of the quarter-finals (our longest run since 1982 in fact.) In those days – and I’m speaking for football fans in general – we would travel to see our heroes and expect a poor display. Football was more rudimentary in ‘eighties and early ‘nineties, especially the way we played it. Not the silky football of today. Our play involved the full backs pumping the ball up to the attackers, an aerial battle, the midfield tussle for the second ball, aggressive tackles…percentage football. In those days, we would attend games through blind faith that the occasional game would be entertaining. Foreign players were rare. Our foreigners were the twin pillars in defence Ken Monkou and Erland Johnsen. The days of super sexy football involving Gianfranco Zola, Joe Cole, Arjen Robben and Juan Mata were light years away. It’s hard to believe that it’s the same sport.

Maybe it isn’t.

At work on Friday, my colleague Mike – yep, another United fan – and I reckoned that the game may not be that great, with both teams going through a far from convincing period of form. Well, we couldn’t have been further from the truth. After the succession of crazy games involving the top clubs this season, this was another game that is quite likely to set this season apart from the rest.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Daniel Sturridge weaved his way down to the goal line in his trademark move. This was right down at the Shed End, in front of both Parky and the visitors from the US. I was surprised that his dribble was not snubbed out by a United challenge to be honest. Next, in a scenario uncannily similar to our goal at Swansea on Tuesday, the ball was zipped into the six yard box. I will be honest; I didn’t have a clue how the ball ended up nestling in the goal. And I amazed by myself by not celebrating the goal. It just seemed a strange goal. A goal by default. An apology of a goal. The rest of the ground roared and I was alone and silent. I’ll have to improve on that. Most unlike me. Did we deserve the half-time lead? Only maybe.

“It’s not your own hair. It’s not your own hair. Wayne Rooney – it’s not your own hair.”

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

A move soon into the first few seconds of the second-half found Fernando Torres wide right. He swung in a gorgeous, arcing ball towards the far post. Down below, eight yards out, Juan Mata was waiting. With a perfectly timed movement which took over his entire body, he swivelled his hips and volleyed high into the net. No messing about this time. I roared, I shrieked, I roared again. The entire stadium erupted. What a moment. Did we deserve to be 2-0 up? Perhaps.

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

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 0.

A Juan Mata free-kick, in a deep position. The hustling Chelsea attackers pulled their United counterparts one way and then the other. Mata swung the ball in. The tousled head of David Luiz was first to the ball and the result was further pandemonium. The Bridge roared again. Did we deserve to be 3-0 up? Probably not, but who cares?

My colleague Mike texted me – “speechless.”

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 1.

A tackle from Daniel Sturridge, way in the distance. My first thought was of a fine tackle, but no. Howard Webb pointed to the penalty spot. Rooney, calm under pressure, hit the ball high into the top corner. Cech well beaten. Oh God. Here we go again. That very familiar Chelsea feeling.

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 2.

A United move. Edge of the box. A blur of two players came together. Webb pointed again. Disbelief and anger. Rooney despatched the ball, low. Now we were very worried.

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 3.

The crowd were on tenterhooks. I sat with my arms folded. Silent, yet knowing full well what was going to happen. A cross from the left and Hernandez completely unmarked in front of the goal. That sickening feeling once again. To my utter disbelief, a sizeable number of Chelsea “fans” could take no more and left.

Well, you always know how United will play. They will attack until the last minute. As the game progressed, there was a gnawing inevitability about this result. The introduction of Paul Scholes, as a deep-lying quarterback on Superbowl Sunday, was a key moment. That our midfielders then chose to ignore him was inexcusable. And yet…and yet. There were positive signs. Gary Cahill had a fine debut. The defence were steady. Torres and Mata flitted around and were at the heart of our best moves. But – the negatives…Malouda was awful and Sturridge was wasteful. I didn’t hear much positive spin on the way out. I guess that isn’t too surprising, really. We’re a moaning, miserable bunch of gits these days.

We listened to conflicting opinions about our play on “606.” Blimey, anybody would think we had lost. At least Parky and Russ tended to share my opinion that we were worth a point. Barring a very questionable penalty decision, we would have beaten the champions and stretched our unbeaten league record against them at Stamford Bridge to eleven games. We were then treated to a Blackburn Rovers fan, from my home county of Somerset, who had been a corporate guest at the Arsenal game on Saturday. He was full of praise for the hospitality afforded him at the game…”we were treated like Kings.” He then cheerily said that is only able to attend one Blackburn Rovers game a season, but was livid with the lack of passion shown by his team.

Pardon?

We returned home to various parts of Berkshire, Wiltshire and Somerset. I was keen to see the match highlights on “Match of the Day Two” and in particular, of course, the two penalty decisions. I had no complaints about the first one, but the second one was a joke. Shades of the two Wembley penalties in 1994. David Elleray and Howard Webb. They will go down in Chelsea infamy.

I went through the usual post-game routine of trawling the internet for the moaners and the groaners who were lamenting our latest performance. Without wishing to bore people rigid, let’s see the positives in this game. We drew with the champions, despite a make-shift team. We were a de Gea fingertip save away from winning it 4-3. I feel Andre Villas-Boas’ growing frustration and we just need to support him. In case anybody needs reminding, he is barely into his sixth month of competitive fixtures. Oh, and we’re unbeaten in 2012. In the background, the Giants and the Patriots were on TV in the Superbowl. I was paying such scant attention that it took me 15 minutes to realise the Giants were playing in white. It was time for bed.

Tales From Bar 68

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2011.

What a game. What a crazy game.

With my head still spinning with continued talk of boycotts and the rumbling aftermath of the morgue-like atmosphere at the game on Tuesday, I faced a long journey up to Manchester. I left my home village at around 9.30am. With the nascent development of Andre Villas-Boas’ team still in its opening sequence, I couldn’t help but think that the game with the old adversaries was just a few weeks too soon. There is no doubt that this would be a stern test for the team and supporters alike. There had been a sense of foreboding in the earlier part of the week, but my attitude had changed a little on Friday and Saturday. What was the reason for this upturn in my optimism? The manager himself. He has impressed me in almost all the things he has said and done since being at the helm of our club. He seems placid, yet passionate. He is calm, yet calculating. He seems to fit the bill, alright. We have to trust him.

Of course, part of my excitement about this match was centered upon which team he would select. Thousands of words have been uttered and written since Tuesday on this very subject.

We waited with baited breath.

Unfortunately, the weather which greeted me as I drove the short distance to collect Lord Parky was overcast and gray. I also had developed a slight headache – not through pondering Villas-Boas’ game plan I hasten to add – but I knew that this would be remedied after we stopped to collect a McBreakfast and a McCoffee at McMelksham on the long drive north.

We endured a variety of weather as I pounded the familiar tract north. Talk was of the next batch of games, the plans, the travel arrangements, the tickets, the itineraries.

This would be my sixteenth trip up to Old Trafford with Chelsea and, although we had a superb record from the ‘sixties through to the ‘eighties, our recent record hasn’t been too great. Of the fifteen previous visits, I had witnessed just four Chelsea victories. But – in all honesty – four of the greatest domestic away games ever. A Kerry Dixon brace and a double Tony Godden penalty save in two different games in 1986. A gorgeous 3-1 win after we won the championship in 2005 and Old Trafford as quiet as it has ever been. And then the goals from Joe and Didier giving us a seismic triumph on the way to our championship in 2010. Away victories simply do not get any better than these four.

We hit some slow-moving traffic between Stafford and Stoke and so I veered off through my former college town. We raced past the Britannia Stadium – only five weeks since our opening-day visit – and I was soon back on the M6 and the motorway was relatively clear.

I had hoped to have been parked-up by 2pm, but the delay around Stafford meant that I was running thirty minutes late. This was my third visit to Old Trafford in only six months and the approach on the Chester Road is very familiar now. I drove past the McDonalds where Gumby and I had a pre-match bite in 2006 and then past a few familiar landmarks including a sadly disused art deco-fronted cinema which welcomed me on the slow drive towards Old Trafford. I make a point of mentioning this as the sculptured frontage is a bright sky blue. A statement from its former owner, a proud Manchester City fan, perhaps?

“This may be United territory, but this is our city.”

I’m not so sure about this clichéd view to be honest. Although I always hear accents from all four corners of the UK and Ireland – not to mention many foreign accents – in and around Old Trafford on match days, I’m always surprised how many local “Manchest-oh” accents I hear, too. I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed it, but there seems to be more and more local Manchester banners on show at United games. It’s as if their fans have made a conscious effort to re-dress the balance of this perceived notion that there are more Blues than Reds in the city. A few years back, you would see banners which said “Exeter Reds”, “Devon Reds”, “Dublin Reds” and “Malta Reds” at away games. Today, it seems that you are now more likely to see “Urmston Reds”, “Salford Reds”, Sale Reds and “Clayton Reds.” It’s as if they are reclaiming Mancunia as their own. There always used to be a certain amount of “niggle” amongst local United fans and their fans from elsewhere in the UK. This is certainly true of Liverpool, too. There is a notion that out-of-town United fans are the glory hunters, forever besmirching the name of Manchester United. It was United who invented the derogatory nickname “daytrippers” which described the out-of-towners arriving en masse at Old Trafford, buying United paraphernalia and not really “getting” what United is about.

To be honest, Chelsea have always embraced supporters from all over the UK and I’m proud of this. In my youth, when I was alone in The Shed, Londoners would always welcome my presence at Chelsea.

“Where you from, mate? Somerset? Wow.”

However, the shifting sands of support in the UK at the moment has resulted in a greater resentment of “tourists” and probably no more so than in London. I lose count of the number of times I hear the terms “JCLs” and “tourists” being banded during discussions about the atmosphere at The Bridge getting worse and worse with each season. This is a lop-sided view though. Not all tourists or new fans lack passion. The problem that Chelsea has is that a large proportion of tourists who go to The Bridge just happen to be in London and are not really Chelsea fans. They attend our games because The Bridge is convenient. I’m not convinced that United have this exact problem. I have the distinct feeling that United’s fans – and there are 330 million of them Worldwide – are enticed to Manchester solely to watch United. This might not be correct, but this is my view.

In some respects, the loyal fans of United and Chelsea – plus all of the big clubs in the Premier League – are experiencing these self-same notions of being disenfranchised, being priced out, being taken advantage of. It’s just the scale and timings which differ. Fully expect Manchester City’s long-suffering legions to be complaining about their club’s new fans next.

Locals were attempting to usher me in to a variety of match day parking lots – ₤5 a car – but I ignored them and parked outside the same house as I did for the fated league game in May. The only change to the immediate locale was the appearance of two new floodlight masts at the nearby Old Trafford cricket stadium.

Parky and I donned our jackets and made the twenty minute walk to the stadium. It dawned on me during the week that I have never ever had a beer in a pub outside Old Trafford. The over-riding reason for this is the paucity of options and – hence – the fact that all the pubs are for home fans only. There was the usual singing emanating from The Bishop Blaize and the usual mobs of red-clad United fans by the chip shops. As I turned and walked down Sir Matt Busby Way, I spotted more grafters selling their wares; the infamous half-and-half scarves.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?f…50375800387658

At just past 3pm, I joined Alan and Gary inside the stadium, at the Chelsea only bar – Bar 68, named after Wembley 1968, the European Cup Final and all that – in the South Stand. A bottle of Singha for ₤3.10. On the TV screen above the bar, Tottenham were thrashing Liverpool, but we were ambivalent. Gary had been to the Surrey versus Somerset cricket final at Lords on Saturday and it was no surprise that his county beat mine.

The Chelsea team was flashed up on the screen and I approved. It was the team that I would have chosen. It elicited a few moments of discussion with Alan about the manager’s game plan.

“To be honest, it could work in our favour to be under pressure if Torres sits on the last defender and we break at pace and hit him early. Important that the wide men up front, Mata and Sturridge, drop back and cover United’s wide players. We need Bosingwa’s pace. Ashley will be OK.”

“All sorted. I hope the manager is listening.”

Before the game, Mickey Thomas – all suited and booted – was interviewed on the pitch and he made a few comments about the game. A former Chelsea legend, it still grates to hear him refer to United as “we.” He spoke of United’s fine start to the season and he used a phrase that I have used recently –

“United have hit the ground running.”

At least Mickey said that he thought we would represent United’s biggest threat, not those mischievous fellows across the city.

Old Trafford seemed to take ages to fill up. Long gone are the days of the ’eighties when most of a 40,000 crowd would be inside with half-an-hour to go, chanting and trading insults with each other. The build-up to the kick-off used to be great in those days, the noise levels increasing minute by minute. My seat was along the side, slightly beyond the goal line. I like how the pitch is raised on a bed – like a stage – at Old Trafford, with a steep decline down to the terraces. In the immediate ten minutes before the game’s commencement, we were in great voice and United weren’t singing at all.

