Tales From Munich Day

Posted on May 24, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 19 May 2022.

The finishing line was in sight now. With Champions League qualification already achieved, the next target was to attain third spot in the Premiership, a position that I have been saying all season long would be our rightful place in May. If we couldn’t win the league, let’s at least finish as the pyramid’s top London team. And the pain of another FA Cup Final defeat was behind us now. But I did wonder how the exertions in the baking sun would impact on an already tired squad against Leicester City. I certainly wasn’t expecting a spectacle of scintillating football.

But this game, on this date, meant a little more than a run-of-the-mill match at the arse end of the season. On the tenth anniversary of our monumental Champions League victory in Munich, what no better way to celebrate than all of us being together for an evening game at Stamford Bridge.

I worked until 3pm. Dan, from Frome, joined us on the trip to London. Dan had taken my ticket for the Tottenham league game back in January when I was hit with a bug and this would be the first time that I would be sat with him at Stamford Bridge. He has played for my village team in the Mid-Somerset League for a few years now – I turned out in the reserves on a few occasions from 1978 to 1981 – and I was aware that the team had recently won three trophies.

PD drove to London and he made good time. Parky was with us too. It was a typical mid-week pre-match. First, a pizza for me on the North End Road at about 5.30pm. At the end of my meal, I spotted two tables of Chelsea supporters near the door and so approached them.

“Happy Munich Day!”

All four looked at me as if I had grown an extra head and I silently wished that I hadn’t fucking bothered.

I popped next door for a meet up with a few pals in the beer garden of “The Goose” and a nice and relaxing time ensued. A special mention to Kev from South Gloucestershire who was clocking up Chelsea game number 1,500 against Leicester City.

Great effort, mate.

This would be number 1,352 for me.

Finally, a quick chat with others in “Simmons”. Both boozers were as quiet as I have ever seen for a Chelsea home game. There were spares floating around all over the place. Daryl had recently enjoyed a wonderful trip up to the outer reaches of Scotland with his wife Pam, but it was typical that ninety-five percent of his recollections about the holiday detailed how he had bumped into Ally McCoist at a hotel on the Isle of Lewis, as far away from the mainland as it is possible to get. Daryl confirmed that the Rangers legend is a Chelsea supporter,

Outside “Simmons” a pop-up bar has opened over the past six months and, with hindsight, we really ought to have added that to the itinerary too. “Biergarten” is a little bar in the style of those German Christmas market huts that now appear all over Europe, resplendent with light blue and white Bavarian flags and steins of beer. I recognised a couple of mates quaffing some lager at a table.

We were inside with a good ten minutes or more to spare, but there were too many yawning gaps everywhere, sanctions notwithstanding. It was clear that Leicester hadn’t sold their allocation of 3,000; it was nearer 2,000.

What with the sanctions hitting hard – still – I was pretty sure that the club would not be able to fly any of the glorious 2012 squad over and, indeed, the celebrations of Munich just involved a paltry video show on the TV screens before the entry of the teams. In days gone by, the sadly-missed Neil Barnett would have been in his pomp, and it annoyed me that the club had been unable to celebrate Munich in a proper fashion. Before the game, a huge crowd-surfing “tifo” – a bit of a misnomer really – appeared over both tiers of The Shed honouring Thomas Tuchel. However, could that not have waited until next season? We only had one opportunity to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Munich and it turned out to be a damp squib.

This was our Munich Day and we messed it up.

Typical Chelsea.

The fading sun again turned the light brickwork of The Shed hotel into a warmer hue and the sky was a mix of blue and white. I spotted the saddest of all Chelsea flags draped from the Shed and overlooking the West Lower. Kyle Broadbent and his father Tony travelled together to Munich on that iconic day ten years ago. Not many years after, Kyle died in a horrific accident at work, while labouring with his father. Then, sadly, Tony passed away from cancer. I did not know Kyle. Tony was a friend on “Facebook” and I met him once or twice in “The Goose.”

RIP.

The teams entered the pitch.

Thomas Tuchel chose this starting eleven :

Mendy

Rudiger – Siva – Chalobah

James – Jorginho – Kante – Alonso

Pulisic – Lukaku – Ziyech

Not too many changes from the marathon on Saturday; only two players were dropped, Mount and Kovacic.

I accepted that this might be a struggle from the start. People can moan all they like about “players on £100,000 a week playing two games in six days” but the sixty-three games this season must surely have taken its toll.

Leicester appeared in a jade green kit that looked half-decent. Thank God I only had to endure our jaw-dropping monstrosity for two more games this season.

The English Football Gods : “Sorry, Chelsea. You’re not collecting any fucking silverware this season looking like that.”

We attacked the Matthew Harding as the game began. I always feel uneasy when that is the case. The match got off to a slow start but one which we were easily dominating. However, after just seven minutes, a long throw out from Kasper Schmeichel into space down their right was not dealt with properly. Marcos Alonso dawdled and Antonio Rudiger dallied. Neil Maddison was able to move the ball in to space and – damn it, I hate it when this happens – I was in line with the flight of the ball and able to see a firmly-struck shot curve in at the very last moment. It was a superb strike. I guess that why they are paid hundreds of thousands of pounds per week.

In “The Goose” before the game, Andy from Nuneaton and I were talking about the noisy Leeds support the previous Thursday. I liked how they immediately got behind their team when they conceded the first goal.

“Just like we used to do. We don’t do that anymore.”

Well on this night, we did.

A loud and defiant “Carefree” echoed around Stamford Bridge and I liked that a lot.

I liked our response too. There was a trademark shot from distance from Trevoh Chalobah – “shooooooooot” – that Schmeichel – a thorn in our side, a hero in theirs, for years now – did ever so well to tip over. Then Kante won the ball and slid in Lukaku but a defender recovered with a sliding block.

But then we reverted to type and were guilty of the two Chelsea cardinal sins of the latter part of this season; runners not running, passers not passing.

Alan : “Jorginho has more square balls than Sponge Bob Square Pants.”

Midway through the half, I was stifling a few yawns.

“If they get a second, it’s game over, Al.”

I spotted advertisements for the upcoming US Tour splashed over the electronic signs at pitch-level.

16 July : Chelsea vs. Club America, Las Vegas, Nevada.

No thanks. I’m not a fan of Vegas. I hate it in fact. I prefer real cities.

20 July : Charlotte FC vs. Chelsea, Charlotte, North Carolina.

No thanks. I saw Chelsea play PSG there in 2015 and see no point in returning.

23 July : Chelsea vs. Arsenal, Orlando, Florida.

No thanks. Florida in the height of summer? Are you taking the piss?

On thirty minutes, a shot from Ziyech was blocked. From the corner that followed, Silva headed over. Five minutes later, Kante prodded the ball on to Reece James and – I was in line with the ball, but more enjoyable now – lofted a ball out wide towards the on-rushing Alonso. It was absolutely perfect.

“Have a bash, Alonso.”

Wallop. It was a trademark Alonso finish, another volley, another goal. That boy owns that part of the opposition penalty box, eh? I just wish he owned more of the defensive left-flank too.

The game limped along until half-time. I was sure that their only shot on goal the entire game thus far was the one from Maddison for their goal.

Sigh.

At the end of half-time, Dan left us in The Sleepy Hollow and watched from the front row of the MHU, utilising one of the many vacant seats nearby. Throughout the stadium, gaps were everywhere. This was easily the worst-attended game in recent memory. Sadly, Dan’s new prime viewing position did not mirror prime viewing. It was to be a sluggish half.

On fifty-two minutes, the much-maligned Lukaku showed great perseverance to win the ball back and push on down into Parkyville, but his low cross into the six-yard box went begging with nobody set to pounce.

“Shouldn’t he be in there, Al?”

A few minutes later, there were two weak Ziyech efforts. The first from a free-kick, the second after cutting in but hitting centrally. Then just after, Lukaku fed Pulisic with a square pass but much to everyone’s consternation, the patchy American made a complete hash of a relatively easy finish.

The crowd howled.

“Fucksakechels.”

We sought pleasure elsewhere.

“Jamie Vardy. Your wife is a grass.”

We had a few chances. We were absolutely dominating this half, even more so than the first. Leicester’s lack of desire was depressing.

A couple more efforts came our way. A glancer from Lukaku at the far post, wide, after a fine pass from Ziyech that really should have tested the ‘keeper. A shot from Rudi in the inside the box was then saved well by Schmeichel.

Some substitutions.

Dave for Christian.

Ruben for N’Golo.

Chalobah rose inside the box from a corner but his header was easy meat for the Leicester ‘keeper.

Kai for Romelu.

Time was running out now, and so were the chances. Havertz’ legs seemed to become entangled as he was fed by Ziyech inside the box, and couldn’t get his shot away.

However, with just four minutes remaining, Edouard Mendy needed to put down his crossword puzzle and come out to smother a rare, very rare, Leicester attack when it was case of one versus one.

In a show of solid defiance, despite the poor fare being offered on the pitch, the Chelsea choir were loud and constant during the closing minutes of the game.

“Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions. Chelsea. Champions.”

It ended 1-1.

On descending the steps to street level, a little gloom.

“We’ve not really pushed on this season.”

In the car back to Wiltshire and Somerset.

“More questions than answers at the moment.”

Tales From Stamford Bridge To Wembley

Posted on May 21, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 14 May 2022.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter who wasn’t a little fearful going into the 2022 FA Cup Final against Liverpool at Wembley. On the early morning drive into London – I collected PD as early as 6am – the feeling was of worry and impending doom. As has been proven by the league table – “the league table does not lie, it just sits down occasionally” – we are a fair distance behind both Liverpool and Manchester City this season, as we were last season and the season before it. Additionally, a defeat at the hands of the Scousers would mean a record-breaking third consecutive FA Cup Final loss. And that thought was just horrible too.

But, bollocks to all that, we were off to Wembley again and we kept ourselves contented with the usual badinage of wisecracks as I ate up the miles. I was hopeful that one of the great FA Cup Final weekends was upon us. We all live in hope, right?

But first, a walk down memory lane.

1972.

The first FA Cup final that I can ever remember watching took place in 1972. It was between Arsenal and Leeds United. My best friend Andy was an Arsenal fan, though I can’t honestly remember wanting them to win. I was a neutral. I can still remember a few bits about the day. I was six, coming up to seven, and already a mad-keen Chelsea supporter. I remember that it was the centenary of the first competition that took place in 1872, though of course not the actual one-hundredth final due to the wartime interruptions. I remember representatives of all of the previous winners parading around the perimeter of the old Wembley pitch with flags. I was proud to see the Chelsea flag. Leading up to the final, Esso were running a promotion celebrating the game. Collectible coins – to go in an album – were rewarded for petrol purchases. Suffice to say, I must have pleaded with my father to only fuel up at Esso for a few weeks. I still have the album, completed, to this day.

I remember Allan Clarke, from around the penalty spot, scoring with a diving header and David Coleman exploding “one-nil” as if the game was over at that exact moment. I can recall Mick Jones dislocating his shoulder as he fell awkwardly attempting a cross and hobbling up the steps to the royal box, bandaged like a mummy. Fifty years ago. Bloody hell. Looking back, this is the very first club game I can remember seeing live, though I am pretty sure the England vs. West Germany game just one week before it is the first full game I saw live on TV. Or at least the first I can remember seeing.

I think.

1973.

The FA Cup Final was huge in those days. It was the only club game shown live on TV – both channels – and would remain that way until 1983 apart from rare one-offs. On a trip to London in the autumn of 1973 we called in to see Uncle Willie, my grandfather’s brother, at either his house in Southall or at a nursing home at Park Royal (where my father would park for my first Chelsea game in 1974, but that is – and has been – another story.) After the visit, my father granted my wish to drive up to see Wembley Stadium. That I had not asked to see Stamford Bridge is surprising from fifty years away, but I am sure that my father would have been intimidated by the thought of traffic in those more central areas.

Wembley it was.

I can vividly remember sitting in his car as we wended our way up to Wembley. On that fateful cab trip to Wembley for the “aborted” FA Cup semi-final recently, I half-recognised the journey. I have always had a heightened sense of place and a recollection and memory of places visited in other times.

I remember Dad parking off Olympic Way and me setting eyes on the magnificence of the historic stadium. It sat on top of an incline, and the twin towers immediately brought a lump to the throat of the eight-year-old me. I remember walking up to the stadium, the steps rising to the arched entrances, the dirty-cream colour of the walls, the grass embankments. I veered left and possibly tried to peer down the tunnel at the East End, an end that would become known as the “lucky tunnel end” for FA Cup Finals over the next few decades. The stadium was huge. However, it needed a bit of a clean-up. It looked a bit grimy. But I loved the way it dominated that particular part of North London. The visit has stayed etched in my mind ever since even though I was only there for maybe twenty minutes.

“Come on Chris, we need to head home.”

I can almost picture my father’s worried look on his face, chivvying me on.

1997.

Our appearance in the 2022 FA Cup Final provided a perfect time to recollect our appearance in the much-loved 1997 FA Cup Final; the quarter of a century anniversary.

Here are my recollections.

The 1996/97 season was a beautiful one, but also a sad one. The death of Matthew Harding in October 1996 hit all of us hard, and the immediate aftermath was tough on us all. Remarkably, our spirits rose not so long after Matthew’s tragic death when we signed Gianfranco Zola from Parma. It felt like, in the same way that getting Mickey Thomas in 1984 completed that wonderful team, the signing of the Italian magician helped complete the team being assembled by Ruud Gullit.

The FA Cup run was the stuff of legends. I went to most games.

West Brom at home : an easy win, 3-0.

Liverpool at home : the greatest of games, losing 0-2 at half-time, we turned it round to triumph 4-2.

Leicester City away : a 2-2 draw, I watched on TV.

Leicester City at home : Erland Johnsen’s finest moment and a Frank Leboeuf penalty gave us a 1-0 win in extra-time.

Pompey away : a 4-0 win in the mist, I watched on TV.

Wimbledon at Highbury : 3-0, a breeze, Zola’s twist to score in front of us in the North Bank.

On the Thursday before the Cup Final itself, we watched Suggs perform “Blue Day” on “TOTP” and the pleasure it gave us all is unquantifiable. Everything was well in the world, or in my world anyway. In the January of 1997, I was given a managerial job in my place of employment, a bit more dosh to follow the boys over land and sea, and maybe even Leicester next time.

On the Saturday of the final, a beautiful sun-filled morning, Glenn drove to London with two passengers; our friend Russel, eighteen, about to sit his “A Levels”, and little old me. I was thirty-one with no silverware to show for years and years of devotion to the cause. We parked-up at Al’s flat in Crystal Palace, caught the train at the local station, changed at Beckenham Junction and made our way to “The Globe” at Baker Street via London Bridge. We bumped into a few familiar faces from our part of the world – can you spot PD? – and enjoyed a sing-song before heading up to Wembley Park.

Funny the things I remember.

Lots and lots of singing on the way to Wembley. We felt unbeatable, truly. Ben Shermans for Daryl and myself. Lots of Chelsea colours elsewhere. I had just bought a pair of Nike trainers and I had not worn the bastards in. They pinched my feet all day long. We posed for my “VPN” banner underneath the twin towers. However, I tried to hoist it once inside, using small sticks, but was immediately told to hand it all in at a “left luggage” section in the concourse. Our seats were low-down, corner flag. Unfortunately, I had a killer headache all bloody game.

The Roberto di Matteo goal after just forty-three seconds was insane. Limbs were flailing everywhere. Oh my fucking head.

The dismal 1994 FA Cup Final was recollected, briefly. For that game, we only had about 17,000 tickets and it seemed that all neutral areas were United. In 1997, all the neutral tickets seemed to be hoovered up by us. Not sure how that worked to this day. I remember virtually nothing about the game except for Eddie Newton’s prod home at our end to make it safe at 2-0.

When Wisey lifted the famous silver pot, twenty-six years of waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting were evaporated.

It was always going to be “Matthew’s Cup” and so it proved. At the time, it was the best day of my life. Since, I have had two better ones; Bolton in 2005 and then Munich in 2012. But for anyone that was supporting the club on Saturday 17 May 1997, it was a feeling that was pretty indescribable.

So I won’t even try. Just look at the fucking pictures.

After the game, I remembered to collect my banner but I don’t remember how we reached Fulham Broadway. It seemed that all of the bars around the stadium had closed. We weren’t sure if this was because there was no beer left or if the police had said “enough.” One image stays in my mind. The Fulham Road was still closed for traffic and a sofa was sat in the middle of the road. Thankfully, we de-camped to our pub of choice that season, The Harwood Arms, and Pat and his three “Sisters of Murphy” let us in.

If there is a more blissful photo of Chelsea fans from that day – Neil, me, Daryl, Alan, Glenn outside the pub – then I would like to see it. We made it back to South London via Earls Court and God knows where else. We watched the game, taped, when we reached Alan’s flat late that night. We fell asleep happy.

On the Sunday morning, the big man made us breakfasts. We all hopped into Glenn’s car and made our way back to Fulham with “Blue Day” playing on a loop the entire day. Both Alan and I took our camcorders for the parade. The film I have of us driving along Wandsworth Bridge Road, Chelsea bunting everywhere, is a wonderful memory of another time, another place, lost in time.

We plotted up outside the old tube station. The double-decker with Chelsea players stopped right in front of us. Photographs. Film. Everyone so happy. Fans wedged on shop roofs. Almost hysteria. Chelsea shirts everywhere. A wonderful weekend.

2022.

I made good time heading East. The roads were clear. As I was lifted over the Chiswick flyover, we all spotted the Wembley Arch a few miles to the north. Maybe it thrills the current generation in the same way the Twin Towers used to thrill others…

In the pub against Wolves, some friends from the US – step forward Chad, Josh and Danny – said we could kip in their AirB’n’B for the Saturday night. The plan was, originally, for me to drive up and back and therefore be unable to partake in a few bevvies. This kind offer solved that problem. But this wasn’t just any AirB’n’B…this was a little studio flat right underneath the old Shed Wall at Stamford Bridge.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley” was about right.

But first a magic breakfast at a café in Hammersmith.

Sausages, fried eggs, baked beans, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of Rosie Lea.

I looked over at PD.

“I say this so often. Hope this ain’t the high spot of the fucking day.”

We weren’t sure.

I drove to Baron’s Court, parked up, then we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. We soon bumped into the Minnesota Triplets. We left our bags in the apartment and set off. The Americans were waiting, nervously, for their tickets to arrive via royal mail post.

Time for a photo outside the Bovril Gate.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley.”

I had planned a little pub-crawl that mirrored the one in 2018 that we had enjoyed before our win against Manchester United. We made our way to London Bridge. “The Mudlark” next to Southwark Cathedral was closed, so at just after 11am we made our way to one of London’s glorious pubs “The Old Thameside Inn” where we met up with Russ from Melbourne, the Kent boys, Steve from Salisbury, Dan from Devon and the three Americans. The weather was red hot. There were the usual laughs. After an hour or so, we sought shade in “The Anchor At Bankside”, another riverside favourite.

Six pints of “Peroni” hardly touched the sides.

But we were still all loathe to talk about the game.

Thankfully, I had seen very few Liverpool supporters at this point; just one in fact.

At around 2.15pm, we set off for Wembley. A Jubilee Line train from London Bridge took us straight up to Wembley Park, a repeat of 1997.

I lost PD and Parky, and walked with Steve up towards Wembley for a while. Whether it was because of the abhorrent abundance of half-and-half scarves being worn by many, or the fact that the famous vista of Wembley from distance is no longer as spine-chilling as in decades gone by, or just…well, “modern football”; I was having a bit of a downer to be honest.

Wembley is now absolutely hemmed in by flats, hotels, restaurants. There is no sense of place about the new gaff at all.

After my issues with getting in against Palace, this one was easy. No searches, straight in. I took the elevators up to the fifth level, with no bloody Scouser sliding in behind me like at the League Cup Final.

We were in ridiculously early, at about 3.30pm or so.

I was so pleased to Les from nearby Melksham. He had ‘phoned us, distraught, at 6.30am and asked us to keep an eye out for a spare. His ticket had gone ten rounds with his Hotpoint washing machine the previous evening and was much the worse for wear. Thankfully, he kept the stub – there’s a stub? – and Wembley were able to reprint it.

As the seats filled up around us, a surprising number of friends were spotted close by.

The two Bobs, Rachel and Rob, Kev, Rob Chelsea, Dave and Colin.

I was, in fact, in a Wembley section that was new to me; the north-east corner of the top tier. This would be my twenty-fourth visit to Wembley with Chelsea apart from the Tottenham away games. Of the previous twenty-three, I had only been seated in the lower deck on five occasions. And the East/West split has provided vastly differing fortunes.

The West End 14 : Won 11 and Lost 3

The East End 9 : Won 4 and Lost 5

So much for the lucky “tunnel” end. The West End at new Wembley was clearly our luckier-end.

Pah.

The seats – the ones in our end, or at least the ones in the lower tier, would be baking, with no respite from the sun – took ages to fill up. It annoyed the fuck out of me that every spare foot of balcony wall in the Liverpool end was festooned with red flags and banners. Our end was sparsely populated.

Chelsea tend to go for geographical locations on our flags honouring fan groups in various parts of the UK and beyond. Liverpool tend to go with white text on red honouring players and managers. Obviously, you never see St. George flags at Anfield, nor at Old Trafford for that matter.

The kick-off approached.

With about half an hour to go, we were introduced to a spell of deafening dance music from DJ Pete Tong, who was visible on the giant TV screens, seemingly having a whale of a time. The noise boomed around Wembley. This annoyed me. Rather than let fans generate our own atmosphere in that final build-up to the game, we were forced to listen to music that wasn’t football specific, nor relevant to anything.

It was utter shite.

“Pete Tong” infact.

With minutes to go, the Liverpool end was packed while our end had many pockets of empty red seats. Surely not the biggest ignominy of all? Surely we would sell all our Cup Final tickets? I had a worried few minutes.

The pre-match, the final moments, got under way.

The pitch was covered in a massive red carpet. Ugh. More bloody red.

I joined in with “Abide With Me” though many didn’t.

“In life. In death. Oh Lord. Abide with me.”

The only surprise was that said DJ didn’t mix it with a Balearic Anthem from the ‘eighties.

With the teams on the pitch, and Chelsea in all yellow – why? – it was now time for the national anthem. Again, I sang heartily along to this even though I am no fervent royalist. I wanted to be respectful and to add to the occasion.

With my awful voice booming out, I did not hear the Liverpool end booing it. But I was soon reliably informed by many that they were.

There was a time in the ‘seventies, at the height of the era of football fans revelling in being anti-social, that supporters often sang club songs over “God Save The Queen” but no team actually booed the national anthem at Cup Finals.

Liverpool seem to love doing it. It’s their “thing.” And while I can understand that some sections of the United Kingdom feel unloved and disenfranchised, it is this feeling among Liverpool Football Club supporters of them being “special cases” that grates with me and many. Do supporters of clubs from other currently and previously impoverished cities throughout England take such great pleasure in such “anti-Royal / anti-establishment” behaviour?

Save it for the ballot boxes, Liverpool fans.

Stop besmirching the name of your club and your city.

As Tracey Thorn once sang “narrow streets breed narrow minds” and there must be some awfully narrow streets around Anfield.

There were flames as the pre-match nonsense continued. It meant the opening minutes of the game was watched through a haze.

Those seats were still empty in our end.

FUCK.

We lined up as below :

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger

James – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Lukaku – Pulisic

A big game for Trevoh. A big game for Christian. A massive game for Romelu. Happy to see Mateo starting after his gruesome injury at Leeds United.

Liverpool began very brightly, attacking us in the east, and at the end of the first ten minutes I was supremely grateful that they were not one, or more, in front. They peppered our goal. We were chasing shadows and other clichés. However, Chalobah did well to recover and thump a goal-bound shot from Luis Diaz away from inside the six-yard box after Edouard Mandy had initially blocked the shot. A rebound was flashed wide. At the end of this opening flurry, I counted five decent attacks from the men in red.

We were hanging on.

Thankfully, ten minutes later, all of our seats were now occupied.

That temptation of “one last pint” at Marylebone is always a tough one.

I have often thought that our current team lacks a little personality, undoubtedly compared to certain teams that we have known and loved over the years. It often feels the current crop are missing charisma – even Quaresma would be half-way there – and I really wanted the team to show some mettle and get back into this game. The Liverpool fans were by far the loudest in the opening quarter and I wanted us, the fans, to show some charisma too.

We improved, both on and off the pitch.

A decent move down the right, probably the best of the match thus far, involving James and Mount set up Pulisic but his delicate shot rolled just wide of the far post. Next up, Pulisic set up Alonso but Alisson blocked after a heavy first touch from our raiding wing-back,

Chelsea were now much louder while Liverpool had quietened down considerably. It became a cagier game in the last part of the first-half, but I thought it a good game. This is however based on the fact that we weren’t getting pummelled, that we were in it.

My worst, worst, nightmare was for us to lose…pick a number…3-0? 4-0? 5-0?

But this was fine. Silva was looking as dominant as ever. With him in the team, we had a chance right?

More of the same please, Chelsea.

Into the second-half, we blitzed Liverpool in the opening few minutes, mirroring what had had happened in the first-half, though with roles reversed.

A smart move allowed Alonso, always a threat to opposing teams in the opposition box, but so often a threat to us in our own box, drilled one wide. Pulisic then wriggled and weaved but Alisson again foiled him. The scorer against Arsenal in 2020 – a game I often forget about for obvious reasons – was getting into good positions but needed to find the corners.

The third of three decent chances in the first five minutes of the second-half came from a free-kick from a tight angle, with Alonso slamming a direct hit against the crossbar.

“Fucksakechels.”

The wing-backs were often the focal points, and we were finding space in wide areas. This was good stuff.

Diaz screwed one just wide.

“CAREFREE” absolutely boomed around Wembley.

A young lad standing behind me initiated a loud “Zigger Zagger”; good work, mate.

We were in this game. All along, I had toyed with the Football Gods by silently wishing for a penalty shoot-out win as revenge for this season’s League Cup Final defeat.

The game continued, but we couldn’t quite keep the attacks going. There were only half-chances. But I still thought it a decent tight game.

On sixty-six minutes, N’Golo Kante replaced Kovacic.

Diaz, again a threat, bent one wide of the far post.

A few players were looking tired now, as was I. My feet were killing me. With less than ten minutes to go, Diaz cut in on our left and slammed a shot against Mendy’s near post.

A largely ineffectual Lukaku was replaced by Hakim Ziyech with five minutes to go.

A deep cross from the horrible Milner, on as a substitute, evaded everyone and David Robertson hot the back post. Another curler from Diaz always looked like going wide. It is so weird that even from one-hundred yards away, the trajectory of shots can be surmised.

I guess I watch a lot of live games, eh?

The referee blew up for full-time.

My wish for penalties – down our end please – looked a strong possibility.

The red end sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” before the first-period of extra-time and we prepared for an extra thirty-minutes of terror.

Football, eh?

More tired bodies on the pitch and up in The Gods. The two periods of fifteen minutes were not of high quality. Were both teams hanging on for penalties? Were we all?

We went close from a cross on the right but a Liverpool defender hacked it away before Pulisic could make contact. I loved how Kante chased down a Liverpool attack out on their right. What a player.

I painfully watched as Alonso just didn’t have the legs, try as he might, to match the pace of his marker as a ball was pushed past him.

Dave replaced Chalobah and Ruben replaced Pulisic.

The players were now dead on their feet and so was I.

Then, a bizarre substitution in the last minute of the game.

Ross Barkley for Ruben.

I think that I last saw him at Bournemouth, pre-season.

The referee blew up.

Another 0-0.

I got my penalties, and – thankfully – at our end too. I hoped that Liverpool would lose in the most tragic way possible.

Alas, alas…

We began OK with Alonso striking home. Then Thiago scored. Dave hit the post and our world caved in. I was dumbstruck as I saw more than a few Chelsea fans walk out. Wankers. We then exchanged goals – James, Barkley, Jorginho – with Liverpool but with their last kick, Sadio Mane’s strike was saved low by Mendy.

Hugs with the stranger next to me.

He beamed : “That’s for those that walked out.”

Sudden-death now.

Ziyech : in.

Jota : in.

Mount : saved.

Tsimikas : in.

We were silent. The Liverpool end roared. Red flares cascaded down onto the pitch. We trudged silently out, up to Wembley Park, a horrendous wait in a warm train, oh my bloody feet, and back – trying to rely on gallows humour to get us through – eventually to Earl’s Court for a few drinks and some food. It was our year in 1997 but not in 2022.

Nor 2021.

Nor 2020.