We had the first chance of the game as the effervescent Ramires troubled the shaky de Gea but the United ‘keeper thwarted the effort with his feet. Soon after, Anderson lost possession to Fernando Torres, who quickly advanced but fluffed his shot wide. Sturridge was looking lively down below me. I had spoken to Alan about the absolute need not to concede an early goal – certainly not a repeat of the opening goal within the first minute back in May. Well, those plans went up in flames.

We weren’t sure about the foul which resulted in the Nani free-kick and the powerful leap from Chris Smalling. But the former Fulham player appeared to have an unhindered leap. The United support roared for the first time.

After twenty minutes, a lovely flowing move found Torres but he again shot wide.

Soon after, a gorgeous through ball by Mata allowed Torres to beat the offside trap as he raced past the United back line. He was through on goal but decided not to shoot. My immediate thoughts were of Tuesday night when his unselfish play aided others. He squared the ball to Sturridge and we held our breath. In the end, the firm strike was well saved.

We had a little conference amongst ourselves and I said that if Studge had scored, we would all have been saying what a great ball it was from Torres. To be honest, it was a great ball and Studge should have scored.

All three thousand Chelsea were standing and bellowing our support. The United legions, basking in the September sun, appeared to be very docile in comparison.

Sturridge picked out Torres again, but his overhead kick whistled wide.

Then a rasping drive from Sturridge, from an angle, well saved by de Gea.

We were playing well and the two wide men were tracking back and adding numbers to our midfield. We seemed to be well on top when our world caved in. We allowed Nani time and space to shot and his perfect shot rattled into Cech’s top corner. The United fans momentarily roared, but there was not a reverberating depth of noise which was present, for example, at the Champions League game last season. However, we did not let up. We chased every ball and pressed with determination. Nice movement upfront. We were still in it.

The third goal was a joke. The ball just fell for Wayne Rooney – otherwise quiet – and he swept the ball into the net.

How on earth were we 3-0 down? It seemed that everything was falling into United’s path. What a farce.

The United fans were enquiring “are you Arsenal in disguise?” and we stood silent. We had no answer.

The half-time interval, looking back, was a bit of a blur. We stood around, quite shell-shocked, but there were plentiful smiles and laughter amongst the away fans. We knew that we had played well, with Mata looking very lively in that roving role. Everything seemed to come through him. However, I did quietly say to Alan –

“I hope no more goals are scored in this game” and he grimaced as if to say “I’m with you.”

There was a very bold move at the break when Villas-Boas replaced the under-performing Frank Lampard with Nicolas Anelka. I can’t honestly say that I was aware of the slight change to the formation as my viewpoint was not great; our attacking was taking place in the other half after all.

As the second period began, we were singing “we’re gonna win 4-3” and everyone was smiling.

Losing, but smiling. What a strange game.

Within a minute, Anelka had played in Torres and his delicate flick past the onrushing de Gea found its way into the net. I was stood right in front of CFCUK’s Dave Johnstone and I just turned around, grabbed his arm and screamed. It was a lovely finish, right in front of a silent Stretford End.

Nani’s thunderbolt then rattled the bar with Cech well beaten. In the onrushing scramble – it was all a blur – Bosingwa fouled Nani and Phil Dowd pointed to the spot.

Oh hell. So much for the Chelsea recovery.

I focussed on Petr Cech with my camera and hoped for a wonderful save being captured on film. In the corner of my eye, I saw Rooney approach and then slip outrageously on the damp turf.

Oh, how we howled with laughter. I’m sure I wasn’t the only Chelsea fan who thought of Moscow.

Still the chances came. A wonderful dribble from Torres was well saved by de Gea, but Torres blazed the rebound over.

United hit the post.

Then, the moment of the match. Torres gracefully shimmied into the box and used his pace to push the ball past a floundering de Gea. With an open goal gaping, Torres flashed the ball wide with his left foot and we stood in horror. Hero one minute, villain the next. I felt for him. The United fans were wailing and the poor chap looked distraught. What next in the chequered Chelsea career of Fernando Torres?

In a passage of play eerily similar to the profligacy of Torres in the first-half, Rooney broke free but chose to pass to Berbatov rather than shoot himself. Doctor Death’s strong shot was cleared away by a scrambling Ashley Cole.

The minutes passed by and we kept singing. I know it is a cliché to bemoan United’s home support, but they really were quiet. I could tell that they were nervy and, with a little more luck, we could so easily have secured all three points.

From pre-match worry to post game buoyancy. What a transformation. To celebrate the team’s new-found confidence and swagger, we rounded off a great show of vocal support by a deafening “we’re gonna win the league” and I hoped and prayed that the viewers at home realised that it was the bubbling away support shouting those words.

I waited for Parky outside and we couldn’t contain our glee. This was a mighty strange feeling, though; a game we had lost, but we were not bothered at all. Of all the Chelsea games I have witnessed, never have I been as content with our performance following a defeat.

We must be mellowing with age, eh?

We were held in traffic for ages and it wasn’t until 7.45pm (almost two hours after the game had finished) that we reached the southbound carriageway of the M6 – and with it, that great big sludge of United traffic heading back to the southern counties of England, and possibly beyond.

We had enjoyed ourselves. Our throats were hurting from all of the singing, but we weren’t complaining. As I drove south, time for some music. Parky and I are going to see the old punk band Sham 69 on the evening of the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game in late October and so Parky brought along their 1978 album “That’s Life.” Sham’s first album “Tell Us The Truth” was edgier but this second album contains a few gems. In fact, it is probably punk’s first concept album, in that the album tells the story of a day in the life of a London teenager through songs interspersed with dialogue.

Despite the sore throats, we were singing along as we headed south.

It wasn’t a normal day in the life of the main character. He got sacked from his job, won a fortune on the dogs, got drunk with a mate, pulled a girl at a disco, got into a fight and crashed a stolen car.

It soon dawned on me that the game we had just witnessed at Old Trafford had been equally manic.

We stopped off for a coffee at Stafford services and I eventually dropped His Lordship off at just before 11pm. I reached home shortly after, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for ages. My head was still buzzing and I needed my body to steadily tire before I closed my eyes.

Did I have nightmares about Fernando Torres’ miss?

No, but I suspect he might have done.

Tales From Lord Parky, Burger And Chel

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 8 May 2011.

As the days passed, the sense of anticipation rose throughout the week. By Saturday, I could hardly think of anything else. This comes as no surprise I am sure. I think everyone was thinking the same thoughts. Everyone nervous. Everyone excited.

Sunday arrived and I was ready.

I cleared the debris from the last Chelsea trip from my car and made sure that I had all the necessary match day essentials.

Ticket – check.
Camera – check.
Wallet – check.
Phone – check.
Bottles of Peroni for Parky and Burger – check.
Cans of Coke for me – check.
CDs – check.
Head full of memories from past matches at Old Trafford – check.
Hope eternal – check.

At about 9.45am, I set off from my village in Somerset, now overflowing with late spring greenery and vibrant colours. I collected His Lordship and we were on our way. It looked like it would be a day of sunny intervals and scattered showers, with the sky full of clouds. For a change, no music on the road north; we just chatted away about all sorts. After a McBreakfast at Melksham, we hit the M4, then the M5, then the M6.

Heading towards Birmingham, a car sped past with the number plate “KI55 UTD” and I commented

“Kiss United Goodbye more like, mate.”

At 12.45pm, we swung into Stafford and called in to collect Burger. There had been a flurry of activity earlier in the morning with a ticket up for grabs. However, the ticket in question was quickly snapped up by another Chelsea fan and so Julie was unable to come with us. A coffee apiece and we were on our way.

Burger quickly updated us with news from his hectic life – I hadn’t seen him since Everton away in the F.A. Cup – but talk soon swung around to talking about our great shared obsession; Chelsea Football Club. As we sped up the M6, my two passengers opened up some bottles of beer and I had provided a Midwest Blues Chicago 2006 koozie for Burger. Our paths didn’t actually cross during that crazy Chelsea weekend, but I first met Julie and Burger at Stamford Bridge the following December. We were in deep conversation about the Chelsea trip to Baltimore and Texas in 2009 and I completely missed the turning for Manchester. So, we had to fly over the Thelwall Viaduct and on to the M62 and approach Old Trafford from the north and not the south. This was the same way that I approached Old Trafford on my first ever visit over a quarter of a century ago, when a Somerset coach driver got a little lost on his way to the stadium.

In April 1986, I was a student at North Staffs Poly in Stoke and I had arranged for the Yeovil Branch to collect me, plus my college mate Steve and his twin brother Sean, outside the old Victoria Ground on the way through. Steve was a Derby County fan but was relishing the trip to Old Trafford. He had christened me “Chel” on a boozy night out earlier that season, though this wasn’t, believe it or not, due to my love of Chelsea.

It was, instead, a nod to the London nickname for people called Derek.

“Awright, Del?”

“Chris – we should call you Chel.”

For a few nights, Steve was “Stel” – but only “Chel” stuck.

I wonder why.

The coach reached Manchester in good time – I can remember spotting the towering United Road stand across the warehouses of Trafford Park – but the coach driver then seemed to get lost on his final approach to the stadium. We eventually parked up at the adjacent Old Trafford cricket ground, home of Lancashire, and we were given a police escort on the 15 minute walk to the home of Manchester United. I remember that I got inside with only a few minutes to go and soon lost contact with Steve and Sean. I was positioned right at the back of the small terrace area in front of the infamous K Stand. In 1985-1986, United had begun the season very strongly and had won all of their first nine or ten games – including a narrow 2:1 win at The Bridge in October – but had since slumped, allowing their old enemies Liverpool back in the mix. We had been in the top six all season, along with West Ham and Everton, but had recently slumped ourselves. We had recently lost 1:4 at home to West Ham and 0:6 at QPR. United, as far as I can remember, had enjoyed a recent resurgence, though, so the United faithful – all 45,000 of them – had assembled at Old Trafford to see their team defeat the declining Chelsea.

I remember straining to be able to see any of the ensuing action as the game unravelled before me. Life on the terraces back in the eighties was certainly wild and “carefree” but it wasn’t the greatest place to watch for me, not being the tallest. I’d often watch on my toes, steadying myself with my hands resting on the person in front of me, then end up getting jostled and moving feet and yards in the ensuing scrambles, with fellow fans literally moving as one organic unit. You would often get surges as shots went in and it was like being in a football mosh pit. After many games, I’d be physically exhausted. The tightest of away ends were Anfield and Old Trafford and the buzz was unbelievable.

Actually, despite the usually rubbish views, I miss it badly.

We weathered the storm in the first-half, but – attacking our end – Kerry Dixon broke through soon into the second-half. It was Kerry against Chris Turner, the United ‘keeper, and Kerry coolly slotted the ball past him. There were wild scenes amongst the 4,000 away fans, but the home fans were far from happy. I kept looking around and the seated United fans were only a few feet away. It felt like the whole ground was rocking to the sound of “United – clap, clap, clap – United – clap, clap, clap” as the home team attacked us. I seem to remember a few missiles – possibly darts – raining down on us and I remember thinking –

“F***ing hell – we’re like sitting ducks here.”

Doug Rougvie, good old Doug the Thug, thighs like tree-trunks, gave away a penalty – a penalty at the Stretford End? Surely not! – and Jesper Olsen equalised. With thoughts of getting out alive – who knows what was waiting for us in the dark hostile streets of Stretford – we then broke in the very last move of the game. Speedo squared for Kerry and the rest is history.

We went ballistic; jumping, screaming, pushing, hugging, falling, yelping, punching the air.

The referee soon blew up and the United hordes were silent: we were euphoric. It then dawned on me that we had compounded issues on the hooligan front and my walk back to the waiting coach would be even more precarious than had it stayed at 1:1. I soon met up with my mate Swan, from Radstock, and we safely returned to the coach…one of my most memorable walks back from a stadium ever. To say I was buzzing would be a massive understatement.

We even had a police escort – sirens wailing, lights flashing, policemen on motorbikes – all of the way back to the ring road and Steve and Sean hadn’t seen anything like it. Chelsea had a right old name back in those days and they were loving it.

“Bloody hell, Chel, does this happen at every away game?”

I suspect that I just gave him an old-fashioned look.

No words were spoken, but a lot was said.

I can’t remember what clobber I was wearing at Old Trafford in 1986 – it was the season that sportswear fully gave way to a new code which included fully-buttoned paisley shirts and leather jackets, worn with Burberry and Aquascutum scarves around the face, like urban guerrillas – but I am pretty sure I had a pair of Hard Core jeans, which were de regueur in the 1985-1987 period.

It was the era of scally perms too – check.

At 2.30pm – back to 2011 now – I parked up in the same suburban street as in the Champions League a month or so ago. I was parked about a mile from the stadium, but only about 500 yards from where the Yeovil coach had parked way back in 1986. I wondered if any of those Somerset lads would be at the game; I hadn’t seen Swan since around 1987. With the coffee and beers taking a toll, my two passengers quickly exited the car in need of relief. With nobody looking, they quickly took it in turns to disappear inside a hedge which bordered the garden of a small block of flats.
We were in Manchester. It was the least they could do.