Three FA Cup Final defeats in a row. We have now played in sixteen of them, winning eight and losing eight. After our dominance from 2007 to 2012 – four wins – we need our fucking lucky West end back.

The three of us eventually got back to Fulham Broadway at about 10.30pm and met up with Josh, Chad and Danny.

From Wembley to Stamford Bridge, the return journey over, we fell asleep under The Shed Wall.

1997

2022

Tales From Yahnited

Posted on April 30, 2022 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 28 April 2022.

Manchester United was going to be our last regular season away game in 2021/22. However, our appearance in the FA Cup Final brought it forward just over two weeks.

Chelsea : “What are you doing Thursday 28 April?”

United : “Nothing. Absolutely nothing, why?”

Chelsea : “Well, we have a problem with Saturday 14 May.”

United : “Go on.”

Chelsea : “Well, we reached the Cup Final.”

United : “Shut it.”

Our last three domestic away games, then, were to be Manchester United, Everton and Leeds United. Three trips up north to three football giants. Three trips to the former warring counties of Lancashire and Yorkshire.

Three colours : red.

Three colours : blue.

Three colours : white.

These days, the cities and teams reside in Greater Manchester, Merseyside and West Yorkshire. And hopefully, fingers crossed, I would be attending all three. I have not fared too well with home games this season, but by the end of 2021/22, I will have hopefully chalked up a full set of away games in the league, mirroring that of 2008/9 and 2015/16.

I booked a half-day holiday at work for the day of the game and also a half-day holiday on the Friday. I collected Sir Les in a pub car park opposite work at midday, then Parky, then eventually PD at just before 1pm. My route to Manchester then needed to take me home. The reason for this needs explaining. Two tickets for two friends up north had been sent to me on Monday but had not yet materialised. I was hoping that they would be waiting for me in my front porch. Alas it was not to be. I had already warned them that the tickets were unlikely to arrive in time for my departure up north at 1pm as our post usually arrives mid-afternoon. My text to them was still a horrible thing to have to do.

The Royal Mail 1.

The Ticket Man 0.

Bollocks.

Undeterred, I set off.

There was a different route to get up onto the motorway network; Writhlington, Bath, Saltford, Keynsham, Bristol. I was soon onto the M32, then the M4, the M5…

By the way, It has occurred to me that during my match report for the recent West Ham United game, I missed an open goal. Surely, somehow, I could have referred to myself as the ticket man on Fulham Broadway Station?

What a waste.

The trip north was filled with football talk.

On the Tuesday, I had attended the Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm game at Badgers Hill. This was the Southern League Southern Division play-off semi-final over just one leg. I aimed to drag as many people along as possible in order to boost the gate. In the end, just one was able to make it. I watched in the seats of the main stand as Joe O’Loughlin, the raiding left-back, unleashed a right-footed bullet to put us 1-0 up. How we all celebrated that one. I was just messaging some friends with the words “WHAT A FUCKING GOAL” when Manor Farm equalised within a minute of our goal. Sadly, the away team scored two further second-half goals to win it 3-1. Well done to them. They now travel to Winchester City in the final. I was predictably saddened with this loss. “Gutted” to use the football equivalent. Frome had been flying high in the two COVID seasons which were then sadly abandoned, and had led from the front this season until March. I rue two tame derby draws against Larkhall. The gate on Tuesday was a quite remarkable 1,158. It showed how the club has grown over the last three years.

I will be there again, when I can, next season. I attended eighteen Frome Town games this season – seven away – and each one has been so enjoyable. The club has been revitalised and – yes – I am still hurting that we didn’t reach the play-off final. Ironically, the final will be between the teams that finished fourth and fifth this season. Our second place finish – with a league best four defeats all season – meant nothing.

I hated the play-offs in 1988 with Chelsea and I hate them now in 2022 with Frome Town.

My good mate Kev, Chelsea, bumped into me before the game as he is a board member of Manor Farm. He enjoyed chatting to the one person I had brought along, a certain Mr. Harris, and he gave me a mix-tape – with a slight football flavour – to take to Manchester.

So that got an airing.

I loved it.

I did, though, wonder if I was upsetting the Chelsea Gods by playing it. There were songs from Manchester-based The Stone Roses and The Fall within the twenty-odd tunes involved.

At least Mr. Harris got a mention in Laurel Aitkens’ “The Zigger Zagger Song.”

We stopped at “The Windmill” pub, just off the M6, for about the fourth time. It’s our base before getting to Manchester. The boys enjoyed a couple of pints.

It was soon time to leave the pub for the final approach to Old Trafford.

The “sat nav” changed its mind four times in about five minutes as I looked at the best way to reach our usual parking spot near Gorse Hill Park, which is around a fifteen-minute walk from Old Trafford. In the end, it dragged me in a wide arc to the west, through some ridiculously quiet country lanes, sending me close to United’s training ground at Carrington, before pushing me through Urmston. Before I knew it, I was joining the slow-moving match-going traffic heading north along the Chester Road. I crept past the abandoned sky blue art deco cinema – it annoys me every time I see it, I would love to see it saved – past those red brick houses, signs for parking – the match day buzz growing now – and then the light grey of the Old Trafford stands in the distance. I parked up and paid £10 to the usual people. There was a nip in the air. Jackets were fastened.

This was my twenty-sixth visit to Old Trafford to see us play United. There were two FA Cup semi-finals too.

The last was in August 2019; the 0-4 shellacking with Frank at the helm.

Since my first time of walking along the Chester Road to Old Trafford around twenty years ago, a few things have changed. Nearer the ground, there are a couple of new car dealerships and a large modern supermarket. But past The Bishop Blaize pub, I was glad to see the small knot of fast food outlets still going strong. Old Trafford itself has undergone monstrous redevelopment itself in the past twenty-five years – it isn’t the most aesthetically pleasing of stadia – and so it always gives me a warm glow to see these six or seven cafes still eking out a living. A link to the past. A link to our youth. It’s silly, but I hope they continue to thrive. The match day experience at Old Trafford would suffer if they were to disappear.

The Lou Macari chip shop is still there. After the work that Macari has done for the homeless in his adopted city of Stoke-on-Trent, I have a lot of respect for that man. Talking of Macari, if you call yourself a football fan and haven’t seen “Marvellous” you need to have a word with yourself.

We reached the forecourt, the famous forecourt – another link to the past, the Munich clock et al – at around 7.15pm. The ticket man handed over tickets to Deano.

There was just time for a photo to share on Facebook, with me outside the away turnstiles. There are certain games that require a little attention in the sartorial stakes and this was one of them.

United away : Vivienne Westwood shirt, Hugo Boss jeans, Hugo Boss top, Paul & Shark jacket and Adidas gazelles.

The caption?

“Tonight is my seventy-eighth Chelsea vs. Manchester United game across all competitions and venues. It takes them top just past Liverpool in my all-time list.

It is the only competition they will win this season.”

Without much fuss, I made my way in. The away segment of East Stand, formerly K Stand, is one of the oldest remaining parts of the stadium now. It reeks of ‘sixties concrete and pillars.

I simply could not have asked for a better viewing position. The much-enlarged disabled section at Old Trafford – very laudable – is at the front of the away corner, and so it means that our seats in “row two” were a third of the way back. Not only that, to my left was a clear view of the rest of the stadium; there was an abyss immediately next to me and then a gap before the home areas of the main stand, the South Stand. I had an even better than usual view of one of Old Trafford’s nicest features; the pitch is raised, as if indeed a stage, and the drop-off to the pitch surrounds always looks dangerously steep.

Old Trafford was quiet and not particularly full. Certainly in those areas to my left there were easily visible red seats. But our section had gaps too. Clearly this Thursday night fixture had proved to be problematic. We had heard rumours of “Glazers Out” protests but I had witnessed nothing before the game. The ground tried its best to fill up.

Just before the entrance of the teams, billowing sulphurous smoke emerged from the bowels of the South Stand. We presumed that a flare had been let off in protest.

The teams appeared from the tunnel in the south-east corner, below a “Glazers Out” sign held aloft by supporters.

Right. The game. The teams.

Chelsea lined up as below :

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Azpilicueta

James – Kante – Jorginho – Alonso

Mount – Havertz – Werner

The “fluid” system rather than the one with Lukaku in it. Right, kids?

Long gone are the days when I could reel off a United team.

This United team weren’t :

Schmeichel

Parker – Pallister – Bruce – Irwin

Kanchelskis – Ince – Robson – Giggs

Cantona – Hughes

Some bloke called Telles and some bloke called Elanga were playing for United, whoever they were. Cristiano Ronaldo, however, started.

The game – roll on drums – began.

What a start from us. We absolutely penned United into their own half and the home crowd, quiet before the game, were soon making negative noise.

The Chelsea faithful were first out of the traps too :

“Chelsea boys are on a bender. Cristiano’s got a coffee blender.”

…or something, I’m not sure.

I spoke to Parky :

“There’s some grass over there, left-hand side of the box, that marks the point where Ron Harris took out Eddie Gray in 1970.”

Unlike the first-half against West Ham on Sunday, we managed two efforts on target in the first seven minutes. A shot from Reece James and another from Timo Werner were saved well by De Gea.

It was all us. The action on the pitch and the noise off it.

Then, some scares came in quick succession. Bruno Fernandes, buzzing around from deep, looked to be their main threat and they had a little of the ball. A free-header from Fernandes was easily saved by Edouard Mendy, then an attempted bicycle kick from that man Ronaldo thankfully ballooned over.

But after this little blip, it was business as usual.

N’Golo Kante quickly shot at De Gea. We were playing so well. United were nowhere, nowhere at all. With Kante eating up space with two majestic and energetic runs from deep, he twice set up Kai Havertz with fine balls into space. The first resulted in a shot that was slashed against the side netting and the second was hit at an angle. The second move was undoubtedly the best of the game thus far.

There was a chant in honour of our Russian owner…the last days of the Roman Empire…but the United fans were so lethargic and apathetic that there was none of the usual boos that would normally accompany this.

We were especially dominant down our right with James making an absolutely marvellous return to the team. His cross was headed towards goal by Havertz, but this was again right at De Gea.

On thirty-eight minutes, an absolutely thunderous “Chelsea” – to the tune of “Amazing Grace” – galvanised the entire away support.

Thinking to myself : “they must have heard that on the TV in London, Paris, New York, Munich.”

Did you?

It was almost total domination from Chelsea. The half-time talks and chats were all positive.

The second-half began and I was aware that both police and stewards had positioned themselves in front of the main stand and in the far corner where the “Glazers Out” sign had made a reappearance. The club were presumably expecting further rumblings of discontent.

The dominance continued on. A fine cross from Mason Mount just evaded Timo.

Ten minutes in, I honestly heard the first “Yahnited” chant of the night.

On the hour, a cross into the box from that man James was flicked on by Havertz. I saw two blue shirts unmarked at the far post. I gulped some Mancunian air. The slight wait. The trusted left boot of Marcos Alonso sent the ball low past De Gea and into the net.

GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.

The away end boomed.

You probably heard that in London, Paris, New York and Munich too.

Sadly, just like with Frome Town on Tuesday night, a goal was conceded just after we scored. We conceded possession and United pounced. A fine scoop up by Matic – one of their better players, I thought – found Ronaldo inside the box and grotesquely unmarked.

It had goal written all over it and other clichés. He brought the ball under control superbly and smashed it past Mendy.

Old Trafford woke up.

Ugh.

“Viva Ronaldo. Running down the wing. Hear United sing. Viva Ronaldo.”

What a disappointment.

“They’ve only had three attempts on goal, Gal.”

With twenty minutes to go, changes from the sideline.

Romelu Lukaku for Havertz.

Christian Pulisic for Werner.

Lukaku, to his credit, again repeated Sunday’s entrance by trying to sprint into spaces but was cruelly ignored by all.

I noted that Matic was booed off by us whereas Juan Mata – lovely player, lovely man, I sound like Alan Partridge – was warmly applauded.

We seemed to have corner after corner in that second-half.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

We conjured one last real chance. With ten minutes to go, Kante broke in the inside left position and played a fine ball into Mount. With a lovely understanding of his positioning and of others, he back-heeled to James.

There was a wait for the ball to reach him and for him to reach the ball.

We inhaled again.

The ball was crashed goal wards and it clipped the left-hand post.

We howled.

In the back of my mind, now, was the Football Gods completely fucking us over and allowing United an absolutely unmerited winner. There was indeed a late chance for Garnacho – who? – but Mendy saved well.

The draw felt like a loss.

Definitely.

Throughout thhis excellent game, Kante, Alonso and Silva had been magnificent but the real star was Reece James. Some of his close control was mesmerising, and his positional play superb. He really will be one of our very greats.

On Sir Matt Busby Way, Sir Les and PD indulged in a polystyrene tray of chips and curry sauce while I had a burger with onions. The food of the footballing Gods.

We made our way back to the car. Out on the Chester Road, the everything was moving quicker than usual. It was a tough old drive home but I eventually reached my house at 2.45am on Friday morning. The two tickets had still not arrived.

On Sunday, we’ll be heading up the same roads all over again.

I love a trip to Goodison. Who knows, it could – sadly – be my last.

I hope to see some of you there.

Tales From A Spring Cruise

Posted on April 15, 2022 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 9 April 2022.

Chelsea Football Club was hurting. Two consecutive home defeats, to the disparate talents of Brentford and Real Madrid and with conceding seven goals in the process, had surprised us and had made us smart. Were we that bad in both games?

Yes, sadly. We had created many chances during the second-half of Wednesday’s game, but our finishing had been poor.

The Chelsea conundrum was continuing. We were in third place in the league; admittedly no mean achievement. And it was quite likely that we would finish the season in that placing. But for much of the campaign our performances had been unconvincing. We hadn’t pushed on from last season. But the talent was there. It just needed to be harnessed correctly.

However, after a bleak few days following The Great Unpredictables, I was thoroughly looking forward to a little spin down to Hampshire, to Southampton, to St. Mary’s. It was nice to have a game so close to my home; it was barely a ninety-minute drive. And our record down there has been pretty decent. In my twelve previous visits to this stadium, there was just one defeat.

There were five in my blue Chuckle Bus on Saturday morning. I collected PD, his son Scott, Parky and Glenn at 8am and we made excellent time.

With blue skies overhead, the road south from Warminster hugged the River Wyle to my west with the chalk uplands of Salisbury Plain to my east. The magnificence of Salisbury Cathedral’s spire, resplendent in the early morning sun, took my breath away as it always does. I hugged the eastern edge of the New Forest as I continued south. Entering into Southampton, I am always reminded of two moments.

The first came in 1981. On a sunny Saturday in April of that year I attended a game at The Dell, their old shoe-box stadium, between Southampton and Nottingham Forest, the then European Champions. One of my father’s customers had kindly gifted us two of their season tickets and I was very happy to be able to see one of my non-Chelsea heroes, Kevin Keegan, play at last. It was my second non-Chelsea professional game. The first also involved Nottingham Forest, the 1978 League Cup Final, again a gift from one of my father’s work associates. There haven’t been many over the years. This was Chelsea game number 1,344. In the UK, I have seen maybe thirty professional club games not involving Chelsea, of which around ten were in Scotland.

The second came in 2003. We were heading to “The Victory” pub outside the train station – alas no more – and on the last approach as the road rises into the city centre we were listening to the 2003 Rugby Union World Cup Final on the car radio. We heard “Jonny Wilkinson kicks for glory” and had the briefest of “whoops” before turning the radio off and getting back to supporting a sport that mattered.

It was the same approach into the city this year.

To my right, the horizon was pierced by the towers of the cranes that load and offload thousands of sea containers every day. Then, a gasp, a massive cruise ship – ugly, grotesque, hideous, an eye-sore – appeared. I am sure I have seen the same one berthed at Southampton before. Southampton as always is the embarkation point of many cruise ships. In my childhood, a very early memory, I am sure my parents drove down by the quayside to see the QE2 before it set off. I personally hate the idea of cruises. Fuck that. I like to self-govern my holidays, not leave my sightseeing plans to others.

I was parked up outside the train station at 9.30am. Sadly the usual café where we have enjoyed breakfasts and pints for a few years had closed. We ended up doing a little tour of three of the city centre’s pubs.

“Yates” : already mobbing up with Chelsea, a few familiar faces. We ordered some breakfasts. This is the main Chelsea pub in the town centre. It’s OK at the start but gets too busy. And uses plastic glasses. I met up with Mark from Westbury, Paul from Swindon and Bank from Bangkok.

“The Standing Order” : we spotted a little pocket of Chelsea so joined them for a drink. This is a home pub, but as nobody tends to wear colours at away games, we glided in easily.

“Stein Garten” : we met up with Alan and Gary in this German-style bar. We were joined by Kathryn and Tim, still smarting from the two losses on their trip. Before they headed back to Virginia, they – we – were all hoping for a win to put the run of poor form to a close.

Time was moving on and we still had a twenty-minute walk, at least, to reach the stadium. Our route would take us serendipitously through the churchyard of St. Mary’s. The first incarnation of Southampton Football Club was as St. Mary’s Young Men Association. The church certainly has its history. This is the church that inspired the Southampton’s nickname and also their current stadium name. When the new stadium opened in 2001 – we were the first league visitors – it was known as the Friends Provident Stadium, and I am glad that has now changed.

I silently said a little prayer for our chances later as I walked past the church’s grey stone walls.

I was in the right place for a prayer.

Beyond the church’s steeple, I spotted a tower block that was clad in red and white.

Perfect.

I marched Kathryn and Tim towards the main entrance, past the Ted Bates statue, and we joined the throng of away supporters at the turnstiles.

“Bollocks, it’s ten to three. I can’t see us getting in on time.”

Lo and behold, the Footballing Gods were on my side. I got in with ten seconds to go.

Have I ever mentioned, perchance, that my line of work just happens to be in the world of logistics? I think it may have passed my lips once or twice.

For a change, we were out of the sun in the front rows and half-way back by the corner flag. Sadly, this stadium is quite possibly the dullest of all of the new builds that have infested the United Kingdom in the past two or three decades. The only remotely interesting features are the red and white panels under the roof at the rear of the stand and the red astroturf around the perimeter of the pitch. At least there are no executive boxes. Despite the bland feel of this stadium, over the years I have managed to tease a few decent photos out of my camera at St. Mary’s. The shadows on a sunny day, like this one, have helped add something to my photographs of the players as they confront each other on the pitch. I hoped for more of the same on this occasion.

I quickly scanned the players on the pitch – I much prefer us in all yellow than with black shorts – and tried to piece it all together.

Mendy

Christensen – Silva – Rudiger

Loftus-Cheek – Kante – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Havertz – Werner

No Broja for the home team, but Livramento was at right-back for them.

Mase with a new haircut, shades of Johnny Spencer in Vienna. Ruben as a wing-back again, but we had heard that Dave had tested positive for COVID. Pleased to see Kovacic playing. A chance for Werner. So many had painfully admitted that they had given upon him, myself included.

The game began.

We attacked the other end in the first-half.

Very soon into the game, with me still getting my bearings – “where the fuck is Parky?” – and trying to work out the team’s shape, that man Timo Werner saw a low shot ricochet back off the far post. Soon after, Kai Havertz slammed one over the bar. We were dominating this one, despite a couple of rare Southampton attacks, and we could hardly believe it when a Loftus-Cheek cross from the right found Werner’s head, but he had the misfortune to hit the bar this time.

“He has generally been poor for us, but he has also been so unlucky.”

On eight minutes, Loftus-Cheek played the ball in to Mount with his back to the goal. He controlled the ball so well and deftly spooned the ball out to his right, our left, where Marcos Alonso was raiding.

Bosh.

Goal.

Get in.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

We tended to prefer our left flank as an attacking avenue – “listen to me, attacking avenue, for fuck sake man” – but on sixteen minutes the ball was played into Mount from the right and after setting himself up nicely, he swept a perfectly-struck shot into the goal, just inside the far post.

2-0 and coasting on the South Coast.

Werner went close again, but then on twenty minutes a rapid break from us, with Werner the spearhead, had us all willing him on. He rounded the ‘keeper, shades of a Torres at his peak – er for Liverpool – and the lively calmly slotted the ball in from what looked like a pretty slim angle.

Superb.

Well done that man. Well deserved.

On the half-hour mark, after another searching ball down our left, Werner wriggled into the box and let fly with a shot that rattled the other post – “oh no” – but luckily the ball rebounded nicely to Havertz who, to his credit, was supporting the attack well.

On the half-hour, we were 4-0 up.

But what bad luck for Timo, who had hit a “hat-trick” of sorts thus far; left post, cross-bar, right post.

Alan summed it all up rather succinctly :

“Timo has hit the woodwork more times than Pinocchio does when he has a wank.”

With the goals flying in, I surely wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter who was suddenly becoming fixated with the number nine. In 2019, Saints lost 0-9 at home to Leicester City. In 2021, Southampton lost 0-9 at Old Trafford.

Next to me, Dave remembered the time, in early 2015, when we went 4-0 up at Swansea City within the first forty-five minutes.

What was my biggest away win? I recollected a 6-0 at Wigan in 2010, the week after we beat West Brom 6-0 at Stamford Bridge.

Goals, goals, goals.

We were on fire.

We attacked and attacked. We spotted more than a few home fans disappearing down exit tunnels well before the half-time whistle.

“You’ve had your day out, now fuck off home.”

Meanwhile, where was Parky?

At the half-time break, the always crowded concourse at Southampton was a pretty joyful place. I was so pleased that Kathryn and Tim, not to mention Bank from Thailand, were finally witnessing a win.

We saw Christian Pulisic warming up.

Alan : ”Who’s coming off?”

Chris : “Havertz, I reckon, give him a rest.”

For once I was right.

The second-half began and it was the same old story.

Just four minutes into the second forty-five minutes, Alonso played the ball in to N’Golo Kante. He advanced and attempted a little dink over Forster. This was palmed away but only into the path of Werner who shot just as I shot but at the same time that a chap in front threw his hand up. A ‘photo ruined but I did not care one jot.

Five.

Wow.

There was a rare save from Mendy – a belter actually, a fine save – but this was the home team’s only real chance all game.

To be fair, most home fans remained and urged their beleaguered team on.

“Oh when the Saints go marching in.”

Our reply was obvious.

“Oh when the Saints go marching out.”

On fifty-four minutes, a ball stretched them out down their right and Alonso pushed the ball square to Pulisic. His effort was stopped by Forster but Mount was on hand to tuck it in.

The joy of six.

Lovely.

The game, even more so now, was over. Southampton were dead and buried. At last Parky showed up. He had been doing a tour of the away end.

Reece James replaced Thiago Silva.

Hakim Ziyech replaced Mount.

I liked it that Livramento was applauded by us when he was substituted.

The home team looked shell-shocked, well beaten. To be fair, more stayed to watch the last half-an-hour than Dave and I expected. Fair play to them. There was time for a few songs.

“Kovacic our Croatian man.

He left Madrid and he left Milan.

He signed for Frank and said “fuck off” Zidane.

He signed for Chelsea on a transfer ban.”

I urged the team on. We all wanted more. We wanted tons of optimism ahead of the trip to Madrid. Although no more goals came, the away end was a fine place to be on this particular Spring afternoon. The best effort was from Alonso but it flew low past the far post.

Southampton 0 Chelsea 6.

Superb.

In the city of ships, this was a real cruise.

On the slow walk back to my car, I took the chance to get my camera out and take a few photographs of some features and buildings that took my eye. We stopped off for a curry just before the Civic Centre with its imposing clock tower. As I sat down, I realised that I had previously been on my feet for around eight hours. The curry hit the spot, and the trip home – the roads clear of traffic now – was quick and easy.

It had been a superb day out.

Good old Chelsea.

Tales From Good Old Chelsea

Posted on December 13, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 11 December 2021.

I have penned six-hundred-and-thirty-four of these match reports. Such has been Leeds United’s absence from the top flight in English football that not one of them has featured our oldest and nastiest rivals from South Yorkshire. There was one rare meeting in December 2012 – away in the League Cup – but I didn’t attend that one; it came just too soon after the World Club Cup in Tokyo. I was in no mood to make a lone trip north for a mid-week game. And then, just over a year ago, there was the high-water mark of Frank Lampard’s tenure as Chelsea manager, the 3-1 win at Stamford Bridge that took us to the top of the league, but there was a limited attendance for that one of around a few thousand. Recovering from my heart attack, it was a game I really wasn’t in a fit enough condition to attend. The return game at Elland Road in March had no spectators at all.

As I drove to London early on Saturday morning – a fleeting but beautiful sunrise over Salisbury Plain, a beguiling mix of orange and pink, was the memorable highlight – I pondered a few topics and angles to use in this blogorama. It soon dawned on me that many of our newer fans, of which there are utterly millions, have never witnessed the heated rivalry of a Chelsea and Leeds United league game at a packed Stamford Bridge stadium.

The last such occasion was in May 2004.

The last game of the season, Claudio Ranieri’s last game in charge, a 1-0 win for us, Goodnight Vienna, Goodbye Leeds. I watched that one in the West Lower, freeing up my ticket for Glenn’s mate Tomas from Berlin. A Jesper Gronkjaer goal gave us the points to secure a second place finish behind Arsenal. I wonder whatever happened to them?

But let’s go back further.

The first time that I saw Leeds United in person was in the Second Division in October 1982, a game with a phenomenally malevolent atmosphere before, during and no doubt after. Chelsea had been playing in the second tier since 1979, Leeds were newly-relegated. It seemed almost implausible, to my eyes and to others, that these two giants were now out of the top flight. But the thought of Chelsea playing Leeds, with me able to attend, certainly galvanised me during the close season. The anticipation was palpable. Throughout the previous campaign, our highest home attendance was 20,036. Yet this game smashed that; 25,358 attended and it no doubt drew in the hooligan element of which we had thousands. Leeds had signed off their long membership of the old First Division with a loss at West Brom, sending them down, and their equally notorious hooligans wrecked the away end as a parting gift.

I will not lie. In those days, football was often an afterthought in many attendees’ minds. It was all about “how many away fans, did they go in the seats, any trouble?”

Chelsea and Leeds.

Back against each other for the first time in three seasons.

It was a huge match.

I watched a dire 0-0 draw from The Shed, but can well remember the amazingly heated and noisy atmosphere. I can recollect the northern sections of The Benches and the Gate 13 section of the East Lower to be absolutely rammed with Herberts, goading the travelling thousands from the north in the middle two pens in the sweeping away terrace. How many did Leeds bring? I am not sure. Maybe 3,000, maybe more. There was a welcome and a warning on the front page of the programme for all Leeds fans; “don’t be a mug, don’t be a thug and help your club achieve greatness once again” but there were outbreaks of violence throughout the game.

I also vividly remember The Shed goading the away support :

“Did the (Yorkshire) Ripper get your Mum?”

Different, crazy, brutal times.

From that encounter in 1982/83 I was then able to watch every single Chelsea versus Leeds United league game until that match in 2003/04. This was a run of seventeen unbroken games, and for around ten of these I would always meet up with my college mate Bob, a Leeds season-ticket holder, who got to know my closest Chelsea mates in the pub before disappearing into the away section. Bob also came down to Stamford Bridge for the Liverpool game in 1986, the West Ham game in 1987 and went with me to Forest in 1987 and also to Old Trafford for the FA Cup game in 1988. I accompanied him to Elland Road to see West Brom in the last league game of 1986/87, and I remember smirking as the Leeds fans alongside me in the South Stand – hoolie central – sang about guns and Chelsea scum.

I wore it as a badge of honour that they sung about us when we weren’t even playing each other.

There were the blissful moments when our promotion from the old Second Division was reached in 1984 with a memorable 5-0 demolition of Leeds United at home, then the wonderful repeat in 1989 albeit with a narrower 1-0 win to secure promotion once again against the same opponents.

I can well remember meeting up with Bob, another college mate Trev who also followed Leeds, and my Rotherham United mate Ian, all of whom watched many of Leeds’ games as they closed in on the 1991/92 League Championship. We were sat in a pub in Worcester Park on an afternoon session after the season had finished, and the lads were reminiscing on a few of the games that had given Leeds the title, and not Manchester United. Because of my friendships with these lads, I was definitely in the Leeds corner as 1991/92 came to its conclusion. I just despised Manchester United in those days. Deep down, I still do. I remember asking Bob “what did it feel like when you won the game at Bramall Lane to win the league?” and the sub-text was undoubtedly “what will it feel like if Chelsea ever win the league?”

In the summer of 1992, Chelsea Football Club seemed light years away from silverware.

But I was genuinely happy for my Leeds mates; all lovely chaps, bless ‘em.

From relegation in 1982 to a Football League Championship – the last “real” one, and one with Eric Cantona playing for Leeds – was some turnaround.