The Battle Of The Polo Shirts –

Parky – Fred Perry.
Burger – Rene Lacoste.
Chris – Henri Lloyd.

Out onto the Chester Road, past the Gorse Hill pub and a few more United pubs. The red replica shirts were everywhere.

“Come come, nuclear bomb.”

The Bishop Blaize – always full of song, the United version of the So.

Burger – his first visit – and I took a few photos. Down Sir Matt Busby Way – it sounds grandiose, but it’s just a narrow terraced street with open ground and a car dealership on one side – with fanzine sellers shouting their wares.

“Red Issue – out today.”

“United We Stand – only two quid.”

“Get your Red News today.”

Further down, Dave Johnstone was there –

“The Chelsea fanzine, only a pound, hurry up.”

David Moyes, the Everton manager, hustled past and Parky yelled “Moyesy” as if they were long lost friends.

I wanted to take Burger down to the Munich memorial and we stood, in silence, for a few seconds. I turned towards Burger and Parky and said “I wonder how many United fans can name the players who died in Munich, you know?” I then reeled off a few names, my back to the memorial, just to prove a point…

“Duncan Edwards, Tommy Taylor, David Pegg, Billy Whelan…”

We then walked back up to the road and I stood amongst the United fans for a few moments. I know it’s a cliché, but the United tourists – the “Daytrippers” as the local lads call them, with derision – were out in force. I issued Burger and Parky with a little task for the next few minutes –

“Ruin as many photos as you can.”

With that, Parky spotted his chance and slowly ambled through a group of United fans from Asia just as their leader was about to take a photo.

Classic.

This group had even brought their own inflatable thundersticks. No wonder the lads in the Paul & Shark pullovers and Berghaus rainjackets from Crumpsall, Clayton and Ordsall mock some of their own fans. In the rush for global supremacy, the local populace feel as though the identity of their club is being changed irrevocably, with tourists paying high prices for match tickets at the expense of the local working classes.

Sound familiar?

“Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

It used to annoy me – back in the ‘eighties – that whenever Chelsea’s “potential” was spoken about, we were often cited as having the fan base and stadium location to become the “Manchester United of the South.” I just wished that our two clubs would never be compared in this way because, even then, United attracted the glory-hunters and idiots. You know the type – people who purport to follow United, but can’t name their opponents at the weekend. I squirm when I think that there are JCLs at Chelsea now who now resemble the United stereotype.

Shudder.

One more thing…outside the East stand (aka the old K stand), there are two statues. One, facing out, is a lovely bronze statue of Sir Matt. Facing him, twenty yards away, is another statue – of Best, Law and Charlton. It’s the “meeting place” at Old Trafford and, pretty much, the epi-centre of all things United. What a shame then, that there was a massive advertisement for Audi draped behind Sir Matt and four Audi cars, on display stands, right behind the Holy Trinity statue.

There is a famous saying – if United had a heart, they’d sell that too.

I know that United’s fans have complained about similar displays of crass commercialism in the past and I can sympathise with the United hard-core on this. There was, for example, a similar sponsor’s advertisement which adorned a banner on the East stand frontage which tried to commemorate the memory of the 50th anniversary of the Munich air crash in 2008.

“Ten” said Burger.

“Ten what?”

“Ruined photos.”

“Good work.”

We barged in to another Asian photo opportunity and I whispered “Come On Chelsea.”

“Eleven.”

We met up with a gaggle of Chelsea lads and then went inside. Parky and Burger were in the corner, I was in the little section of 500 in the South stand. There was a Scouser on the turnstile –

“Hope you win today, lad – and Torres scores.”

Inside, up the stairs and two bottles of “Singha” in the cramped and stifling bar. It was like a bloody sauna. I met up with a few friends – too many to name – and we watched on as Arsenal lost at Stoke City. Although the game was massive, I completely agreed with Alan’s take on things –

“I’m surprisingly not too bothered actually. Whatever will be will be. Just glad we’ve put ourselves back in contention, we’ve done ourselves proud.”

The team flashed upon the screen – I would have found room for Ramires (possibly instead of Mikel) and would have played Anelka instead of Kalou (who, as the world knows is an impact player, best suited to coming off the bench.) My confidence was being tested.

Alan, Gary and I had seats in the second from last row; right at the top of the stand (the same stand that was bombed by the Luftwaffe in WW2) and my mate Millsy was just behind us. He had a lovely experience against West Ham; he took his son to his first ever game and the two of them were picked out in the crowd by the TV cameras at the end of that most emotional match. What a lovely memento of Game #1.

At 4pm, we were roaring – to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

At 4.10pm, the game kicked-off.

At 4.11pm, Park had played the ball through to Hernandez and we were 1-0 down, the United fans in a frenzy.
For the rest of the game, we were second best. The midfield was woeful in the first period, with only Mikel showing the occasional bit of form. We were slow and lacked fizz. The second, from Vidic, made our task even more difficult.

Rooney came in for torrents of abuse and showed his class by giving us a “Winston Churchill” – he loves playing the victim, typical Scouser.

We expected a more enthusiastic show from the boys in the second period, but – although we did play better – the step up wasn’t great. To be fair, Ramires played well and gave us lots more options out wide. Frank’s close-range stab brought cheer, but nobody seemed that convinced we would fully recover, despite the chants of “we’re gonna win 3:2.” To be truthful, it was only through miraculous blocks – Alex was great – and woeful finishing that we didn’t concede more. I thought Rooney would score on many occasions, cutting in from the left, working the ball onto his right.

United’s support was quieter, though, during the last 20 minutes…we definitely had the fans worried, if not the team. Torres came on and screwed a shot wide. We knew it was not to be. The Chelsea fans around me began leaving and the United fans began roaring again in the final five minutes.

“Giggs – Giggs Will Tear You Apart Again.”

Groan.

I texted a curt “well done” to four United fans at the final whistle and I was soon out on the forecourt, battling the gentle slope and the crowing United fans alike. Burger had been delayed in his exit; he had said that two United fans – not from England – had somehow got tickets in the away seats and had unzipped their jackets at the end of the game to reveal red shirts. A punch in the face from an enraged Chelsea fan was the response.

Not big, not clever, but totally understandable.

Just after we reached the car, the heavens opened, thus providing a perfect Mancunian ending to the time spent in United Land. We gobbled down some Cornish pasties and slowly nudged our way onto the A56. Thankfully, the traffic moved relatively quickly and we were soon on our way south, hemmed in, no doubt, by 20,000 United fans.

We were philosophical – as you would expect – and the day had been enjoyable, despite the result. Burger had thought that the singing from his section was good, but I knew it was a lot better in 2010. With good reason. We stopped for a toilet break at Knutsford – the place absolutely teeming with AON shirts – and as Parky and Burger got out of the car, I asked them…

“Toilet, boys? Need a pee? You’ll need to find a bush or a hedge won’t you? Who are you, the Chelsea Hedgehunters?”

We dropped Burger off in Stafford at about 8.30pm – Julie had watched the game in their local and was sad, but happy to see us. It had been a tough old day. The chat and laughter, so therapeutic, continued on as we headed south, through Birmingham and beyond. As a mark of respect for the recently deceased Poly Styrene, His Lordship had brought along an X-Ray Spex CD and – despite an already sore throat – I belted out a few old favourites from 1977 and 1978.

Then, the last few miles, and a compilation of songs from the early 1980’s – our era, don’t you know? I love the song, but I just grimaced when it came on –

“When routine bites hard,
And ambitions are low,
And resentment rides high,
But emotions won’t grow,
And we’re changing our ways,
Taking different roads.
Then love, love will tear us apart again.
Love, love will tear us apart again.”

Tales From The M4, M5, M54, A41, A49, A556, M56, M60, A56…

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 12 April 2011.

Another day of destiny. We have had a few over these past few years.

At 6.45am, I posted on Facebook :

Things I Like About Manchester : New Order, LS Lowry, The Buzzcocks, Morrissey, Stuart Hall, Johnny Marr, The Smiths. Things I Dislike About Manchester : “Unih’ed.”

While getting ready for work, I briefly overhead Sir Alex Ferguson on TV mumbling about “momentum.” I remembered that just after the Manchester City game, the momentum was with us. How soon things change. On the drive in to work, I ran through all of the options ahead of us, ranging from a heavy defeat, a narrow loss, a dull draw, a narrow win or maybe even a convincing win. By the time I got in to work at 8.30am, I was absolutely buzzing and let everyone know it. I couldn’t wait to get on my way.

I was busy again in the morning and so the time absolutely flew.

At 12.45pm, I left Chippenham and pointed my Renault Clio northwards. It was a fine, Spring afternoon and it was a pleasure to be part of our latest assault on The Cup With The Big Ears, as Ruud Gullit used to call it.

However, just south of Birmingham, things took a nosedive. I began seeing signs on the M5 saying “M6 J16-J17 CLOSED” and I then had a text from Bristol Tim, intimating that the road would be closed until 7pm. I stopped at Frankley Services just as a coach load of United fans were alighting. I quickly looked at options and worked out a plan. I wanted to avoid heading off the M6 at Stoke as I knew the roads north to Manchester would be rammed. Instead, I decided to head west on the M54 and then up through the rural byroads of Shropshire and Cheshire. I quickly contacted Tim, who was further south at Cheltenham, Andy in Nuneaton and Kent Blues Gill, who was still in Luton on the M1. It felt like being part of an invasion force – 3,700 strong – and I think that the Nuneaton boys, in two cars, and Gill, went up the M1 to Yorkshire and then across on the M62.

I headed west on the M54, just north of Birmingham’s urban sprawl, but my mood soon changed. I was soon caught in masses of traffic. My plan looked like backfiring. However, the delay was caused by road works rather than high volumes diverting off the M6 and so I was relieved to be soon heading up towards Whitchurch on the A41 at about 3pm. As I careered northwards, I was concerned about my route and possible further delays and so I didn’t think about the evening’s encounter with United. This was probably just as well.

My progress stalled for about 45 minutes due to yet more road works in a small village called Cotebrook, but I crossed over the M6 at 5pm – as Japan gave way to Depeche Mode on the CD player – and I was on the familiar approach, past Tatton Park and then Manchester Airport, into the United heartland of west Manchester. Tim from Bristol wasn’t too far behind me. My plan had worked and I hoped that Carlo’s would be just as effective. Yet again, I was amazed that there was not one single road-sign for Manchester United’s stadium anywhere. Memories of past trips to Old Trafford flew through my mind. This would be my fifteenth Manchester United vs. Chelsea game.

At 5.45pm, five hours after leaving Chippenham, I was parked-up. As superstitious as ever, I used the same spot as on our smash-and-grab raid at Old Trafford last season. The sun was still shining and the white roof supports of Old Trafford dominated the area, towering over the plain red-brick terraced streets of the immediate area to the south. I thought back to our 2006 F.A. Cup semi-final against Liverpool at Old Trafford. For that game, Chelsea were allocated the Stretford End and my mates and I soon devised a plan to mark our appearance in United’s home end. At that time, we were in our pomp under Jose Mourinho, on our way to that second successive league title. I came up with a slogan…

“The Premiership is our Joy Division. Welcome to the New Order. Chelsea F.C. Champions 2004-05, 2005-06…”

…and my mate Daryl printed up hundreds of stickers. On that approach to the Stretford End, we plastered these stickers everywhere – on lamp posts, street signs, bins – and we did the same once inside the stands. I would love to have seen the United fans’ faces as they reached their seats at the next home game.

It was our finest moment.

I saw Dutch Mick and three friends arrive by car and I nodded a “hello.” The area on the Chester Road as it crosses over with Sir Matt Busby Way was full of United fans. The Bishops Blaize and The Trafford pubs. The chip shops and the off-licenses. The souvenir stalls and the fanzine sellers. They certainly like their chips at Old Trafford. Curry sauce and chips. Pie and chips. Irish fans and chips. Lager and chips. Mancunians and chips. Asian fans and chips. Blokes in replica shirts and chips. Fish and chips. Peas and chips. Fanzines and chips. Policemen and chips. Touts and chips. Chips and chips.

I bought a copy of “United We Stand” for Judy’s boy James and bumped into a gaggle of Chelsea on the famous forecourt. One chap mentioned penalties and, I have to be honest, I hadn’t contemplated that option. I then had a few moments to myself. I took a few photos. The grafters were out and about and their Mancunian accents were causing me to chuckle –

“Your ‘alf and ‘alf scaaarves. Six quid each or two for a tennoh.”

I bought a hot dog and had a wander around. The skies over the stadium and the Salford Quays were stunningly clear, crisp and blue. I briefly thought about the hackneyed cliché of United fans being glory-hunters from everywhere but Manchester. And there they were – right in front of me, at the statue of Best, Law and Charlton. Foreign accents, foreign faces. It made me think of the two clubs, United and us, both chasing foreign patronage. I guess it is just the scale of Manchester United that differs. Chelsea, despite our proliferation of support since 2000, still feels like a small family – an eccentric family at that – compared to the behemoth that is Manchester United. I thought about all of the familiar faces in the Chelsea hard core and I wondered if United could match that sense of intimate camaraderie. I guess that United fans have their cliques and groups, but Chelsea seems a closer entity.