Sitting in that pub on a warm summer day, I could not help but think back on that classic Second Division season of 1983/84 – arguably the strongest ever – when the five powerhouses of Chelsea, Leeds United, Manchester City, Newcastle United and Sheffield Wednesday faced-off. At the end of it all – my favourite ever season – Leeds, along with City, missed out on promotion. Yet here they were, finally promoted in 1990, winning the bloody league ahead of the other four. In fact, all four other protagonists had managed to get themselves relegated again since 1984.

The saying “whoever laughs last, laughs longest” never felt more applicable.

Our rivalry, of course, dates back specifically to 1970 – and arguably for a few seasons before it – but there was definitely a renaissance at certain times since. In the early ‘nineties, Leeds tended to have the upper hand over us, and I hated it. They beat us at Stamford Bridge in 1990/91 and 1991/92 and also in 1994/95, a horrible 0-3 loss.

But I remember a game in April 1996 too. I watched that game in the temporary seats of the Shed End alongside Rotherham Ian and his father too – a nice memory – while Bob and Trev were in the away section of the East Lower. Chelsea won 4-1 with Mark Hughes getting a lovely hat-trick; that must have annoyed the fuck out of the away fans. Sadly, the gate was only 22,000 at a time when our capacity was at the 31,000 mark. The gaping holes in the North Stand – yet to become The Matthew Harding – make my eyes smart. Sigh.

Leeds United were relegated at the end of that 2003/04 season. There was a certain amount of schadenfreude when their last game that season was at Stamford Bridge.

“Be off with you, and take your father’s gun too.” Or words to that effect.

In 2005, our erstwhile chairman Ken Bates took over as Leeds chairman and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Leeds fans, to a man, woman and dog, definitely cried.

They eventually crawled back to the top flight of English football at the end of the 2019/20 season.

“What took you?”

There had been the usual pre-match at “The Eight Bells” with friends from near and far. For the first time, I approached Putney Bridge by car from the south side of the river and was able to drop Paul and Parky right outside the pub; door to door service indeed. By the time I had parked-up and then caught the tube to join them it was 10.30am. Gillian and Kev from Edinburgh were already with them; lucky enough to grab tickets from the ticket exchange at the last minute. They were not watching together though; Kev was in the MHU, Gillian was in the West Lower. Luke and then Aroha showed up, and also Courtney and Mike from Chicago. A few of the Kent lads sat at the bar. At last I was able to meet up with revered Chelsea author Walter Otton and it was a great pleasure to be able to personally thank him for his support in my endeavours over recent seasons.

There was talk of not only Chelsea but Leeds hiring boats to the game; a River Thames cruise apiece from out east to nearby Putney, across the river. I had visions of some bizarre medieval boating battle with jousting poles, or maybe a violent version of the university boat race (“with more than two cox”)

Outside the Fulham Broadway tube, I sensed the presence of a little mob of Leeds; just by their looks and stares. They were close by a line of police. We edged around them. By the time I had reached my seat in the MHU – with Gary talking about Leeds lads slapping a few Chelsea fans outside, unchallenged – I was absolutely ready for the football to begin.

The team?

Mendy

Azpilicueta – Silva – Rudiger

James – Jorginho – Loftus-Cheek – Alonso

Mount – Havertz – Werner

So, still no starting place for our number nine.

Leeds United were without Patrick Bamford, the former Chelsea youngster. Unlike on many occasions at Stamford Bridge, Leeds wore the all-white kit, albeit with some nasty luminous yellow socks. On quite a few times over the years they used to opt for the all yellow kit. There were three thousand Leeds fans in The Shed, but I didn’t spot a single flag nor banner.

The match began and, just like against the United of Manchester, we absolutely dominated the first quarter of an hour or so.

An early free-kick from Reece James went close but not close enough. It was all Chelsea. My usual match-going companion Alan was absent – COVID19 – so I was sat in his seat next to Clive. In my seat, a Chelsea fan from Scunthorpe.

There was a rising shot from Ruben Loftus-Cheek that crashed into the Shed Upper.

“They’ve hardly attacked us yet, mate.”

On thirteen minutes, a loud “Marching On Together” – their battle hymn – and soon after, Leeds enjoyed their first real attack. A shot from the lively Raphinha was blocked, but the Brazilian then forced a fine save from Mendy.

It’s interesting that the Mendy song did not make an appearance during the game. I am not sure that if there is an agreed-upon life-cycle of a chant at football, but this one is still in its infancy; heard at the densely-packed away terraces, but not yet widely-known enough to warrant a full-throttle rendition at Stamford Bridge. Yet.

There was a Leeds corner, and this elicited the other Leeds battle-cry which always follows the awarding of a Leeds corner.

“Leeds! Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!”

Loud and original. I can’t fault that.

Thiago Silva was trying his best to orchestrate things, looking to float balls into space or to pick out runners. But it was a hard slog. There was little room in the final third.

Mid-way through the half, a loud chant from the away quadrant :

“Marcos Alonso. You should be in jail.”

This was answered by the Chelsea faithful with a typically antagonistic chant of our own aimed at a Leeds native. I don’t like even thinking about the man, let alone saying it, singing it, nor writing it.

The Alonso chant was repeated and almost without pause for thought, our left wing-back took a wild swipe at Daniel James. It was a clear penalty.

Raphinha’s stuttering run was almost against the spirit of the game, but Mendy took the bait. However, he seemed to collapse too soon and the Brazilian’s gentle prod to his right ended up a mere yard or so away from him.

Fackinell.

The Leeds fans roared, Rapinha wound up the MHL, game on.

On the half-hour, a very loud “Marching On Together” was met with an even louder “Carefree” and everything was alright with the world. At last, the atmosphere was simmering along nicely. But I couldn’t help saying to Clive “there’s a lack of invention and guile out there today.”

A few minutes later, the third Leeds battle cry of the day.

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

This harks back to May 1975. A hotly disputed disallowed goal from Peter Lorimer and Leeds United would eventually lose the European Cup Final to Bayern Munich in Paris. I remember watching it on TV. They still feel aggrieved.

The Leeds fans still sing this almost fifty years later. Bloody hell, lads and lasses, let it go.

They must have hated seeing our “Champions Of Europe” signage on the West Stand if any of them got close to it.

With half-time approaching, sinner turned saint. Alonso won the ball on our left and played a brisk one-two with Timo Werner.

I whispered “(needs a) good cross Alonso”…and it was.

It flew low to the near post and Mason Mount whipped it home with one sweet swipe.

GET IN.

Soon after, a dipping free-kick from that man Alonso did not dip enough. Then the young Leeds ‘keeper Illan Meslier saved from Kai Havertz.

Chances had been rare and it was 1-1 at the break. There were no complaints with the score, but plenty of moans at the lack of quality in key areas.

We began a little brighter in the second-half but goal scoring chances were absolutely at a premium. Werner threatened a little, Havertz tried to link things together, but we missed a focal point.

Just before the half-hour mark, down below me, Raphinha slid in to prevent a raiding Antonio Rudiger cross. But the challenge was untidy and legs were tangled. Everyone yelled for a penalty. Some divs even yelled “VAR” which is anathema to me.

Penalty it was.

Jorginho.

A skip.

Goal.

Get in you beauty.

I snapped away like a fool.

At the other end, a very fine save from Mendy from James, but still no song. Silva messed up a great chance to further our lead and held his head in his hands. It wasn’t a great second-half, but we noted that Alonso improved as the game continued. He was always looking to get close to the man with the ball and on a number of occasions did just enough to help win the ball back.

Clive and I wondered if Tuchel might bolster the midfield and bring on Ross Barkley to bulk it up a little. Leeds were tending to swarm through us and we looked out of shape, physically and positionally.

Christensen for Azpilicueta.

Hudson-Odoi for Werner.

Then, a lightning bolt of an attack down the Leeds left and another low cross, a la Alonso, from in front of the East Lower. Joe Gelhardt arrived with perfect timing to knock the ball in past Mendy. The Leeds fans roared some more.

Bollocks.

In a seemingly desperate “last throw of the dice” moment, Lukaku replaced Alonso. There were three minutes to go, and then an extra five.

“COME ON CHELS.”

With ninety-four minutes played, and with Clive having headed for the exits a few minutes earlier, Rudiger again found himself in the Leeds United box. There was a half-hearted challenge from behind but my first thoughts were that Rudiger crumpled far too easily. I didn’t even appeal. I’d be no good at cricket. This one went to VAR again. Another positive decision. And a quicker decision, I think, this time.

Jorginho again.

Another skip.

In.

The winner.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Chelsea 3 Leeds United 2.

It hadn’t been a great game in terms of quality. We had hardly peppered the Leeds goal. But it was certainly an old-fashioned battle which became more intriguing as the game developed. As I walked out of the MHU, there was one almighty melee occurring on the far side between the players of good old Chelsea and good old Leeds.

Some things don’t change, eh?

To be continued at Elland Road in April, no doubt.

Next up, Everton at home on Thursday. See you there.

1995/1996 : From The Shed.

2003/2004 : Joe And Jesper.

2021/22 : High Fives.

2021/22 : Chelsea Smiles.

2021/22 : The Winner.

Tales From Beneath The Whispering Gallery

Posted on September 21, 2021 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 19 September 2021.

I have said it before and I suspect that I will say it again and again; to me Tottenham is our biggest away game. It’s certainly the one that I look forward to more than no other. It has history. It has substance. It has animosity. It has hate. With Chelsea flying high, and Tottenham faltering, I couldn’t wait to set off for their new spanking stadium that soars over the more down-at-heel shops and houses on the Tottenham High Road and its associated neighbouring streets.

But first an FA Cup tie.

Yes, dear reader, this was another weekend of football that was to give me the twin gifts of League and Cup.

I assembled at Frome Town’s ground Badgers Hill for the 3pm kick-off on the Saturday for a game against National League South outfit Oxford City, a team that we had recently played in the same step of the football pyramid. Since then, the Hoops have advanced one step, while the Robins have descended one.

What transpired was a stunningly perfect afternoon of FA Cup football, played out under a mottled sky, warming sunshine and with a really gratifying attendance of almost six hundred spectators. Frome soaked up some steady pressure in the first-half and an Oxford goal was called back for offside. Two stunning breakaway goals by James Ollis and Joe O’Loughlin gave the home team a surprise 2-0 lead at the break. Frome then improved further, with more attacks, more efforts on goal. But just at the very moment that my mate Francis uttered the immortal words “they look like scoring” and I replied “you’re right” – they did.

Despite an increasingly nervous last quarter of an hour, manager Danny Greaves’ side held on to win 2-1.

My friend Steve, the newly-crowned club historian, believed this to be Frome’s first win in the Cup against a team two divisions higher than us since a 1984 win against Bath City.

So, into the Third Qualifying Round we go. I remember watching Frome Town play against Team Bath at the same stage around ten years ago; a 2-2 draw at home, a heavy 0-4 loss away, at Bath City’s Twerton Park.

We would await the draw on Monday with keen interest.

I collected PD and Parky at 9.15am on the Sunday morning and pointed my Chelsea Blue Chuckle Wagon eastwards. We tend to break up the journey with a Greggs breakfast – being on a diet ain’t easy with all of the miles we travel for football – just before the A303 meets the M3. The woman serving us at Popham Services – Eddie Large in drag – has got to know our ugly faces the past two seasons and there is usually a little football banter while we order baps, baguettes and slices. She’s a Liverpool fan. Yes, you can only imagine.

Just as I slid the car away, PD announced :

“Jimmy Greaves has died, then.”

Oh no. What sad news. I know that he had been ill for some time.

“Did he pass away today? Bloody strange if he did, what with Tottenham playing Chelsea.”

I ate up the miles, and we were parked up at Barons Court tube at 11.45am; as quick and as easy a journey in as I can remember. We would eventually hope to catch the 3pm over ground service from Liverpool Street up to White Hart Lane, but we didn’t particularly care to be surrounded by coke’d up wannabes in the pubs that cluster around that station for a few hours, drinking out of plastic glasses and under the eye of the OB. I fancied somewhere different. We changed from the Piccadilly to the Central at Holborn, then alighted at St. Paul’s.

We made “The Paternoster” our base for a couple of hours or so. In a break from the light drizzle and then steady showers, I sped outside for twenty minutes to take a few photographs of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece. I looked up at the huge and impressive dome, and remembered tales of The Whispering Gallery. I had been past St. Paul’s Cathedral once or twice by bus in recent times, but the last time that I had actually stood outside it was on a family trip to London in 1981. While my parents and an aunt toured inside the cathedral, I just walked to Stamford Bridge. It seemed the most logical thing to do in the circumstances.

From one cathedral to another.

I can distinctly remember reading the Jimmy Greaves autobiography “This One’s On Me” around that same time and, thinking back, it was undoubtedly the first footballer’s autobiography that I ever read. I can remember reading how he hated his time in Milan after his forced move from Chelsea. His decline into alcoholism was quite harrowing for a sixteen-year-old to read.

I wasn’t going to have a single beer, but I bought a single “Peroni” to toast his memory.

“Oh, he did die today. How uncanny.”

There was a photograph on the internet of Jimmy Greaves, from around maybe fifteen years ago, being presented pitch side at Stamford Bridge. I must have been there, yet – alas – I have no recollection of it.

Outside, the rain, but only a few spots. At 2.40pm, we whizzed up to Liverpool Street, and then found an empty carriage at Liverpool Street for the last leg of the journey. It was the earliest that we would be arriving in N17 for ages. On the twenty-five-minute journey, PD surprised us all and began chatting to some Tottenham fans. Parky and I kept our silence. To be fair, they were decent lads and we wished each other well, although I am sure none of us fucking meant it.

I wanted to take a few photographs of the stadium, so excused myself. Let’s not waste any time here; the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium is a stunner, an absolute beauty, surely the finest football stadium in Europe. That it sits cheek by jowl alongside the same fried chicken joints, nail shops, kebab houses and grimy pubs as the old White Hart Lane gives the place a very odd feeling, as uneven a setting as there is ever likely to be. It might be on The High Road, but it overlooks The Low Road.

Simple black and white images of Jimmy Greaves MBE appeared on the outside and inside of the stadium. His presence was everywhere. Again, how odd and yet fitting that he should pass away on the day of the derby between his two main teams. I was reminded of Dixie Dean passing away at Goodison during the Merseyside derby in 1980.

I whirled away, bumped into some Chelsea acquaintances from Bristol and New York on the High Road, then spun around to enter the away turnstiles in the north-eastern corner.

Just as I entered the away concourse, there was an almighty commotion and I couldn’t quite work out what was occurring.

United were winning 2-1 at West Ham, but there was a late penalty for the home team. Noble then missed. Bollocks.

How’s that for a match report?

This was Parky’s first visit to the new place. I looked at the towering South Stand and could hardly believe how high it extended.

The troops arrived.

Alan, Gary, Foxy and Drew from Dundee, Margaret and Pam, Calvin, Becky and Cath. There were a few chats with many of the usual suspects.

Turin dominated.

I had succumbed on Friday to a four-day trip to the home city of Juventus for our game in a couple of weeks’ time.

I chatted with Patrick, then Ali and Nick, then Alan, then Tim. There were differing levels of understanding of what testing and procedures were required. It would, no doubt, be a stressful time over the next week or so. Preparations for Porto proved to be a drain on my brain and I am sure Turin will be too.

“Mendy’s out.”

Bollocks.

The stadium filled. I couldn’t work out if the seats are all muted slate grey or a dull navy. Regardless, virtually all were filled. We were in row four, right down the front, not far from our spot in the 2019/20 season.

It shows how disconnected we were last season that neither Alan nor Gary nor myself could remember how we did at Tottenham last season.

“Draw, wannit?”

One of the former players being interviewed for the in-house TV Channel was Gary Mabbutt, his Bristol twang taking me back to when he used to play for Bristol Rovers, then Tottenham, then England.

Gary : “Good player, Mabbutt.”

Chris : “His father, Ray, used to play for Frome.”

The team was announced. Not only no Mendy, but no Kante either.

Kepa

Rudiger – Silva – Christensen

Dave – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Lukaku – Havertz

Just before kick-off, that same image of Jimmy Greaves appeared on the TV screens in the four corners of the stadium, high above the pitch. Both sets of fans roundly and solidly applauded his memory.

He was loved by the fans of both clubs and the whole of the football world.

Jimmy Greaves was the greatest ever goal scorer produced by the English nation.

I remembered that in 2019, Martin Peters – unlike Greaves, a player in the 1966 World Cup Final – was similarly remembered.

Glenn Hoddle appeared out of nowhere and was given a fine reception by the 3,000 Chelsea fans in the corner as he walked around the edge of the pitch.

The game began. Tottenham attacked our northern end. With them playing in navy socks this year, we were allowed to wear our white socks. I approved. I soon found myself being distracted a little by all of the constant messages being blitzed across the various balconies. Supporters clubs from all over the world were featured. One made me double-take.

Baku Spurs.

Baku? Bloody hell. Probably just one bloke with a Tottenham mouse mat.

There is no denying it. Tottenham were quicker out of the traps than us in the first quarter of the game. We plodded along, and struggled to link passes through our midfield, whereas the home team looked sharper and created a little more.

With the home crowd singing “Oh when the Spurs”, Tottenham were given a central free-kick. The singing continued as the build-up seemed to take forever. Harry Kane was to take it. The singing grew louder.

“Fuck, if he scores now, after that song as a pre-curser, this place will bloody explode.”

He hit the wall.

Phew.

A rapid break in the inside right channel involving Mason Mount got us on our toes – the rail seating is excellent at Tottenham, I was able to lean forward on many occasions – but after a messy one-two with Lukaku, the chance was spurned, pardon the pun.

This was a tight game, and the home team were edging it. Havertz looked out of sorts, and on too many occasions Tottenham were able to cut through us. However, the away support was full of all the old favourites which we love to air in this particular part of North London.

“We’re the only team in London…”

“We won 6-1 at The Lane…”

“And the shit from The Lane…”

Alas, the players were not as entertaining. Tottenham managed a few set pieces, but corners were steadfastly headed away by various defenders. It was all a little underwhelming. After Tottenham – players and fans alike – were found to be bellowing at any perceived Chelsea foul or piece of wrong-doing, the noise levels increased. Gary had his usual response.

“Fackinell. More appeals than Blue Peter.”

Kepa saved well at the feet of the raiding Son, and was injured. Thankfully he recovered. Then an errant back-pass by Rudiger had only just been despatched in time by Kepa. Only a couple of shots from distance – wide and blocked – were forthcoming from the Chelsea attack the entire half. Their ‘keeper Hugo Loris had hardly had a shot to save.

That would soon change.

I turned to Gary : “Well, they can’t play as well as that in the second-half.”

I returned a little late at the break and missed the restart.

“Kante on? Who’s off? Mount?”

As much as we all love Mason, he had not enjoyed a great half at all. In came our tigerish tackler to replace him. I couldn’t quite work out how the new addition would fit in alongside Jorginho and Kovacic, but soon into the second-half I didn’t care.

There soon followed a sublime piece of football that had me purring. Thiago Silva pinged a wonderful ball into space for the on-rushing Marcos Alonso. It cut out everyone. A trademark volley at an angle from the left wing-back was superbly saved by the cat-like reflexes of Loris.

“That’s more like it Chels. Come on!”

The Chelsea pressure mounted. A few corners were whipped in just in front of us by that man Alonso. One more corner was then aimed centrally, from the other side of the pitch, and the silver hair of Silva was seen to rise above all those around him and the ball flashed past Loris into the Tottenham goal.

FUCKINGGETIN.

The goal on film, I remained steady to capture his exuberant run towards the Chelsea fans who had now been let loose into a wild orgasmic frenzy of arms and legs, or “limbs” as the kids say. Such joy. Such happiness.

This is why we go to football.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Donna and Rachael suddenly appeared in front of us after having disappeared a few minutes before the break for some bevvies. They had missed the first goal. But they did not miss the second one. Just after Dier blocked a shot from Alonso on the goal-line, a shot from distance from N’Golo – it could only be termed, at its most optimistic, as “speculative” – took a wicked deflection off Dier. The ball spun goal wards, hit the base of the post nearest us, and we watched – eyes on stalks, balancing on toes – as the ball skewed itself over the line and into the goal.

Laugh? I almost bought a round of drinks.

Oh that was beautiful.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

Kante looked, of course, so bashful. Bless him.

Just twelve minutes into the second-half, and we were now well on top. The home fans were now completely muted.

The whispering gallery had been moved from inside the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral to the top tier at Tottenham.

One of the many messages flashed all over the LED displays on the balconies at Tottenham mentions the Spurs Skywalk. This takes the unfortunate supporter out onto the roof, where – if they look well – they can just make out the East Stand at Stamford Bridge, the home of the only club in London with not one, but two, European Cups.

I thought to myself :

“Those Tottenham players had best book themselves onto that skywalk. It’ll be the highest they will ever fucking get.”

Kante was everywhere and I mean everywhere. The whole team had been revitalised by his appearance at the start of the second period. Elsewhere, we suddenly had runners, and our attacking performance reached lovely levels.

A lone shot from the hidden, or hiding, Kane was well saved by Kepa. Silva, our man of the match, was foiled by Loris, who was easily the Tottenham man of the match. Yet more saves followed from Alonso – again! – and Timo Werner, a late substitute for Havertz. Lukaku enjoyed a late surge, running centrally on a few occasions at the disillusioned Tottenham defence, twisting and turning, turning defenders’ legs into jelly, Dier and Romeiro pleading for salvation, but Loris foiled both him and Kovacic. The Croatian was one of the stars of that second period. We were on fire.

If it had been the Bernabeu, white handkerchiefs would have been waved.

There was even time for a “Bouncy Bouncy” : how 2013.

Right at the end, with many of the home fans having decided that “enough was enough”, the ball was picked up and Timo Werner did ever so well to pull the ball back for Rudi to pick a corner and drill the ball in.

Tottenham 0 Chelsea 3.

The crowd erupted once more.

There was another ridiculously jubilant run by the scorer to our corner, and with Jorginho absolutely pissing himself, the photos were a joy to snap.

I turned to Gary again.

“We top?”

“Yeah.”

Parky and I met up with PD, who had enjoyed a great view in the back row of our section, and we slowly walked away from the ground. I overheard someone say “three league wins out of three here” – oh, it wasn’t a draw last season? – and maybe it is time to well-and-truly rename the new gaff Three Point Lane.

The Stadium.

The Game.

Us.

Our exit strategy was the same as at Christmas 2019; find a fast-food place for a chicken burger and wait for the crowds to disperse. We caught the 7.48pm train from White Hart Lane back into town, and the carriage was full of moaning Tottenham fans. A heavily made up woman with lips that looked like they had been filled with air was the main noisemaker :

“Right. I’ll say it. Don’t care. We are shit. We just gotta acclimatise ourselves into realising we ain’t that good.”

I looked at PD. Parky looked at me.

I whispered : “She’s got a point.”

Unlike Tottenham.

On we go, Villa next, see you there.

The End.

Tales From A Love Story

Posted on August 19, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 14 August 2021.

I don’t think it is too far-fetched to say that there have been few games – few occasions, few spectacles – in the history of Stamford Bridge that have matched our game against Crystal Palace on Saturday 14 August 2021. Sure, the first league games back at the old ground after the Great War and the Second World War must have been emotional affairs. And let’s not forget the gate of more than 100,000 against Moscow Dynamo in 1945 that unofficially signalled the start of a return to football in peaceful times. But this one was different. Everton at home in the early spring of 2020 seemed so distant and never in the history of English football has there ever been such a period of uncertainty and sadness.

Coming not long after my operation in October of last year, the twin games against Leeds United and Krasnodar were out of the question for me in my high-risk state. And I wasn’t really tempted by the home game against Leicester City in May either; I know that many were, and those that went thoroughly enjoyed it. But I wanted my first game back at HQ to be alongside all of my mates, all of my pals, and in a full house. Back with a vengeance, back to normality, back to life.

I returned from Belfast late on the Thursday and battled fatigue in my one day at work – Friday the thirteenth seemed wholly appropriate – but when I woke on Saturday morning, Belfast was still dominating my every thought. It felt as though it hadn’t worked its way out of my system just yet. Belfast was Chelsea game number 1,300 for me and I secretly wished that game number 1,301 wasn’t until the Sunday.

But beggars can’t be choosers, and a Saturday game it was.

I awoke at 6am, ahead of the alarm.

My first task of the new league season was to fill up the fuel tank of my car in a nearby village. As I walked into the shop to pay, I easily spotted a woman who I went to school with as a child. She was – if I am not mistaken – the first girl to ever give me a kiss, possibly when I was around seven years of age, and – again if my memory serves me correctly – this momentous occasion took place on the village recreation ground, in the long grass, no more than a quarter of a mile from where I am typing these notes. I see her around occasionally. I am sure she has forgotten all about me and I can’t say I blame her. The petrol station was, ironically, in the village of my first-ever girlfriend – summer 1982, aged seventeen – and as I set off on the trip to London I smirked about these romantic incursions into the day of me reacquainting myself with the love of my life.

I collected P-Diddy at 7.30am and I collected L-Parky at 8am.

Up the A303, into London, parked up near Queen’s Club at 10.15am.

Bosh.

For those regular readers, my pre-match routine for the opening league game of 2021/22 followed a familiar pattern. We started at “The Eight Bells” at the bottom end of the Fulham Road – Dave from Northamptonshire and Deano from Lancashire soon joined us – before we all decamped to “Simmon’s” at the bottom of the North End Road to join forces with Alan, Gary, Daryl, Ed, Andy and Sophie.

It was the first time that I had seen Alan since that Everton game nigh-on eighteen months ago. I sat alongside him and it felt so good.

On the walk to the second of the two pubs, I had briefly called by the CFCUK stall to say a few words to Marco. On that fateful day in October – with me in the emergency ward at a hospital in Bath – it was Marco, himself having recently suffered heart problems, that kept me going with a series of text messages. We shook each other’s hands and wished each other well. It was super to see him.

I am not going to comment every week on the clown’s clothing that Chelsea Football Club has decided to dress players in this season, but on the walk to the ground it did dawn on me that the 2020/21 shirt – the one that we wore in Porto – was hardly a Chelsea royal blue at all. It just seemed darker than it should be and rather muted with no vibrancy. It never really dawned on me before. I hardly saw anyone wearing this shirt in my home area this past season, and I don’t think I really noticed it in Porto, but it really jarred when I saw it on this particular day.

Maybe next year, we’ll get a clean and crisp royal blue shirt.

Don’t hold your breath.

As far as I could see, nothing had changed too much along the walk to Stamford Bridge, and I noticed that most fans were not wearing face-coverings outside the stadium. My bag was checked, I bumped into a few friends, my COVID19 passport was inspected outside the Matthew Harding and I joined that oh-so familiar queue before using a new style ticket-scanning machine and then…pause for effect…through the turnstiles…click, click, click…and I was in.

I ascended the six flights of stairs to the MHU, keeping to the left – my superstition – as always.

Inside the stand. I was home.

Phew.

Greeting me was Clive, who has taken Glenn’s season ticket.

Glenn finally decided to give it up after twenty-four seasons. But Glenn hasn’t given up completely; he will still go to a game every month or so, depending upon his working patterns and availability of tickets. I have known Clive since around 2003, so he is a familiar face. I last saw him at a New Order gig in Bristol in July 2019.

With the new rail seating in The Shed, everything looked bluer.

I spent a few minutes or more chatting to various folk in The Sleepy Hollow who I had obviously missed the previous year and a half. Albert, who sits directly in front of me, shared an opinion which had great resonance with me. He too has been a ST holder since 1997.

“This football club has been a massive part of my life. But last season, I didn’t really care. Sometimes I’d be watching us play on TV and I would switch channels at half-time but instead of watching our game again, I’d continue to watch the new programme.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

I knew of many season ticket holders who hardly watched us on TV.

It just wasn’t the same.

The teams were announced.

No Romelu Lukaku. Not yet.

Mendy

Chalobah – Christensen – Rudiger

Dave – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Werner – Pulisic

“Park Life” sounded on the PA. There were no crowd-surfing banners due to COVID19. The players, Chelsea in blue, Crystal Palace in Villareal yellow, entered the pitch but instead of walking over to the West Stand – a Chelsea trademark that I have grown to love – they stood on this occasion in front of the East Stand.

And then the two teams linked arms and stood on the centre circle. We were asked to silently remember those who had lost their lives during the global pandemic. On the TV screen around twenty-five names were listed, in groups of four, of Chelsea supporters who had passed away. At the end, a fleeting phrase flickered onto the screen and then faded as quickly as it had appeared.