But I suspect I am biased.

As I made my way up the many flights of stairs to the upper tier of the East Stand, I found it ironic that James’ “Sit Down” was on the tannoy…it has been a constant battle for United fans to maintain the right to stand at home games during the gentrification of football in the post Sky TV era.

This was a different location for me at Old Trafford. Usually, we get that wedge in the corner of the lower tier. This time, we had 75% of the upper tier. I made my way to seat number 120 in row 28. My goodness, what a view. However, with the overhang of the roof, everything was enclosed. I could not see a single square inch of the outside world.

Everything was there in front of me. I was quite central. It was like watching on the world’s largest widescreen TV. Quite spectacular.

So – team news. Alex and Torres in. Drogba on the bench. Make or break.

We were singing away during the pre-match kick-in and Torres got special cheers each time he scored. The ground slowly filled and many arrived late from the carnage on the M6. I took the customary photos of the teams as they strode onto the lush Old Trafford pitch, which is raised up, perhaps like a stage. I’m sure the “Unih’ed” fans would say that.

We began well and our play certainly pleased all of the Chelsea fans in my immediate vicinity. Ramires had a strong run deep into the United box, but was blocked at the last minute. Fernando Torres headed meekly goal wards but then did well to knock a ball back for Anelka to strike towards van der Sar. Then, Frank was clear through, but his week shot was well gathered by the United ‘keeper. After a quarter of an hour, we had all the chances.

“Score, score, score – when you get one you’ll get more.
We’ll sing you (an) assembly, when we get to Wembley
So come on you Chelsea and score.”

After 26 minutes, a ball was whipped in by Wayne Rooney and was ably nodded in by Chicarito. However, the United cheers soon subsided when we all spotted the linesman’s flag was up for an offside.

Phew.

On 31 minutes, a ball was thumped out towards Nicolas Anelka on the right. The space opened up in front of him and it was simply a race between himself and Edwin van der Sar. With much dismay from the travelling hordes high up in the East Stand, the United custodian just got to the ball before Nico and the he cleared for a throw-in. This summed up Anelka’s half. He was playing behind Torres and was often involved, but was usually sluggish and slow. Torres hardly got a sniff. A lot of our play came through the left-hand side. Lampard was having as good a game as he has had since his return. Our efforts were not being rewarded with many chances, though. We were finding lots of space out wide on both flanks, but our crossing, from Ivanovic especially, was woeful.

What a terrible time to concede a goal. The ball was worked out by Rooney to Giggs, who played a one-two with O’Shea. A low ball to Chicarito and 1-0 to The Glory Hunters.

That goal ruined us. If we had kept it tight at the break, I fancied us to nick it. I toyed with the idea of Yossi coming off the bench to feed in Torres. Well, Carlo Ancelotti saw it otherwise and replaced Torres with Didier Drogba.

“Come on Didi, son, you owe us for Moscow.”

United didn’t have to attack us and so we were given a few shots on goal, from Malouda, Lampard and Drogba. Van der Sar was untroubled.

Salamon Kalou came on for Nicolas Anelka but hardly got involved, much to our dismay. Our support was still strong, though, and all of the Chelsea favourites from this season were being aired. On 67 minutes, a typical “floaty” Lampard corner was met by a leaping Alex at the back stick, but his strong header was down but also wide. At the other end, Nani forced a superb save from Petr Cech.

Then – calamity. A tackle on Nani from behind by Ramires and a red card. Down to ten men. This looked a lost cause. However, we never gave up, even though our end product wasn’t great. A nice run by Malouda and a shot from Drogba, but it was straight at van der Sar. We were all standing for the entire game, all 3,700 of us.

Standing with our arms folded.

What a goal by Drogba! A strong run by Essien, who was getting stronger as Lampard was tiring. He played a ball through for Drogba in the inside right channel…he turned adeptly and rifled past the United ‘keeper.

YEEEEEEESSSSSSS!

The away end erupted and we thought the unthinkable.

Within thirty seconds, we had let Giggs flick a ball out to an unmarked Park and we watched aghast as the ball was drilled into the goal, past Cech.

The United crowd roared and went berserk. I caught a United official leap off the bench and it sickened me to the core.

Oh hell.

We still kept pressing – a Malouda drive at you-know-who was the main chance – and the fans never gave up. We still kept singing, we still kept urging the boys on, but deep down we knew.

We had had our chips.

The United fans, quiet for a lot of the first-half, were now wild and loud, and it felt like the entire crowd were singing the Viva John Terry song. It must be doubly-sickening for our captain, a United fan as a kid, to hear himself mocked in such a brutal way.

How it affected John, I can’t possibly imagine, but his performance was one of the highlights of the night : as steady as ever.

Then that new song –

“We do what we want, we do what we want, we’re Man United -we do what we want.”

That is the song that will now haunt me, like the Ronaldo song in Moscow.

However, for the last few minutes, the Old Trafford night was echoing to the sound of the defiant Chelsea support as we rallied in defence of our beloved team –

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

“Amazing Grace” had never been sung louder or with more defiance. We are Chelsea, we’ll sing what we want.

I began my exit during the last few seconds of play and the whistle went as I had just made my way out of the seating area. Unlike 1970, Old Trafford would not be so kind to us for a midweek cup tie. I virtually ran all of the way back to where my car was parked – “get out of my way!”- and fended some incoming texts as I went. By 9.50pm, I had made it back to the car and by 10.30pm, I was on the M6. It had been a quick getaway.

As I began my trip home, all 190 miles of it, a Depeche Mode song came on the CD –

“Leave In Silence.”

I drove through the night, with the air-con whirring away, my thoughts flowing through my mind. Of course, the fate of Carlo dominated my mind and as the texts died out, I was left alone, driving on…a “Coke” and a “Red Bull” kept me going and I eventually reached home at 1.40am.

Before I made my way to bed, I uploaded the standard five photographs from the game onto Facebook and posted one last thought.

“Home : Tired and weary. Great support tonight. We will rise again.”

Tales From An Evening At Chelsea

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 6 April 2011.

Late on Tuesday evening, my Italian friend Mario sent me a greeting on Facebook, saying that he would be watching “the derby” on TV on Wednesday. This confused me a little, but he elaborated further –

“The Derby of England.”

Ah – that made sense now. In Italy, they always call any Juventus vs. Internazionale game “il derby d’Italia” in light of the nation-wide fan base of those two giants. Mario now lives in Germany and, during our little online chat we briefly talked about meeting up should Chelsea get past Manchester United. Mario lives in Bergisch-Gladbach, no more than 60 miles away from Gelsenkirchen – the home of Schalke 04 – and the thought of meeting him for the first time in 23 years thrilled me. When we first met, way back in 1975 (he is actually my oldest friend, anywhere), who would have thought that Mario, the Juventus fan, would be watching my team in European competition on TV – and not vice versa.

We’ve come a long way, baby.

I had booked a half-day holiday, but this just meant that I had to squeeze in 8 hours work into 4 on Wednesday morning. I was very busy and didn’t think too much about the game. My closest work colleague, Mike, is a United fan and it was on his computer that we saw the Champions League pairing of our two teams a few weeks ago. We quickly shook each other’s hands and wished each other the “best of British.”

I picked up Lord Parky and then raced home. A change of clothes later and we were on our way, heading east on the A303 and M3 for a change. The weather was truly glorious. We stopped for soft drinks in a little village on Salisbury Plain just before we shot past Stonehenge. We made great time. As we drove through Bagshot Heath, with the yellow gorse bushes so vibrant, we put some Depeche Mode on the CD player and all was well with the world. I learnt to drive relatively late – in 1991, when I was 26 – and I always seemed to be playing Depeche Mode tapes in my car on those first long journeys to Stamford Bridge in the 1991 to 1993 period. In those days, my pilgrimages to The Bridge were solitary affairs. My mate Glenn didn’t go to Chelsea too often in those days – he had other distractions – and so I would tend to drive up from Frome alone. Hearing those Depeche Mode songs brought back memories of bombing around the M25 on my way to Chelsea, to be entertained by players such as Andy Townsend, Vinnie Jones and Bobby Stuart. I used to bump into Alan occasionally, but more often than not, would go to Chelsea alone. I met Daryl in 1992, though, and used to meet up with him in the 1992-1993 season. When things were going badly – under Ian Porterfield, they often did – at least we had the Yankees to talk about.

So, twenty years ago, my trips to The Bridge were somewhat lonely affairs. This was a big contrast to today, of course. Over the past twenty seasons, I have accumulated Chelsea fans at an ever-increasing rate and I’m in a great position to have so many mates from near and far. I seem to be collecting acquaintances of a Chelsea persuasion as quickly as we have garnered trophies since 1997. I wonder if the two are linked.

It certainly seems to be a small world with Chelsea right now, with the internet bringing us ever closer. As we approached London – magnificent blue skies overhead, the best day of the year by far – I spoke to Parky about the newest Chelsea friend I had met on Facebook. It turned out that this bloke used to live no more than 100 feet away from me, in the next street, when I was at college in Stoke. How about that? Small world alright! On the M4, we passed an executive coach from Manchester and we both peered in as we drove by. United. No colours. But United.

We were parked-up at 4.30pm and – for a change – we decided to try a new restaurant, rather than walk the half a mile to Salvo’s. We dipped into “Ole Mexico” on the North End Road and had a couple of cold beers and a selection of spicy food. We were the only ones in there, but the décor was great and the food excellent. Then, a few minutes later, we were back in The Goose and Mark and Kerry from Westbury were at the bar.

“What are you drinking, lads?”

Outside in the beer garden, there were groups of friends chatting away and enjoying the late afternoon sun. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Blue Heaven. It was a day for jackets to be discarded and for more summery attire.

It’s Been A Long Time – Crocodile Watch Is Back.

Jokka – sky blue
Chris – buttermilk

We worked out that the towns of Frome, Westbury, Trowbridge and Melksham were represented by twelve Chelsea fans. Happy with that. It was a marked difference to my solo trips in 1991 where I might bump into a couple of local lads in The Black Bull if I was lucky. Plenty of chat with Alan, Gary, Daryl, Neil, Rob, Simon, Ed, Milo and then Tim from Bristol. Les from Melksham was after a lift to Old Trafford next Tuesday.

“No worries, son.”

Neil was off to Thailand on the Thursday and was taking out a complete Chelsea kit for a school team in a village way up in the north-east of the country. Spreading the word, spreading the gospel. We heard the team news; Drogba and Torres upfront, with Zhirkov in place of the struggling Malouda. No complaints really, though we knew that the loss of David Luiz would be huge. To be fair, we didn’t talk too much about the game. The weather was still lovely; great vibes.

I set off for the ground a bit before the rest as I wanted to take a few photographs of the match day experience outside the stadium for a change. I bought a programme and took some shots of the Champions League banners hanging down either side of Ossie.

Peter Osgood – The King Of Stamford Bridge.

In the match programme, there were a few pages detailing the famous 21-0 aggregate win against the tinkers, tailors and candle-stick makers of Jeunese Hautcharage in 1971. Ossie scored eight goals over those two games.

I was in the ground at 7.30pm and it always feels strange to see the top five rows of the MHU empty for home CL games. The United fans were in a typically boisterous mood. As always, I scanned the balcony for new United flags and I wasn’t disappointed.

“Forza United”

“MUFC – Poland – On Tour”

“One Love – MUFC”

“Sent To Me From Heaven”

“United & City – Joined By Geography – Separated By Success”

“Once More Than England – MUFC – World Champions Twice”

“Viva John Terry”

Alas, the flag which said “Half Our Asian Fans Used To Like Liverpool In The 80’s” was missing. The banner berating England is typical of the United match-going hard-core. Ever since the Beckham fiasco in 1998, United have grown apart from the national team, even to the point of singing “Argentina” when Gabriel Heintze was in their team. You never get a MUFC flag at England games.

I’m not bothered by this. Personally speaking, I’m more club than country myself.

Anyway, the Mancs were making a racket. The “Viva John Terry” chant was getting a solid airing – that big white flag was draped from the balcony all night – and when Neil Barnett read out the teams, John Terry’s name got a massive cheer from the United fans.

We countered with songs of Doubles and England Captains.

School ground high-jinks played out on a larger stage, with a global TV audience listening in.

Mario was right – “The Derby of England.”

As the teams entered the pitch, I again went mad with the camera. That’s just a photogenic moment, the teams walking past the CL flag. John Terry led the team out, but Frank Lampard looked particularly animated, gazing at the MHU as the two massive flags passed each other, pumping his fists at the supporters.

It would be Frank’s 500th game for Chelsea Football Club.

A magnificent achievement for – possibly – our most valuable player ever.

I always remember where I was when I heard that Frank had been signed by Chelsea. I was on holiday in NYC, June 2001, and I had phoned Glenn, from deep in the bowels of Penn Station. I remember being pleased, but shocked at the price. Ten years on, money well spent.

At kick-off, there was a lovely pinkie / violet hue to the sky. We began well and took the game to United in the first ten minutes. Fernando Torres had two early chances, a lunge at a cross and then a neat run and shot at Van der Sar. On 18 minutes, Ramires played a gorgeous ball into Drogba in the inside-right position. He unleashed a screamer which the United ‘keeper touched over.

Then, United had a great spell, with Rooney causing havoc. He is some player when he is on form. On 23 minutes, a long ball over the top and Jose Bosingwa was caught napping. Ryan Giggs – who was playing for United twenty years ago – neatly spun past the Chelsea right-back. I clearly saw Rooney unmarked – I was in direct line with the ball which Giggs played – and the resultant shot crept in off the far post. It was a great spot by Giggs, but where was our marking? It was a surreal moment – it seemed to happen in a vacuum, no Chelsea participation, the deathly hush from us as it bounced over the line. Sickening. Even more sickening was the roll on the pitch and then the celebratory salute which Rooney provided for the MHL.

Rooney had taken loads of abuse from the whistle and he must have loved it.

The United fans raised their volumes and we didn’t retaliate. As the game grew older, the Chelsea support lessened and lessened. United’s midfield – not great on paper – closed us down and it felt like we were second to every ball.

I commented to Alan – “we’ve got nobody grabbing the game by the balls.” Our midfield, Ramires apart, was woeful. Lampard was missing. Essien was poor, too, and only had one surging run down the left to show for his efforts. Zhirkov too – poor. Upfront, Drogba and Anelka were struggling to hit it off. Our laboured approach was too slow for Torres.

Then, just before the break, Drogba struck a cross cum shot into the box from the left. It was aimed at Torres, but the ball continued on untouched until it struck the far post at knee height, with Van der Sar beaten. The ball rebounded out to Frank, who smashed the ball goal wards. I was up celebrating – had to be a goal! – but the United ‘keeper miraculously kept it out. I had immediate memories of Luis Garcia at Anfield in 2005. Was it over?

It wasn’t. The Bridge collapsed with frustration.

Moans and grumbles at the break – we’re good at that.

Neil Barnett briefly brought Gianfranco Zola out onto the pitch at the break and it is very likely that 5,000 Chelsea fans shouted “get yer boots on, Franco!” Ed came down to talk to me at half-time and we agreed that we couldn’t be as bad in the second-half.

Soon into the second period, Didier did ever so well to keep fighting for a ball on the far touch line and zipped over a great cross, but Ramires headed over. After another poor Lampard corner – yes, I know, I’ve said it a thousand times – the ball was played back in and Drogba attempted an overhead kick which flew narrowly over. All of our other shots – usually from distance – ended up being aimed straight at Van der Sar.

Sure, we had a lot of the ball, but we never looked convincing. Apart from an offside goal and a few rare breaks, United were content to defend, which was quite unlike them. Torres was trying his best, but with poor service. Balls were pumped up to Drogba, but there tended not to be much interplay between our front two. Even in this one game, Drogba was splitting our support…some were applauding him, some were not so keen. At the back, at least JT was playing like a man possessed once again. He is having his best season for a while. He’d get my vote for Player of the Year.

On 70 minutes, Carlo changed things, with Anelka and Malouda on for Drogba and the very disappointing Zhirkov. Soon after, I captured that great Torres header on film. He arched his back and strained to reach the ball, looping it up and over Van der Sar on purpose. But what a save from their ‘keeper. Oh boy. More frustration.

On 81 minutes, typical Chelsea. Four players – Essien, Malouda, Cole and Lampard – stood by a free-kick. In a scene which reminded me of the bizarre plays in American football, three of them ran over the ball on dummy runs and Frank Lampard struck the ball – guess! – straight at Van der Sar.

Brilliant. Let’s do that again.

That was all captured on film too.

Mikel on for Bosingwa. Essien – just like in Moscow 2008 – moved to right-back.

Our shooting was rubbish. In fact, I lost count of the number of shots which meekly ended up bobbling along the ground, straight at the Manchester United goalie. On 86 minutes, Nani – the substitute – had a break and we all thought “oh no, two-nil, that’s it”, but he took one touch too many and Petr Cech was able to smother the ball. Looking back, Cech didn’t have to make many saves.

Then, it all went crazy in the last ten minutes. Nicolas Anelka headed over from close range and then followed it up with a weak shot at the near post. On 90 minutes, the game’s defining moment; the ever busy Ramires burst through the middle and ran with the ball alongside Evra. I was just anticipating a shot, when he fell to the floor. It happened so quickly of course, but – trying desperately hard not to be biased here – it looked a certain penalty. I glanced at the onrushing referee.

No.

The Bridge, remembering the Barcelona debacle of 2009, howled in anger but I just stood motionless, speechless, mortified. Words would fail me. I stood silent. Immediate texts from unbiased Chelsea fans confirmed that it was a penalty.

The final moment of irony – Torres booked for a dive in the box, just yards away from me.

Stamford Bridge – the place where Champions League penalty appeals die.

As I left my seat – “see you Saturday” – my mood was strangely not of doom and gloom. I quickly thought about the other games – Tottenham… out of it… Inter… out of it… Shaktor… out of it. We had not played well, but we had only lost 1:0. We must go to Old Trafford next Tuesday and give it our all. We’re still in this. It’s only half-time.

Walking out onto the Fulham Road, though, the mood amongst my fellow fans annoyed me. There was constant bitching – no doubt continuing on all over the internet still – but for 95% of the game, 34,000 Chelsea fans had been heavily out sung by 3,000 United fans. Where was our support? Where was it? It made me seethe.

I tried to be positive, though – at Old Trafford, there will be 3,700 die-hard away fans out-singing the home fans. You mark my words.

As I met up with Parky along the North End Road, I mused that this had been a game of inches. In the first-half, that Rooney shot went in off the far post, while that deft Drogba effort came back off the post.

Inches.

It got me thinking, you know…posts and Chelsea vs. Manchester United Champions League games – it makes you wonder doesn’t it?

Tales From The Shed Lower

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 1 March 2011.

At work in the morning, I had a little chat with one of my work colleagues, a Manchester United fan.

“If you’re involved in the loading of the vehicles today, I want everything done sharpish as I have an evening’s entertainment to attend.”

“Oh, you’re playing tonight are you? Who against?”

“Uh – yeah. You may have heard of them. From Salford. Play in red.”

The penny dropped, and he was full of embarrassment.

Such is the way with United fans, all the world over I guess.

With my workload eventually completed, I left Chippenham at just after 4.30pm and I could relax a little. For once, I was travelling alone. Parky had taken the “slow boat to China” option and had travelled up by coach. Due to concerns about getting away on time, I had warned him that I might be away late. On Monday, for example, I didn’t leave until 6.15pm. A repeat would mean that I would be trapped in rush-hour traffic and would be unlikely to reach The Bridge until half-time. So, Parky caught a coach at 11.30am and eventually reached Earls Court at 3.30pm. By the time I was leaving Chippenham, he was probably on his third pint in The Goose.

As I drove past the Griffin Park floodlights at around 6pm, I switched over to listen to the sports bulletin on the radio. Carlo Ancelotti confirmed that Drogba and Torres would both take part in the game against United, though he didn’t say if both would be starting. After a delay getting in to London, I eventually walked into The Goose at 7pm. Parky was especially glad to see me as it meant that he wouldn’t have to wait around for the 2am return coach trip. James (zippy) from Kansas City had been in touch during the build up to the game and I had pointed him in the direction of The Goose, Parky and the rest of The Bing. He had enjoyed the pre-match hospitality and it looked like a good time had been shared. I took a couple of swigs from Parky’s pint and we were soon on our way up the North End Road. There was a chill in the air but our jackets kept out the cold.

Chelsea versus Manchester United. The Blues versus the Reds. The South versus the North. The Good Guys versus the Forces of Darkness. I have been lucky enough to attend every single one of the last twenty Chelsea vs. Manchester United league games at The Bridge and, of course, there are tons of memories. Our last defeat against them at home was way back in 2002 – we have certainly held the advantage in recent years.

For a change, I had a seat in The Shed Lower – not far from where Lord Parky resides – and I found myself near James, too. Luckily, there was a spare seat next to him, so I soon sat alongside. Our seats were just three rows from the back of the lower tier near the SW corner flag, underneath the overhang. If my memory serves, the last five rows were originally part of an enclosed corporate area when the stand was built in 1997. To be quite honest, the seats were cramped and the overhang gave a claustrophobic feel to the area. I’d hate to watch from there every game – Shed or no Shed. I longed for my usual perch, way up in the Matthew Harding wraparound. However, I had my camera at the ready – as ever – and I was preparing myself for plenty of shots from a different angle for a change.

I had only ever visited the Shed Lower on two other occasions. Ironically, on the fifth anniversary of the passing of the legendary Peter Osgood, I was reminded of that emotional Sunday in October 2006 when I attended The King’s memorial service, including the burial of his ashes at The Shed End penalty spot. Everyone who was there will remember the rain shower during the service, but then the sky lighting up with sun just before the casket was taken to its final resting place. I watched, with quiet and stony-faced reverence, on that saddest of days, from around Gate 5 in the Shed Lower. Then, in May 2007, I was back in the same corner for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United encounter. I took Judy’s boy James – a United follower – along for that one and it was a bitter-sweet experience…we had just relinquished our title to a resurgent United and so we had to give them a guard of honour as they entered the pitch. To be honest, both teams put out B teams and it ended 0-0. It was enjoyable, though, to be able to share my passion for Chelsea with James and he certainly got a kick out of seeing United up close. We had the last laugh, of course, later that month…F.A. Cup winners against United at the new Wembley.

Back to 2011 and all of those United memories evaporated in the noise as the teams entered the Stamford Bridge pitch.

This was here, this was now. Let’s go to work.

Being so low down, I immediately found the viewing position very frustrating. I spent the first few minutes acclimatising myself to my new surroundings. Having been tuned to see Chelsea in a standard 4-3-3 for the past six years, it took me a while to work out if Florent Malouda was the third striker or out wide in a flat 4-4-2. I think it took me all of the game to work it out and, even by the time he was subbed deep into the second-half, I still hadn’t sussed it.

I thought we began brightly and had the majority of the early ball. Fernando Torres was finding himself in lots of good positions and his movement and enthusiastic play was good to see. He seemed to especially enjoy drifting into the space out in that wide area in front of me, and I was transfixed with the way we worked the ball between Torres, Ramires and Ivanovic. It certainly was fantastic to be so close to the action. I snapped away as Branislav, in particular, sent balls into the area. Soon into the game, Anelka sent a ball in to the area from the inside-right berth, only for Malouda to fluff his shot, hitting it straight at Van De Sar. This sort of finishing was often repeated in the first quarter.

After our left-back’s stupidity at the training ground, the Matthew Harding was shouting “shoot” every time he touched the ball. What Ashley thought of this is not known, thank heavens.

Midway through the first period, I spotted Roy Bentley, no more than thirty feet away from me, sitting in the last remaining part of the old corporate area. As The Shed Lower curves around to the West Stand, there is one little private box left – and I got the impression that there were a few players’ wives and partners sat alongside Roy. Despite this being the hottest of tickets, most of the seats in the area were unused.

Then United’s presence grew and dominated the rest of the first-half. Paul Scholes, that old warhorse, was repeating his performance at last summer’s Community Shield, sitting deep and sliding other players in. Our midfield was giving United far too much respect and space and the frustration amongst the nearby home support rose. Rooney headed over on twenty minutes and a cross from Nani screamed across our six yard box soon after. Then, calamity. We backed off as Rooney was allowed to turn and, from about twenty-five yards out, drill a superbly accurate shot into Cech’s goal.

Silence. Not just from the Chelsea support, but for a split second, from the United support too. But then, rather than being subjected to the triumphal roar that I am used to hearing from the away fans, instead there was an eerily muffled noise. I looked over to my right, above the heads of silent Chelsea fans, to the lower tier of the away section. I saw a forest of pumping arms and joyous faces, but – quire bizarrely – the overhang of the top tier and the thousand or so Chelsea fans had acted as noise insulation and the United fans’ obvious roar was ridiculously quiet. What a strange feeling. I’ll be honest, from my position in that cramped corner, I hardly heard a United song throughout the entire game, though I am sure they were in good voice. I suspect that they went through their usual repertoire. The Chelsea support responded with a ditty which amused James; I guess he hadn’t heard it before…

“Live round the corner, you only live round the corner.”

United were in their pomp and our midfield was missing. Frank Lampard and Michael Essien were so poor as to be not worth comment. The moans continued and our support quickly waned. Then, bizarrely, we upped the tempo briefly in the last few minutes of the half and an amazing chance fell to Ivanovic after a goalmouth scramble from a free-kick. From my position, the ball seemed to hang in the air with just the slightest touch required to send the ball over the line, an open goal at his mercy, but the ball didn’t go in. The ball was hacked away amid absolute astonishment from all of us. Astounding. We needed an action replay – “what happened???”