BLUES FOREVER

One of the Chelsea supporters was Scott La Pointe. I first met Scott in Charlotte in North Carolina in 2015 when, along with his wife and two children, they joined in with some lovely pre and post-match socialising around the game with PSG. His young son Alex memorably entertained the troops with his endearing version of “Zigger Zagger”. It was clear that Scott was a family man who dearly loved both his family and Chelsea. I met up with them all, and many other from the Detroit supporters group of which Scott was a proud member, at Ann Arbor in Michigan the following summer. The game against Real Madrid – to this day the largest official crowd at any Chelsea game anywhere – must have been so special for Scott’s family. It was like a home game for them all. Sadly, not so long after this game, Scott was diagnosed with ALS / Motor Neurone Disease. Scott battled the disease with great strength and great dignity. This was painful for me since one of my Godparents, my uncle Gerald, died from the same disease in around 1988. Scott held out for Christmas 2020 and – amazingly – for the 2021 European Cup Final in Porto too. He watched from his bed in his house in the Detroit suburbs. I often messaged him on Facebook. His last message to me was on the day after the final.

“I really didn’t think I would be here to see yesterday’s match. I can’t tell you how excited I was for them to win. I love your pictures that you posted. Every time the camera went to the crowd, Jamie and I were looking for you. Cheers my friend!”

Scott sadly passed away not long after his forty-third birthday.

He will live on in the memory of all those who knew him.

He was loved by all.

Scott La Pointe : 6 June 1978 to 22 June 2021.

There were a few empty seats dotted about, but not many. The immediate build-up to the game against Patrick Viera’s Crystal Palace was somewhat overshadowed by the very late announcement that some season ticket-holders would not be able to watch from their usual seat in the MHL due to delays in the rail seating. The club must have known there was going to be a risk of this when they sold all other available seats. Surely they should have kept some to one side just in case.

Insert a comment about Chelsea being a well-run football club here :

Before the game began, we heard that Manchester United had walloped Leeds 5-1 at Old Trafford. My mind immediately raced back to forty years ago, opening day 1981, when Leeds lost 5-1 at newly promoted Swansea City, a result that was wildly celebrated at Stamford Bridge as I saw us beat Bolton 2-0. It was the first game that I had ever travelled to independently.

Forty bloody years ago.

Altogether now everybody : “Fackinell.”

Kudos, by the way, to our benign neighbours Brentford on their fine – very fine – 2-0 win against Arsenal the previous night. Fantastic stuff.

We began positively and absolutely dominated possession. Having not seen Palace play for much of the past eighteen months – I found myself not even bothering with “MOTD” in the latter part of last season – I hardly recognised anyone in the Palace team, which was well changed anyway from the last time I had clapped eyes on them. Former Chelsea prospect Mark Guehi took up a position in their defence. I had seen both of his appearances in our colours in the League Cup of 2019/20.

The crowd was in a boisterous and jubilant mood. The time for venom and heated passion will come against more hated rivals.

There was intelligent use of space and we always seemed to have a spare man to stretch the Palace defence. Chances for Dave and Christian Pulisic hinted at a game of goals. There was a further chance from Mateo Kovacic.

There was a succession of corners from our left with Mason Mount pumping the ball in but with mixed results.

Just as we found an attack being thwarted by a foul on Mount just outside the box, I overheard Alan and Clive in a general discussion about a few players. I memorably heard Al say “Alonso worries me” and I silently smiled as I saw the Spaniard place the ball in readiness for a shot on goal.

“Bloody hell Al, that’s tempting fate. This is Alonso territory.”

With that, I snapped as the ball was whipped up and over the wall, curving perfectly away from Vicente Guaita. I saw the spinning ball, through my lens, nestling in the goal. The ‘keeper did not bother moving.

I jumped to my feet – GET IN – and smiled at Alan.

One-nil to the European Champions.

“THTCAUN.”

“COMLD.”

The noise levels then hit stratospheric levels.

On my feet – “Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”

We were back.

And this was perfect Chelsea weather. Memories of opening day wins in recent years against too many teams to mention.

We seemed to be missing an aerial threat in the Palace box, but no doubt the returning Lukaku would remedy that ailment.

A free-kick from Mason hit the wall, but we extended our lead just before the break. A fine move, with Dave setting up Mount with a fine return pass, which lead to the ball being sent low into the box. The ‘keeper got something on the cross but the ball fell to Pulisic, who twisted his body to prod the ball home.

Two-nil to the European Champions.

A late chance for Timo Werner hit the side-netting and we went into the break well on top. In fact, up to the point of our second goal, I could only remember one very rare Crystal Palace attack that soon fizzled out down below me in the area of the pitch that I will forever call Hazardous.

Never could I remember such a dominant first-half performance or rather such a poor opponent (edit : the first-half against Everton in 2016 was exceptional, but Everton were not so woeful as Palace, surely?)

In the back of my mind I was hoping for at least two more goals – maybe more – in the second-half. A trademark volley from Alonso went close.

I noted that – strangely – the song of the night in Belfast, the Belinda Carlisle ditty, was noticeable by its absence in the Stamford Bridge sun. Its time will come again I am sure.

A very rare attack was easily stubbed out by the Chelsea defence. They really were poor. I loved the way that the midfield pairing of Jorginho and Kovacic kept things ticking over in the middle of the park. Werner was in his usual “one step forward, two steps back” mode, looking great one minute and then mediocre the next. Pulisic twisted and turned. He needs a run of games, but I have a feeling that Tuchel is going to rotate a few players behind Lukaku this season. It will be interesting to see how Havertz develops. I really have my eye on him.

Just before the hour, the ball was played to Trevoh Chalobah. He had space to run into, and maybe buoyed by the home crowd chanting “shoooot”, he let fly with a sweet and low rocket. I managed to capture this goal too. The shot was aimed to perfection, just clipping the base of the far post before nestling inside the net.

3-0.

Magnificent.

I also caught the players hugging the excited youngster.

Joyous scenes, eh?

I remember my mate Tom, in his home city of Minneapolis for the Milan game in 2016, coming up with the “He’s Chalobah!” (as in “He fell over!”) chant for Trevoh’s brother Nathaniel.

Let’s get it going again.

I was hoping for more goals but the manager – still without a song, in truth we hardly know him – made some substitutions.

James for Dave.

Havertz for Pulisic.

Emerson for Alonso.

A rare Palace attack on goal – the only one? – from the old warhorse Christian Benteke was easily saved by our man Mendy.

The game ended 3-0.

It was a fine performance, hardly any negatives, but it was only Palace.

I’d score myself 7/10; not as overblown with emotion as others, but I did join in with a fair few songs. I think the football came second to seeing everyone again on this particular day. I am sure that football is still trying to win its way back into my heart if I am honest. But I am equally sure that this will improve with each game and I am bloody sure that I will soon be back to my March 2020 groove before long.

I just need a couple of tough away games to sort myself out and to get myself focused.

What’s that I hear you say?

Arsenal away and then Liverpool away?

OK. Let’s go. Mow those fucking meadows.

The Sleepy Hollow : Season 2021/22 – Chris, Alan, Clive, PD & Gary.

Tales From Zig Zag Hill

Posted on July 30, 2021 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 27 July 2021.

Just fifty-nine days after our European Cup triumph in Porto, we were back in business. Or rather a thousand or so other Chelsea supporters and I were back in business. Some players had been back for a few weeks, and the management team rarely rest, but for the rank and file match-going addicts among our multi-million strong support base, this was Day One of the new season.

By a strange quirk of fate, the last domestic away game played by Chelsea Football Club where away fans had been able to attend took place at Bournemouth on Leap Year Day last year, Saturday 29 February 2020. And here we were again headed for the same town on the Dorset coast on Tuesday 27 July 2021.

I like a bit of symmetry as I never tire of saying.

When we left the Vitality Stadium last year, how many of us could have possibly dreamt that we would not be able to go to a single away game in almost seventeen months?

Not me. Not you. Not the next man. Not the next woman.

One abiding memory from that day is of me – quite by fate – stumbling into the players as they ambled through the Lower Gardens by the pier and beach on their mid-morning walk. I offered my hand to Antonio Rudiger for him to shake and for me to wish him “all the best” for the game but he was almost embarrassed as I saw him shoo me away with the ominous words “Corona Virus”.

The interim has tested us all. It has certainly tested my love of football, maybe of Chelsea, and I have experienced fluctuating opinions of football, fandom and the universe. It certainly has not been easy. Season 2020/21 was my least enjoyable football season ever – OK, maybe tied with the dire 1978/79 campaign – and yet we reached two Cup Finals and ended up as winners of the biggest prize in club football in the whole world. And universe.

Rationalising football was never easy, right?

I watched the European Championships recently with middling interest. International football just isn’t for me these days. I can’t even be arsed to explain why. My focus was always about getting back to the love of my life; Chelsea Football Club.

However, a lovely little present afforded itself to me on my birthday in the first week of July. My first Frome Town game since the cessation of matches last November saw me attend the Frome Town vs. Bath City friendly on Tuesday 6 July; the town of my domicile versus the city of my birth on my birthday. Perfect, eh? It was a lovely evening, even though Dodge lost 4-1. A couple of friends made a surprise visit from Bristol and Portsmouth, we all had a lovely catch-up and I survived my first session since Everton at home last March. Evenings like that are priceless.

I was tempted to attend the home friendly against Tottenham but the whole thing seemed like a massive waste of energy. My take on it was that I would be haring up to London on many other midweek evenings in the autumn, arriving home late, waking up tired for work the next day, and so why bother with an overpriced – £30 – friendly where there wouldn’t even be any away fans to abuse. No thanks. A lovely little dip down to Dorset – just fifty-five miles away – to be followed by a jaunt over to Belfast for the UEFA Super Cup (Parky and I re-joined the UEFA Away Scheme recently so are assured tickets) and then the Grand Reunion with all the familiar faces against Crystal Palace a few days later.

That will do me nicely thank you very much nurse.

So, AFCB versus CFC on Tuesday 27 July. It soon came around. And here was a first for me; my first-ever Chelsea trip after working at home for the day. I set off at 4.40pm, alone – none of the other Chuckle Brothers were available – but with my mind full of being part of a genuine match day experience once again. I was hoping for a full house and a 1,200 away contingent. Great though they were, both Cup Finals at the end of May were odd affairs, almost surreal, certainly strange.

The drive down to Bournemouth didn’t take long. How nice of the football Gods to bestow upon me the easiest of away trips. Over the past year and a half, I have spent many an hour out walking in England’s “Green and Pleasant” and I have fallen in love again with our countryside, often taking too many bloody photographs. On the way to Dorset, I was at it again. I stopped off momentarily at a few choice locations – at Longleat, on the chalk uplands near Longbridge Deverill, ascending Zig Zag Hill – not on the scale of L’Alpe D’Huez, the famed climb of the Tour de France, but with a series of acute turns – and overlooking Cranbourne Chase. It was a glorious drive.

Nearing the outskirts of Bournemouth, though, the ominous gloomy clouds darkened the early evening light. Down came the rain.

The first “fackinell” of the season.

But on the dual carriageway, I had my first “moment” of the new season.

As I accelerated away and overtook a car, I realised that I have a decent job, a nice car, my own house, my friends, my health – God, my health – and I was about to see Chelsea play. Hardly a life-defining moment but important enough for me to mention it three evenings later.

And although I have spoken with some close friends how I might be in a situation this season when I might have to choose between a classic Frome Town away day and a common or garden Chelsea trip, deep down I knew that there would only be one winner.

I was parked up on a pre-booked private driveway on Littledown Avenue at 6.30pm. The ninety-minute drive had been lengthened by twenty minutes as I stopped to snap, snap, snap. I include a few of the photos.

The air was a little muggy outside. I had brought a light rain jacket. The walk to the stadium only took ten minutes. I spotted a chap wearing a Flamengo shirt – Bournemouth colours, but turned ninety degrees – alongside his mate who was wearing a Chelsea top. I couldn’t resist walking over to say a few words, but I avoided mentioning that, if I was pressed, I favoured their rivals Fluminense. After my jaunt to Buenos Aires last year, I have Rio in my sights too, though perhaps only after another trip to Buenos Aires.

File under : “Too many stadia, not enough time.”

I will be honest, it felt odd being among a crowd who were, in the main, not wearing masks.

I chatted to Long Tall Pete and Liz outside the familiar away turnstiles, the first of around a dozen friends or so that I would talk to during the evening. Big praise to Scott who would endure a 590-mile round trip from his home in Lancashire for this friendliest of friendlies. Just amazing.

There were three security checks to get into the stadium; a scan with an electronic device, a bag check, a body frisk. It seemed all a bit pointless. Anyway, my camera was in, unlike on 27 July 2019 when it was banned from a friendly at Reading.

I would normally trawl the concourse to chat to some familiar faces, but – I think that I felt at risk slightly – I decided to avoid the closeness of the crowded bar areas and head inside.

For the third game in a row, I was positioned in row three; clearly not my favourite viewing position. The evening sun was still glaring. I chastised myself for leaving a perfectly fine pair of sunglasses in my car.

The players – in a set of training gear sponsored by a completely different company to the playing kits – warmed up in front of us. There were a few familiar faces, but some strange ones too. I find it amusing that I can rattle off fringe players from 1983/84 – Phil Priest, Terry Howard, Perry Baldacchino, Paul Williams, Stokely Sawyers and Robin Beste – but struggle with the current crop.

With five minutes to kick-off, the PA played “Life Is Life” by Opus. I had a little smirk to myself. I was reminded of that classic film of the one and only Diego Armando Maradona’s pre-match warm up to this very song in 1989. If you have not seen it, do yourself a favour.

I wondered who on Earth could replicate that breath-taking performance at Bournemouth in 2021.

The 7.45pm kick-off soon arrived. So much for a 12,000 full house. The home areas were half empty and our section wasn’t full. There was a line of ten empty seats right behind me. So much for the lure of the current Champions of Europe. A few friends had notably lost a few pounds over the previous eighteen months; well done Jayne, Sam and Rob.

Just before the game began, probably just as the teams were being announced – hence my confusion with the starting eleven – I saw a deeply tanned Pat Nevin rush past. I shouted out to him and told him that I had loved reading his recent autobiography. We shook hands – another weird feeling – and he went on his way to take up a commentary position.

Lovely. My favourite-ever player. A fine start to 2021/22.

I was tempted to ask the PA chap to replay “Life Is Life” and get Pat on the pitch.