James and I met up with Lord Parky in the crowded area below the seats at half-time and the mood wasn’t great. We wanted Carlo to change something – the shape, the system, something. We weren’t sure what needed to be done – we just hoped for the best. I feared further United goals and humiliation.

Well, what a second-half. Our appetite was noticeably different and our midfield – at last! – pressed United at every opportunity. We grew with each passing minute and the home support grew louder with each thunderous tackle, each rampaging run, each towering header. Every man stepped up and it was a joy to watch.

David Luiz, one of the brighter elements in that staid first half, gave a truly unforgettable performance. He was full of enthusiasm, full of dashing runs, full of character and energy. He made a few reckless tackles to be honest, and he needs to watch that, but the Chelsea crowd immediately warmed to him. Then – his defining moment. From a cross on 54 minutes, the ball was played back to the waiting Brazilian and he slammed the ball into the United net.

What a deafening roar accompanied that strike from Luiz. After riding our luck in that first-half, we were level. With that, we had a lovely spell and our players sensed the chance to dominate a clearly troubled United team. Our defence was supremely marshalled by John Terry and we limited United to just a few chances. On the hour, Carlo changed things and brought on Didier for Anelka. Fresh blood. However, after giving Luiz the slip, Rooney (the target for much abuse from the home support) broke and I feared the worse. I watched, on tenterhooks, as he dribbled closer to Cech and struck a ball which thankfully sailed wide of the far post. On other occasions, Cech’s hands were thoroughly dependable.

The game continued and what a great game it was, full of tempo and pace. The tackles grew fiercer and fiercer. Ramires was everywhere, Torres was running the channels and Drogba was leading the line. Carlo replaced Malouda with Zhirkov and our spritely Russian was soon in the thick of it.

Was it a penalty? I wasn’t so sure. Watching from 100 yards away, it looked like Yuri just ran into the United defender, but to our absolute joy, Martin Atkinson pointed to the spot.

Oh you beauty.

With my camera poised, I zoned in on Frank Lampard. He placed the ball on the spot. Snap. He nervously pulled up his shorts. Snap. He approached the ball and struck. Snap.

In that split second between me taking the photo and pulling the camera away from my eye, I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on the flight of the ball, so I just waited for the roar.

There was a roar.

We were 2-1 up.

Screams, shouts, arms thrust skywards, hugs with a stranger to my left and with James to my right. What a joyous moment. We grew even stronger, United went to pieces.

In the closing moments, the substitute Ryan Giggs came over to take a corner, no further than ten yards from me. I took a few photographs. I have a lot of time for Giggs – a tremendous player and, surprisingly, a United player who is not loathed and hated by the non-United section of the football fraternity . This was his 606th league game for United. This therefore tied the United record with Bobby Charlton, whose last ever game for United (yes, you guessed it, at The Bridge in 1973…a game I remember seeing on TV, if only for a comical Ossie goal) was featured in the night’s programme.

Alex came on for David Luiz – one Brazilian for another – and Luiz was given a fantastic reception. And still the tackles thundered in. I could see someone getting sent off and, after a couple of rash challenges, Nemanja Vidic was ordered off. Oh boy –it gets better. Of course, the absolute dream ending to this great game would have been El Nino’s last minute shot going in rather than being blocked.

At the final whistle, a huge roar and the PA immediately played “One Step Beyond.” The Bridge was bouncing and nobody wanted to leave. James, thousands of miles from his home in Kansas and over for one game only, was in heaven. We met up with Lord Parky and I could see he was dewy-eyed.

Chelsea does that to you, you know.

With that, Danny and Mike from the New York chapter suddenly appeared and there were more smiles and hugs.

We sauntered – yes, that’s a good word – through the masses of jubilant Chelsea fans on the Fulham Road and the London night was full of Chelsea songs. Danny and Mike disappeared off to a pub – “see you at Blackpool”- but we needed to get home. The resurgence in our play during that excellent second period surely augurs well for the rest of the season. Carlo is in the middle of a testing spell as he needs to plan his assault on the Champions League campaign this year, but he also needs to look to the future and change the personnel for the new season, too. Let’s push on now and see where this team can take us. As we battled the crowds, I told Parky that a third-place finish in the league this year is well within our capabilities.

At the intersection of the North End Road and Lillee Road, James and I said our goodbyes. He promised a yearly visit to Chelsea in the years ahead and I look forward to welcoming him back. As he headed off towards West Brompton tube, I’m sure I saw him jump up and click his heels.

It had been a lovely, lovely night.

Tales From The Phony War

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 8 August 2010.

My home for most of my life has been a small Somerset village, some 110 miles from HQ, and this has been the starting point for the vast majority of my Chelsea journeys. During the week I had worked out that I had travelled – roughly, and including air miles – 275,000 miles in support of Chelsea since my first game in 1974 and the amount knocked me for six. I disbelieved this figure and so I recalculated, but it remained the same. That equates to a vast amount of travelling time, petrol, oil, tyres, driving hours, Depeche Mode songs, post-game post-mortems, tins of Red Bull, lines at passport control, cups of coffee, motorway service station comfort breaks, train tickets and British Rail buffet stops.

My home village has the limestone Mendip Hills to the west, the Roman city of Bath and The Cotswolds of Gloucestershire to the north, the market town of Frome and the stark chalk uplands of Salisbury Plain to the east and the undulating Somerset farmland to the south, with the Dorset beaches beyond. It’s hardly a football hotbed.

Apart from inside my head.

The World was sleeping as I awoke and I soon gathered my thoughts for the first trip of the new campaign. The weather looked uncertain and mirrored my thoughts of the game ahead…this would be my fifth Chelsea vs. Manchester United Community Shield game and all have been at Wembley. We were tied at 2-2 and this one would be the decider. We had struggled to find our form in the few games of the pre-season, but United seemed to be more advanced in their preparations. I liked the look of their new player Hernandez

At 7.45am, my car left the sleeping village behind and I set off for my Game One of Season 2010-2011. No pre-season games for me this summer.

Echo And The Bunnymen were on the car CD player as I headed through the old mill town of Bradford On Avon to collect Lord Parky, his step-daughter Claire and her boyfriend Kris.

“Stab a sorry heart
With your favourite finger
Paint the whole world blue
And stop your tears from stinging
Hear the cavemen singing
Good news they’re bringing.”

I travelled up the A4 as Claire and Kris flicked through the “hard copy” version of my online photographs, detailing the events of the previous season. I had noted that the album had begun with a simple photograph, taken outside The Duke Of York pub in August 2009, of a pint of Staropramen and the Chelsea vs. Manchester United Community Shield match ticket resting against it. The last photo in the album was a half-full glass of Staropramen, again taken outside the same pub, but after the F.A.Cup Final in May 2010. I’m heavy on metaphors these days, but it seemed to sum up last season perfectly…at times it was difficult to believe, but our glass really was half-full – rather than half-empty – all of the way through last season.

I was a soon parked and we caught the tube from West Brompton, with the steel supports of the Matthew Harding Stand roof in the distance. The smell of the tube always takes me back to my childhood, on those first few wondrous visits to Chelsea with my parents. This time, though, we headed away from The Bridge, north on the district line to Notting Hill Gate, then a change on the central to Marble Arch. By 11am we were tucking into the first fry-up of the new season and, by 11.30pm, we were back at a sun-kissed Duke Of York once again.

We spoke about our respective summers and, to be honest, my one has been strangely muted. The time has flown past and yet, looking back at the months of June and July, I don’t seem to have done anything special. Of course, this is always a period of my year when my credit card heaves a sigh of relief after some intensive spending in the name of Chelsea Football Club and I generally try to keep my expenditure to a minimum. There will be home and away games, hopefully in a few far flung locales, to pay for over the coming season.

The euphoria of the closing weeks of 2009-2010 is still vivid in my mind and it seems that last season still hasn’t drained out of my system yet. Maybe that’s a good thing, since I don’t ever want to forget the joy I felt at Wembley or on the parade the following day, two trophies to the good. They were truly magical times in my Chelsea life. I can still feel the buzz I felt walking out of Anfield, one win away from being champions, three months on. There was a sense, too, of not wanting this summer to end, since I couldn’t face the possible eroding of our title by a resurgent Manchester United or us getting knocked out of the FA Cup. I guess I wanted to prolong the spell of us being – big breath – Double Winners. The summer of 2010 has been the first time we could boast such an honour. These are heady times which should not be easily relinquished.

Can we not stay forever in a perpetual close-season with my beloved Chelsea at the very pinnacle of English football? A ground-hog summer.

So, there has certainly been a sense during the past month or so that I am not yet quite ready for the commencement of yet another season…that I haven’t yet reached the stage where I am feverishly awaiting Game One. This troubled me, but I came to the conclusion that this is natural…this would be, after all, my 38th season of watching Chelsea in the flesh, so to speak. I haven’t felt jaded exactly, but something was amiss.

A strange feeling.

With a double in our locker, where else can this club go? Would I only be satisfied, come May, with a treble, or at very least a Champions League trophy?

Questions, questions.

If I am honest, it made me remember my personal feelings during the summer of 1997, when – for the first time ever – I found myself supporting a Chelsea that had just won a major trophy for the first time in my supporting-life. It felt that my relationship with my club – the great under-achievers, the misery-makers, the perpetual losers – had changed and I scrabbled around, trying to evaluate who I was now in a relationship with…that unloved, ugly duckling was now a coveted princess and it feel odd.

Andy, Ronnie and Fiona were outside the boozer and all three had been in South Africa for a few games. However, we hardly spoke about the World Cup. We certainly didn’t waste much time chatting about England’s inadequacies. I found the tournament pretty boring. It was a joy to see the South African nation – or at least the footy fans in the townships – so overjoyed to have the World’s top teams on their doorsteps, even though the grounds seemed to be devoid of these very same fans. In my mind, this was a very odd World cup, in terms of the spectators inside the stadia. Fans of competing nations seemed not to be allocated designated areas, which negated the noise they were able to generate, which of course was further reduced by the constant drone of those hideous vuvuzelas. And it drove me crazy – my own personal football hell in fact – to see the TV cameramen honing in on every ludicrously attired “fan” ( not only facepaint, but stupid hats and even “comedy” glasses ). This reached a low point when I spotted two English fans, not long from the end of the Germany debacle, attired in replica kits and face paint, seeing each other on the stadium screen and suddenly bursting into smiles and laughter, waving at the camera, not a care in their simple worlds.

England were 4-1 down…my face was as long as a Tottenham league trophy drought…and these loons were smiling and giggling like pre-pubescent schoolgirls. Quite sickening.

Yet again I was reminded that football these days attracts a different breed…that some fans that I grew up with – passionate, devoted, loyal – have been flushed out of a lot of football stadia.

Midway through the tournament, I replayed a tape of a documentary of England’s crazy assault on the World Cup in the summer of 1990. It portrayed a mad few weeks involving 5,000 loyalists living in dodgy campsites on Sardinia surviving on Italian beer and English hope, getting treated like idiots, but smiling through regardless, the team of Peter Shilton, David Platt and Des Walker, images of Gazza’s tears, Sir Bobby Robson, Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle, the terrace anthem of “Let’s All Have A Disco” and that iconic New Order song “World In Motion”, coolly crossing the football / music divide. I longed for those days…when football was followed by football fans alone, not people drawn in by a variety of other reasons. Hardly any corporates, no wannabee wags, no hangers-on.

In contrast, South Africa seemed plastic and alien to me. On too many occasions, I looked at the reactions on the faces of the spectators after goals were scored and I very rarely saw people “losing it” – that rabid shriek of joy which so often has been uttered by football fans through the years, followed by wild ungainly leaps, often into the arms of strangers, then hugs and kisses, then the panting afterglow. In 2010, I noted polite applause from people who looked like they had just gate-crashed a wedding only to find they had missed out on the buffet and were now fighting over cold leftovers.

The Staropramen was going down well. We were clustered in small groups on the pavement, re-acquainting ourselves after three months “off.” Rob had been on a diet and was looking good, Parky was jabbering away to anyone who would listen, the sun was beating down and I could feel my forehead heating up. Lots of laughs with old friends. The conversation was varied. Not only about football. Fred Perry polo shirts and old-school Adidas trainers were to the fore. I noticed that it was much quieter than May’s Cup Final though. A few of my mates – The Bada Bing Firm – were still on holiday. Gill’s friend Gerry, complete with his trusty guide-dog was sat in the group, too. Four United replikids showed up, but they didn’t stay long…there was no animosity but they were soon flushed out and they left us in peace.

Lacoste Watch

Walnuts – peach

We set off for Marylebone and caught the mainline train up to Wembley Stadium, the carriage rocking with song. As we ascended the steps at the station, I first spotted Dog and then Cathy a few feet ahead…last August, we had caught the same train too.

On the short walk from the station to the stadium, we sensed an altercation a few yards away – some glares, a few words, a stand-off, then a brutal attack leaving a United fan on the road, blood gushing from his forehead. We witnessed something similar on this exact same stretch of road against Villa in April, yet no police to be seen. I was just glad that no young children had witnessed it. To be truthful, the attack was swift and lots of people may not have noticed, but it was a reminder that the dark side of football is always there.

Yet again the soul-less interior of Wembley Stadium saddened me as we ascended the elevators. I’ve commented before about the complete lack of décor inside the walkways and forecourts where food is served and souvenirs sold. It’s all so bland – like the inside of an airport, not our national stadium. There is no clue as to where you are – no photos from previous games, no unique signs, nothing. I’ve just begun re-reading a book about the building of Baltimore’s Camden Yards and it acted as a counterpoint to Wembley. The Orioles’ ball park is quirky, homely, finely-detailed, well-planned and ultimately loved…I just find Wembley so disappointing aesthetically.

We reached our seats and Gianfranco Zola, plus United’s Bobby Charlton, were being presented to the two teams. We had tickets high up in row 23 of the upper deck, six of us in a row…myself, Parky, Rob, Tom, Gary and Alan.

I noted quite a few empty seats and not so many flags as in previous Wembley appearances. United sported a flag which was virtually the same as a Liverpool one from around 1993, aimed at Manchester when United won their first title in 26 years –

“Form Is Temporary, Class Is Forever.”

This time, I guess, it was United having a pop at us.

In the first few minutes, United booed our three English lions, so we reciprocated by cheering all of our boys with every touch. I soon spotted that Frank Lampard was playing with the waistband of his shorts flipped over – this time exposing a belt of red – in the same style as the Umbro shorts from 2003-2005 when he always appeared to play with a white belt.

The game began with thrusts from both sides and Rooney seemed to be buzzing around, his bald head getting more pronounced with each passing season. Scholes was playing deep, out of the reach of our midfielders, and he was having a lot of the ball. Then a cross and Ivanovic threw himself at the ball but Van Der Sar saved brilliantly. It seemed we had most of the possession, but chances were even. Gary was his usual passionate self, his tirades of abuse aimed at Scholes drawing many old-fashioned looks from his new neighbours, presumably unused to such venom.

The singing began reasonably OK, but soon subsided. At times, the atmosphere was deathly. Still lots of empty seats, including the Club Wembley section.

Then a Scholes pass, a Rooney cross and our defence was wide-open. Valencia slammed it in and the United end, bathed in sunshine, came to life.

Groans all around, but I felt a goal would come in the second period. I thought it had been an open game, with most of our purposeful attacks coming through Ashley Cole and Florent Malouda. Frank was playing deep and wasn’t too involved.

At half-time, no surprises to hear the programmes had sold out. Another great performance from the FA. Back in my seat for the rest of the break, I noted two hideous twenty foot mascots being paraded behind each goal, but these were met with admirable indifference by both sets of fans. I soon received a text message from Burger, now living on this side of the Atlantic, and I soon spotted his large flag.

The second half developed along similar lines, but with the crowd showing even less willingness to create any noise. Maybe it was the warm summer sun. Shots from Essien and Malouda whizzed past United’s goal, but our approach play seemed to be more laboured. Anelka was dropping deep, as his wont, but he really needed to be leading the line. I still felt a goal would come, though.

Then, another rapid United break and we found ourselves 2-0 down, that man Hernandez causing the United end to roar with approval. Lots of Chelsea left and that annoyed me.

The pass of the day – from Yuri? – carved open the United defence but Sturridge shot tamely. We dug in and played with more conviction. Yossi Benayoun came on – I noted Burger’s flag in the background from the TV feed on the giant screen – and he looked lively. We had a few half-chances and eventually a goal came once a Sturridge shot had been parried into the path of Kalou. Parky’s crutches flew into the air and I dived for cover.

“Come On Chels.”

I then fancied our chances to equalise, but the depressing figure of Berbatov The Undertaker sealed a 3-1 win for United with a deft flick over Hilario.

I didn’t think it was a 3-1 game, but perhaps I’m ever the optimist. There were certainly negative comments being aired on the return to the pub, but I tried my best to remain philosophical amongst the sour words. We didn’t appear 100% match fit, but let’s hope all is resolved by next weekend. We need Drogba firing on all cylinders, we need the strangely subdued Lampard in the thick of it, we need Essien fitter. I thought Ashley Cole was up and down the flank like his life depended on it and seemed to be highly energised. Ivanovic never disappoints, does he? It was a 6/10 performance from Chelsea overall.

And the only vuvuzela I heard was from the United end.

I think that the first month of the season often feels like a phoney war, with teams fighting to get players healthy, with new formations being tested, with the international break upsetting the rhythm of the early weeks and the weather being tough on everyone. I always say we need a month – by the middle of September – for players and fans alike to be back up to 100%. By then, we ought to have a clearer idea.

We won’t be far away.

We called in for a couple or drinks at the pub, then made our way back to West Brompton and home. The first Red Bull of the season was downed and we were on our way back west.

Irritatingly, Sky TV have recently chosen Eric Cantona to headline their new promotional campaign ( a logical choice given half of United’s fan base only stretch their “support” of their club to more than a Sky prescription ), and it was his face which seemed to be on every advertising poster on the drive out of London.

…now that’s just rubbing it in.

I got home at 9.30pm after another 220 miles on the clock…and my spirits were lifted when I read on Sky Sports News that Jose Mourinho had called off his lusty chase of Ashley Cole.

Next week the season starts for real.

Let’s go to work.

Tales From Sir Matt Busby Way

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 3 April 2010.

For some reason, I awoke at about 3.45am and, for about two hours, I couldn’t get back to sleep…the game at Old Trafford was on my mind, along with memories of other past trips to that particular part of Lancashire. I was buzzing as England slept. At 6.15am, the alarm sounded. At last I was ready. This had the feel of a massive day. I was both nervous and superbly excited.

At 7.15am, I opened my car door, clutching a coffee, just as my neighbour Liz appeared, just about to take her two dogs out for their morning walk. She gave me an old-fashioned look as if to say –

“There’s that idiot off following Chelsea again.”

My village is festooned with daffodils at this time of the year and the hedgerows were full of yellow and green. I would be seeing a lot of those two colours during the day. I texted Alan the first of many…

7.20am – “Jack Kerouac.”

This was swifly followed by

7.22am – “Jenson Button.”

The F1 World Champion grew up a mere mile from my house in Upper Vobster. I was on my way north and I exchanged texts with Alan over the next few hours –

Chris – 7.46am – “Acker Bilk.”

Alan – 7.48am – “Cobblers.”

Chris – 7.59am – “Fred Wedlock.”

Alan – 8.12am – “Webb Ellis.”

Chris – 8.44am – “The Gold Cup.”

As I passed Worcester, I sent a text to my oldest friend ( 1977 and counting ) Pete, a United fan…

“Good luck today. The best team will win.”

At 9.45am, with the sun attempting to break through the grey clouds, I spotted the first United cars, with yellow and gold bar scarves draped by the rear windows. I had been listening to New Order, but soon changed to Everything But The Girl. It felt wrong for the sons of Manchester to be in my car on such a pivotal day. I had been thinking about Manchester – the city – in the build up to the game. I wondered about the demographics of that city’s two clubs. The city is ringed by several league clubs from outlying towns, and I guess their support is locally-based. The cliched-view is that no United fan comes from Manchester and of course this is ridiculous. I remember talking to a City fan – from south Manchester – and he commented that it was 50/50 where he grew up. I think that the historic United heartland of Salford, Urmston, Kersal and Stretford still holds true, whereas the City support is rooted in that south-central area of Hulme and Moss Side. However, due to the working class fan being priced out of the game these days, football has become a suburbanites plaything. How many hardcore Chelsea fans still live in Balham, Battersea, Wandsworth and Lambeth? Not many. In days of yore, the grimy street urchins of working-class Manchester would support their very local clubs, but these days United’s support now comes from every town in the British Isles. Still, I did wonder about that “map” of red and blue support within the Manchester conurbation and how it would look in 2010. Who “owns” Crumpsall and Harpurhey in the north, who “owns” Gorton and Hyde in the east? For me, these excursions into other cities on away days are like urban history trips…my mind races with past stories of club histories, past players, past battles, local personalities, local flavour. I love these trips with all my heart and always try to get under the skin of each host city. As I have mentioned before, my ancestors come from SW Manchester – an Axon stronghold – and this has played on my mind for some time. It’s just a good job Ossie and Webbie scored in that 1970 game at Old Trafford – yes, I realise the irony – or who knows who I would be supporting today.

Back in my youth, United were always seen as a bit of a sad old club, followed by neanderthal glory-hunters…the fact that they had not won the league for ages was richly celebrated. Their one season in the old second division was seen as perfect poetry for their legions of fans. Their lone star, George Best, was a laughing stock, missing matches, getting suspended. He was lampooned by us at school in those years from 1972-1974.

“Georgie Best, Superstar – He Wears Frilly Knickers And He Wears A Bra.”

And here’s the thing…back in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, I always got the impression that kids who weren’t really into football, but went along with it to fit in, always supported Manchester United and Liverpool. More irony – that those two bitter rivals should have such a shared gene pool among their support.

In fact, I remember finding my class photo from 1978 a while back and it acted as a fine snapshot in time for me. My class contained maybe 15 boys and 15 girls. We would have been 13. I clearly remembered who supported who…no clubs were supported by any of the girls ( how times change! ) but the list of boys’ support was as follows –

Liverpool – Peter, Richard.
Tottenham Hotspur – Andy, David.
Manchester United – Jerry.
Chelsea – yours truly.
Leeds United – Tim.
Bristol Rovers – Dave.

The fanatics were Rover’s Dave and myself. But only a quarter of that class were footy fans…I bet the figure is higher these days.

Anyway, I put all of these myriad thoughts to one side as I turned off the M6 and began the oh-so familiar approach into Manchester. I was soon on the orbital and always find it odd that “The World’s Biggest Football Club” is never signposted. Methinks that there are some City fans in high places in the city council offices!

“Let the idiots from Surrey and Devon get lost.”

There were lots of youths in high-visiblity jackets shepherding cars into industrial estate parking lots – £5! £6! £7! – but I parked up on Gorse Avenue outside a house, no charge. Easy. This was at 11am. I walked out onto the Chester Road, the main approach, and the white steel roof supports of Old Trafford were clearly visible. The street vendors – or grafters – were out in force, selling the yellow and gold scarves.

“Get your protest scaaaaarves – only a five’uh” in that Mancunian vernacular.

A £3.50 “cheeseburg’uh” and I was on my way. The cross-roads by Sir Matt Busby Way is always a hive of red and white activity on match days…a massive queue to get into The Bishop’s Blaize pub, full of song, chippy after chippy, souvenir stalls, a riot of colour. I had to get in line to withdraw some cash and as I waited for what seemed like ages, I took it all in. Three young lads from Northern Ireland, their accents even more impenetrable than the locals, were stood behind me in the queue and I could sense they were worried, running through United’s attacking options, minus Rooney. Our team appeared stronger in comparison. Lots of United fans appeared tense. Fans were decked in protest scarves. Some had Megastore bags. An uneasy alliance.

On the final approach, I bought two fanzines…”CFCUK” from Dave Johnstone, but “United We Stand” too…for my mate Pete. But I do occasionally like to read other fans’ perspectives on this great game of ours. To be fair, “UWS” is a great read, albeit red-tinted, and it even allowed a Chelsea fan’s perspective on the current state of play. There were the predictable noises about the Glazer conundrum, the green and gold protest ( now getting passe, according to some ), the return of Beckham, but also some views from the hardcore about “Day Trippers”, corporate hospitality goons, the over-pricing of tickets and the loathing of Liverpool. Sound familiar?

I took a few shots of the stadium – the United Trinity, the statue of Sir Matt, the understated Munich memorial. I chatted briefly with a few mates on the forecourt, then lined-up to get in. However, an over eager steward stopped me from taking my camera in…he was just being vindictive I am sure…but thankfully, I sweet-talked my way into leaving the whole bag behind the desk at the main reception. The gentleman was very kind and I thanked him ( it meant I didn’t have to traipse back to the car and miss the kick-off ), but I daren’t tell him I was Chelsea! I would go for Plan B and would take a few photos with my phone. Sorted.

I was in the side stand again, but unlike the pre-match vibes at our game at OT last season, the mood was up-beat. It made a refreshing change I must say. In that crowded bar, so many familiar faces. I had a bottle of Bud – United most love America.

Alan, Gary and myself had great seats, four rows from the rear, level with the six yard box. The sun was shining, the nerves were tingling. I spotted Steve Azar, face aglow, in the corner section, right in the middle. There were 2,500 Chelsea in the corner, 500 along the side. We stood the entire game.

We had agreed that a strong, determined start was paramount and the boys didn’t let us down. From the kick-off, we worked the ball into Deco who shot from distance. And it didn’t stop there. We dominated that gorgeous first-half in a way that few of us could imagine. United couldn’t get near us. We were moving the ball so well, keeping United at bay. The defense was hardly troubled, but we kept asking questions of United. Mikel was at his best ; a defensive rock in front of Alex and JT. Frank and Deco moved the ball intelligently, Malouda was always happy to drive into the heart of the red back line. Anelka held up the ball well. We were loving it. The United support was reeling.

After a quarter of the game gone, Malouda, our French prince, skipped deep into the heart of the United defence…he whipped in a cross and we saw a blur of players at the near post. The ball ended-up in the goal, we knew not how, we did not care.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSS.”

The Chelsea support roared like never before this season. Up and down we bounced. We could not believe our eyes. A text from a mate…Joe’s goal…must’ve been the deftest of touches. For the next five minutes, our support roared and roared and I noted many sticks of celery being tossed into the air.

Our very own take on the yellow and green on show at Old Trafford.

For the rest of the half, we probed away, but with only a few shots from distance. However, United were as poor as I have seen in thirteen visits to their stadium. Neville, that loathed, ridiculously-mustachioed individual, was having a howler and Scholes’ cross-field passes often went out of play. Ji-Sung Park was coming in for some stick from Alan, Gary and myself.

“I hear that Park has bought a new labrador.”

“Oh yeah – what flavour?”

“He’s kicking chunks out of us.”

“Not a pal of mine.”

“They’ll never winalot with him in the team.”

Such lovely moments of humour really make watching football with Al and Gal so wonderful. We were hooting.

Of course, at half-time, we fully expected Ferguson to be giving his under performing players the famous “Hair Dryer Treatment” and we knew that United couldn’t possibly perform as poorly in the second.

And so it proved. United had a lot more of the ball and I became trapped in a world of nervous doubt, hating every United attack, begging for us to close them down, but screaming support nonetheless. Paolo broke through soon into the second period, but was stage-struck and tamely shot wide. Damn. The time appeared to stand still. I looked at my watch constantly. Scholes, deployed so deep, was having so much of the ball and was having better joy with his “quarterback-style” long balls to the wings. United were getting back into it and eventually the home support was rocking. We stood firm – encouraging the boys, urging them on. Two stalwarts next to me, old school veterans, were annoying the hell out of me. They were so negative.

“Of course, United are stronger you fools, we couldn’t keep that dominance going forever, stop moaning!” – I thought. One of the “moaning two” couldn’t watch. He stood next to me, head bowed, muttering about wanting to be “in a darkened room.”

Drogba came on for Anelka and we approved. Nico had led the line superbly, but was tiring. Drogba had a couple of breaks, a couple of duels with Vidic. Dean was annoying us with his decisions. Send Scholes off, you muppet!

And then it happened.

A through ball from Kalou, the other sub, and Drogba was offside…but no flag…”go on my son.”

Drogba slammed the ball towards Van der Sar and the net rippled. Is there a more beautiful sight in football?

That was it. We exploded. I screamed, then jumped up onto my seat and ended up in the row infront. Gary ended up two rows infront. I screamed and shouted “it was offside, it was offside – you beauty!” The consensus was that, yes, Didi was offside, but we couldn’t care. A text confirmed it…it came from Del, a Liverpool fan, eager to see us halt United’s progress to Number 19 and four in a row.

Then, almost immediately, a United break and a close-range goal from Macheda.

And so it started all over again…the clock-watching, the nerves…a few sporadic United attacks. Thankfully, they were misfiring. But – oh – what a tense time. I was hating it, but loving it too.

“Back to the darkened room” I whispered to the fan next to me.

Everyone was talking about “Fergie time” and some expected five minutes or more – even seven – to be played. Thankfully, my call of “four” turned out to be right. With the Chelsea support roaring, we repelled every ball into the box…a Cech grasp, a JT head, a block, a penalty claim – EFF OFF! – but we stayed the distance.

At around 2.38pm, the final whistle.

I momentarily slumped – YES! – payback for Moscow.

I then clambered high on my seat, hugged a few strangers, kissed a few strangers, then joined in –

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

Right in line was our mate Simon, 1984 vintage, and he spotted the three of us.

His smile said it all.

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

Down below, the players celebrated and we continued singing. It had been a momentous match in deepest Manchester. I felt shattered. I bounced down the stairs, to be met with ashen-faced United fans staring at us…I gathered my wits, then gathered my bag from the reception.

Out on Sir Matt Busby Way, the natives were silent, save for a couple of United lads gobbing off, then squaring up to a couple of Chelsea “scarfers.” I didn’t want to be the one Chelsea fan looking on if it kicked-off, so I quickly side-stepped a few United lads and walked amidst the Chelsea. I kept looking around to make sure the trouble had subsided, keeping my wits about me. I doubt if I would ever get involved – more of a peacemaker, me – but we had to stick together. Anyway, a lesson there. I never wear colours and that is why.

I hot-footed it back to the car with texts flying in from Glenn, Parky, a euphoric Del and then from further afield…Bob in ST, Andy in LA, Beth in TX. The locals were moaning about the referee too. Love it!

I was hot and flustered. I wanted to get away. I threw my Lacoste rain jacket into the back seat, gulped down a Red Bull and set off. On the CD player, Tracey Thorn –

“Wherever you go I will follow you.”

At just before 3pm, I entered the Chester Road and Old Trafford was – like Manchester United – in my rear view mirror. It was a beautiful drive home…blissed out…music on the CD…who cares about the rest of the football results…

“We Are Topoftheleague.
Say – Wearetopoftheleague.”

Nearing the M6, I was overtaken by a fat replica-kit wearing United fan, in a Mercedes, guzzling a Coke…he was a big old target…a United stereotype, no doubt loathed by the United hardcore…I put on “Blue Is The Colour” and wound down the windows, as I sidled up alongside.

The texts continued, the Chelsea CD continued.

“Son Of My Father.”

“Alouette.”

“Blue Is The Colour.”

…as if to top a wonderful day out, I then learnt that both Spurs and Leeds had lost. The rain couldn’t dampen my spirits. I was loving every damn minute of it.

Nearing home, passing through Midsomer Norton, a text from Pete –

“Fair play mate. Sounded like you deserved to win. Hope you enjoyed it.”

Did I ever!

Tales From Remembrance Sunday

Posted on July 23, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 9 November 2009.

As a pre-curser to the United game on Sunday, I watched Paulton Rovers play Norwich City in the FA Cup on TV on Saturday lunchtime. Paulton is a village about eight miles away and they play in the same division as Frome Town. In fact, I watched Frome defeat Paulton in the Somerset Senior Cup back in the spring – the day after we lost to Barcelona in the CL semi-final. Two more contrasting games you could not wish to find. But that’s the joy of football, eh? An extra element of interest was that my next door neighbours’ grandson Ben Lacey was the young star of the Paulton team. Unfortunately, Norwich romped to a 7-0 win and Paulton’s five minutes of fame was over.

On the Sunday, I collected Parky at 10.30am and drove up to London via the A4 and then the M4. As this was Remembrance Sunday, we were both wearing poppies as a mark of respect. As a child, I used to love watching the Remembrance Service in London on TV. The Cenotaph was designed by Lutyens and the plain marble war memorial and a few other statues and plinths in my Somerset village were designed by him too. I remember that on one occasion, the BBC also showed film of a service from the large obelisk on the Marlborough Downs, near to where my father did his training at RAF Yatesbury in around 1941. As I drove between Devizes and Marlborough, I spotted the large monument and we had a chat about Remembrance Day. We knew that the Chelsea Pensioners would be involved in the ceremony at The Bridge and I knew it would be a sombre and understated affair.

Something the British do well. I remember being in downtown Las Vegas ( admittedly not the most typical of American cities ) in November 1989 and watching aghast at the Veterans’ Day Parade, awash with smiles and dancing girls. It left an impression on me and I longed for the quiet reverence of the Royal Albert Hall and The Cenotaph.

A few of us have a joint Chelsea / Poppy badge which we wear around this time of the year and I think the contrast of the blue badge with the red poppy is just right. We also heard that the Chelsea team would be wearing special shirts with embroidered poppies.

Excellent.

We arrived at The Goose at around 1.30pm and the pub wasn’t too busy at the start. I had brought up some photographs from Madrid to show the lads and we had a good chuckle recollecting a few of the funnier moments. I had heard that Tuna was over for a week or so – sadly, his mother hasn’t been too well – and he had miraculously sourced a match ticket. We found out that our respective mothers will be celebrating their eightieth birthdays within five days of each other in January. Weird, eh? He trotted off at around 3.15pm in order to collect his ticket from a bloke in “The Cock And Hen.”

Thankfully, we got our timings right and we all got into the ground in good time. I had worked out that this would be my twentieth consecutive Chelsea vs. Manchester United game at HQ, going back to a 3-2 win in March 1991. I remember a very young Ryan Giggs playing in that game – and a very low crowd of about 22,000. Hard to believe, eh? I first saw Manchester United in a game at The Bridge in December 1984 ( 42,000 – better! ) but we lost that one 3-1. Since then there have been so many games…a few low points ( the 1994 debacle, 3-5 at home in the FA Cup and of course Moscow ) but a few great results ( a few good wins at Old Trafford, plus the 5-0 in 1999 and – of course- the 3-0 win which gave us the title in 2006. )

Over the years, we have tended to do well in Manchester and United have had the advantage in SW6. However, the last seven games at The Bridge resulted in four Chelsea wins and three draws.

I noted to Alan that the all of the usual Chelsea banners which usually adorn the balconies had been turned back to front so that they were plain blue. I think this was so that the focus would just be on one white banner, draped at centre-stage at The Shed. It simply said –

“Chelsea Supporters – Will Remember Them” with club crests and a poppy.

Class.

Just before kick-off, the teams entered the pitch and gave a guard of honour to some active servicemen and seven Chelsea pensioners. Even though their tunics are red, I love that contrast too. I personally think we should go back to our pre-Ted Drake nickname of “The Pensioners.”

The game?

For vast parts, United ran the show, especially in the first-half. No question. Ferguson played just Rooney up front with a band of five in the middle. United were all over us like a rash and they closed us down at will. Pre-match, I had predicted that our midfield would be too strong for United, but I had to eat my words.

There was a lovely piece of football in the first-half involving Wayne Rooney and John Terry. Rooney ran at JT, teasingly keeping the ball on his toes and JT was back-peddling but was able to push him out wide and eventually forced Rooney to play it back to a waiting midfielder. It was pure theatre – one versus one – and I loved it.

Only Anelka – love the way he keeps possession – and Riccy – reading the game well and bursting forth at will – were above average in the first-half. I thought Frank was as poor as he had been for a while. Not one tackle and not one telling pass. Deco was below par, too. We improved in the last ten minutes of the first-period and we expected a big shake-up at half-time.

I spotted a large Canada flag in the East Stand, just above where the Chelsea Pensioners always watch every game. Chelsea gives the Royal Hospital free tickets and this is a tradition which goes back years and years. We can be rightly proud of this.

Our history.

There was the usual red/ white / black United flags in their section including one lampooning our captain.

“Viva John Terry – MUFC – Champions Moscow 07-08”

Oh dear – memories of that night came back. To be fair, the United fans did make a constant din throughout the game, including their noisy “Viva John Terry” chant.

That was – until 74 minutes.

We were awarded a free-kick right down below me after a rash challenge by Fletcher. Frank had been his usual frustrating self with dead-balls all day. I steadied my camera and pointed it towards the phalanx of players in the box. Frank floated on in and I snapped just after JT connected.

In it went.

Oh you beauty – Get in! I screamed. You probably heard me.

It brought back memories of the same combination – Frank corner, JT header – which had resulted in the winner in the 4-2 game versus Barca in 2005. JT was euphoric and raced towards Frank and I followed up with a few more snaps, but the large CFC flag tended to get in the way.

Viva John Terry indeed.

We were all convinced that United would equalise – especially when the ball zipped across the box on more than one occasion.

I watched the referee as he blew up and the noise echoed around The Bridge. We had certainly rode our luck – make no mistakes about it. I think United deserved a point. Still, the game had swung our way and we had held on.

The fact that it had been a sub-par performance from us stayed with me, though.

As I walked back to the car, it seemed as though everyone was celebrating wildly apart from me. Maybe, after all those United games, I am getting game-weary, too many big games…too many wins against Manchester United? This haunted me on the way home…maybe I need to re-fuel my batteries…

So – it’s good we have a fortnight, now, to recharge those batteries and to enjoy “Life At The Top.”

Five points clear – sit back and enjoy the view!

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Manchester United

Tales From The Sloaney Pony

Tales From A Chelsea Pub Crawl

Tales From Bar 68

Tales From Lord Parky, Burger And Chel

Tales From The M4, M5, M54, A41, A49, A556, M56, M60, A56…

Tales From An Evening At Chelsea

Tales From The Shed Lower

Tales From The Phony War

Tales From Sir Matt Busby Way

Tales From Remembrance Sunday