It was a nice thought…

Our team?

Kepa.

Sterling / Baker / Sarr.

Hudson-Odoi / Drinkwater / Gallagher / Alonso.

Ziyech / Pulisic.

Abraham.

The game began and Chelsea attacked the “home end” to my right, the scene of those devastating four second-half goals in early 2019.

First thoughts?

“I wish that bloody sun would soon disappear behind those towering clouds.”

“I don’t recognise a couple of these players.”

“That new kit is truly horrific.”

Zig fucking zag.

My heart has sunk over the summer as I have witnessed from afar – oh my disbelieving eyes – how a notable number of acquaintances throughout Chelsea World had succumbed to the dog’s dinner of our new Nike abomination.

We can’t be friends, real friends, now.

I am sorry.

But you should be the ones apologising.

Fackinell.

The effect that it has on me, if I may offer some sort of comparison, is as if those Hawaiian shirts favoured by our American cousins – I never know if they are worn ironically or not – are matched with the same pattern on accompanying shorts.

Get my drift?

The Chelsea crowd – some who had evidently been on the ale for a few hours – were lively in the first quarter of an hour. There were two early songs in praise of Frank Lampard. The Timo Werner one was soon aired and there were a few hearty renditions of “The Only Team In London With A / Two European Cups.” I joined in and tried to warm my vocal chords up for the new season. My view from row three was tough. Everything looked so flat.

Now then dear reader, let’s get this clear. This was a pre-season game in which virtually all of the Chelsea protagonists would be bit-part players throughout the upcoming season. Some – Kepa, Mendy, Alonso, Barkley – would have parts to play, but others would find themselves elsewhere. Some might get the odd League Cup game. Some would inevitably go out on loan. Some would begin a zig-zagging journey down the football pyramid. Some – sadly – would find themselves as footballing equivalents of the unclaimed black pram on the baggage carousel at airport arrivals.

The game against Bournemouth was always about getting game time for as many players as possible. I’m certainly not going to go into nerd mode and produce a deeply analytical report of each of the players’ performances. What would be the point of that?

That said, I was looking forward to watching Conor Gallagher – alas no relative of oor Hughie – to see what the hype was all about.

There was neat football from us in the first-half. Danny Drinkwater, of all players, started well, pushing the ball intelligently. Up close, I appreciated the pace of our right-sided defender (later identified as Dujon Sterling, ah of course…) and Malang Sarr (the other player who I was hard pressed to recognise) certainly possessed an impressive shape. Conor Gallagher was involved. Nice to see the old war horse Alonso again. Chances fell to Hakim, Callum, Tammy, Tammy and Tammy but our finishing was off the mark.

The singing from the away section quietened as the half progressed.

I wanted Our Callum to burst past his marker, but there always seemed to be a reticence from him. A shame.

Interceptions from Sarr and Baker thwarted Bournemouth, whose main threat on our goal was a series of deep free-kicks and corners. Dominic Solanke was upfront for the home team. We had high hopes for him a while ago, eh? For all of our possession, we went into the break without a goal to show for our dominance.

As the players lined up for the second-half, I spotted some changes, although not wholesale.

Mendy.

Miazga / Chalobah The Younger / Clarke-Salter.

Hudson-Odoi / Gallagher / Loftus-Cheek / Alonso.

Barkley.

Abraham / Broja.

Things were a bit disjointed, off the pitch as well as on it. This is pre-season for us fans too. Whereas we all stood during the first-half, many began the second-half sitting. Were we jaded already? Surely not. The home fans were a quiet bunch, though and there was little noise from them. However, a little riposte from the otherwise silent area to our left resulted in an embarrassing chant from us.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll Never Sing That.”

Fucksake.

I rolled my eyes so far backwards I almost saw Tottenham. Then I looked up at the roof, if not the heavens.

I turned to the young lad to my left.

“Fucking hell. Mugging off Bournemouth. Bournemouth!”

This football lark can be testing at times. By all means take the piss out of our main rivals, but not lovely and cuddly – hardly rivals to us, hardly anything to us – benign Bournemouth.

It was lovely to see Our Ruben back in royal blue again. For a big man, he certainly has a lovely touch. But he struggled a bit to get into the game. He played a deeper role than usual. He was pulled back – one of my most hated aspects of modern day football – so many times. So frustrating. It was his lazy pass to the covering Gallagher that set up David Brooks but his shot thankfully glided past the left-hand post.

A lad behind me roused the away contingent with a loud “Zigger Zagger” and the noise leapt a few levels.

“We’re The Only Team In London.”

A fine save from Mendy thwarted Bournemouth from close in. Alonso, urged to “shoot” by us, did so but his effort whistled wide.

Zappacosta – last seen by my eyes at Reading in 2019 – replaced Our Callum, Baba Rahman – just wow – replaced Alonso and Ugbo replaced Tammy.

Sadly, just after these changes a cross from the right found the head of Emiliano Marcondes and Mendy was beaten.

The crowd went mild.

Our reaction was immediate. A brilliant cross from that man Baba was whipped in immaculately into the “corridor of uncertainty” and the new man Armando Broja took a neat touch and avoided a Tammy-like entanglement of limbs to slam the ball home. Broja then charged down a clearance from the Bournemouth ‘keeper but the ball whizzed past the far post. Shortly after, that very rare thing; a crisp near post Chelsea corner – from Ross Barkley – that cleared the first man and Ike Ugbo was able to head home from mere inches.

Bournemouth 1 Chelsea 2.

In the final fifteen minutes, the home team made many changes and the game petered out.

At the final whistle, the Chelsea players soon headed for the tunnel. No signs of celebration at all. After all, it was only Bournemouth right? Fans take note.

I walked back to the car just before the rain came again. It took me an age to get out onto the main road out of town. But within the hour I had retraced my steps and was winding my way down the intense bends of Zig Zag Hill once again, the night now dark, my headlights on full beam.

“Steady as you go Chris.”

I was home at midnight and I was immediately reminded of my midweek football routine.

Get home. Try to relax a bit. Scan my photos. Chose one for Instagram. One for Facebook maybe. Check a few social media posts. Watch the game highlights on YouTube. Work in the morning. Bollocks. Head full of football. Try to get some sleep…

…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

Tales From The Park, The Pier, The Beach And The Stadium

Posted on March 2, 2020 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 29 February 2020.

The heavens had opened during the night and, although I thankfully slept through the deluge, the scenes as I left my home village at just before eight o’clock in the morning seemed to be from a different world. There were huge puddles of surface water lapping at my tyres as I drove down past the pub, the church, the war memorial and the village shop. As I started to head up Lime Kiln Hill, two separate torrents of murky brown water cascaded across the road. I splashed through it all and continued my drive into Frome. I soon collected PD and Parky. We were on our way.

Not long into the fifty-five mile journey to Bournemouth, there was relief :

“I’m just happy that I have an away game that doesn’t involve a four-hour drive.”

This was an easy one. The easiest of the season. The only blot on the horizon was a possible continuation of the atrocious weather of the past twenty-four hours. At Shaftesbury, where Wiltshire rubs up against Dorset, I turned off and headed across the hills and across country. I’m all for exploring different routes to away games and I think that PD, alongside me, was a little nervous that I had chosen an unfamiliar route. My first ascent was up the wonderfully named Zig-Zag Hill – not Zigger Zagger, more of that later – which is a series of tight bends. I was enjoying this. The weather was fine, if not a little overcast. Good vibes.

I made excellent time. By 9.30am, I was parked up at the Bournemouth International Centre, site of the former Winter Gardens, where in the summer of 1980, I was forced to attend a Max Bygraves concert while on holiday in nearby Southbourne with my parents. I still haven’t forgiven them.

By 9.45am, we had ordered a hearty breakfast at “The Moon On the Square” which is one of the few ‘Spoons that I like. I think it might have been a department store in a previous life. There are still a few art deco flourishes on the main stairwell. The breakfast went down a treat. We spotted the first of a few friends arrive. But, rather than sit – stone cold sober – and watch others drink for four hours, I had plans to get out and see a little of the town, despite the threat of inclement weather. I had remembered that “John Anthony” – I often visit the menswear shop in nearby Bath throughout the year, especially when there are sales on – has a store in Bournemouth, and that this was the final day of an afore-mentioned sale.

“It would be rude not to.”

I headed off in search of cut-price clobber.

“John Anthony” did not let me down. I picked up a navy blue Hugo Boss sweatshirt for just £44 (and I immediately thought to myself that this will not look out of place alongside the ninety-seven other navy tops that I bloody own.) I had only been reminiscing about Boss sweatshirts during the week as there was a post on “Facebook” about them when they came out in around the 1985/86 football season, and the first wave of them had the “Boss” logo on the back of sweatshirts and not the front. I liked that. Something different. Though I never owned one, they always looked the business. The era of Timberland shoes. At the time I opted for a lime green “Marc O’Polo” which were very similar in style. This one, thirty-five years later, would be – I think – my first ever “Boss” sweatshirt.

Better late than never, eh?

Football, music, clobber.

The staples of so many of my generation.

The sun was out, I was happy with my purchase, I was bouncing. I began to walk through the Central Gardens, knowing full well that the Chelsea squad – for the past few years – always walk through this small and narrow area every match day morning. The team always stay at the nearby Hilton, which we had walked past on our way from the car park to the pub. I stood in the sun for one moment, and texted a mate to let him know that I had struck gold in the sale, when I happened to look up and to my right. Around twenty yards away, I spotted a burst of blue.

Blue tracksuits. It was the team. Perfect timing.

I quickly sent my text, then caught up with the players.

I wished Antonio Rudiger all the best and offered my hand.

He declined.

“Corona virus.”

Ah, of course…

”OK, sorry.”

I spotted Billy Gilmour in conversation with Mason Mount. I said a few words. They were dead friendly and posed for a great photo – “thumbs up” – with a gaggle of other players behind them. A nice moment. As the players drifted past – alas no Frank Lampard, unless I missed him – I changed from ‘phone to SLR and took a few more.

“Thumbs up” from Willian.

“Thumbs up” from Mateo Kovacic.

Good stuff.

My two minutes of giddiness completed, I continued on towards the pier. The sun was out now, and despite the strong wind, it was gorgeous.

I was feeling rather proud of myself. This day was going perfectly. A good drive down. A full English. A bit of clobber. A few fleeting moments with the players. Lovely.

Of course, I could easily have followed the squad around their circumnavigation of the gardens, but that would have been painful. I would never want to overdo it. It reminded me of the rush of pure Adrenalin that I used to get if I was lucky enough to get some players’ autographs pre-match at Stamford Bridge in the ‘seventies. I remember being a few feet away from Ray Wilkins in the tunnel – Ray Wilkins! – in 1978 and being beside myself with unquantifiable joy. It was hardly the same in 2020, but it was a nice moment regardless. I hope that I never lose that childlike – not childish, that’s different – wonderment when I am ever lucky enough to meet our heroes.

God knows what I’ll be like if I ever meet Clare Grogan.

Our match tickets included a neat graphic of the Bournemouth pier, including the large Ferris wheel that sits alongside it. It’s quite stylised, quite fetching. I approved. As I walked on, beneath the Ferris wheel – not in use – I headed towards the pier to take a few shots with the waves were crashing in on both sides. Towards the east of the pier, there were around twenty surfers braving the elements. The wind was so strong that I had visions of my top flying out of my shopping bag into the murky mire down below. Everyone was happy, everyone was smiling, in the way that a combination of sun and seaside always elicits this response. I don’t often get to the coast these days so hearing the waves crash brought back some lovely childhood memories. Many trips to the beach were spent in and around this part of the world; Bournemouth, Southbourne, Sandbanks, Shell Bay, Studland, Swanage. It’s a beautiful part of the world.

I stepped off the pier and thought about hiking down to Boscombe and visiting that pier too. But that was a little too far. As a kid on holiday in Southbourne, when I obviously possessed unlimited energy, I often used to walk the promenade from Southbourne to Boscombe to Bournemouth and back. I took some more photos. The brightly coloured pastels of the regimented beach huts were an easy target. The sand flew off the beach as the waves crashed. It was, and it surprised me, a bloody fantastic little walk.

“Shame the bloody football will inevitably bugger all this up” I thought to myself.

I turned to return to the pub and at that moment I felt a few spots of rain. Thankfully, this soon passed. I met up with the drinkers again – PD, Parky, augmented by Andy and The Two Ronnies, and also Nick, Pete and Robbie, then Leigh and Jason and their team – at about midday or so.

“Good time, Chris?”

“Yeah. Superb.”

We chatted about the state of the team at this exact moment in time. Plenty of different opinions, plenty of concerns, plenty of hope too.

“Gotta win this one boys.”

At about two o’clock, we returned to the car. I had booked a driveway space – using “JustPark” – as I had done last season on a road a few minutes’ walk from The Vitality Stadium. It only took me a quarter of an hour to find it, though I took the home owner by surprise. I think I was her first-ever customer. She had to ask her friend to move her car to allow me to slip in alongside. Sorted.

There was a little deluge of rain, damn, as we walked around the ground to reach the away turnstiles on the far corner. A bag search – “is that a professional camera?” – and I managed to bullshit the camera in with a little sweet talk.

We were in with about twenty minutes to go.

Overhead, the weather was changing constantly.

We were in the fifth row.

The stands filled up.

We were playing in white. Have we ever played in blue at Bournemouth in the Premier League?

Some annoying tosser on the PA must have recently realised that the words “noise” and “boys” rhyme because the fool kept repeating the basic phrase “make some noise for the boys” as if he was on piece work.

“Oh do shut up you twat.”

The team?

Wing backs again.

Caballero

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Tomori

James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Alonso

Pedro – Giroud – Mount

The Chelsea twelve-hundred were in relatively good voice at the start.

As always, we attacked the goal to our right in the first-half. Apart from the fact that there wasn’t really a great deal of meaningful attacking by us in the first quarter of an hour or so. Indeed, there was moaning from everyone around me regarding our sluggish play in the first part of the match. I remembered Philip Billing and his retro hair from the defeat that Bournemouth inflicted on us in December and Willy Caballero was called into action in the first few minutes to deny him. This was a good reaction save with his legs. Fine stuff. Fikayo Tomori then misjudged the ball and let the same player have a second shot on goal, but this went narrowly wide.

You can imagine the mood in the away segment.

“Fackninellchels.”

Our play was slow, slow, slow. No urgency. The ball was hardly ever played to the two wing backs, but neither were pushed-on anyway. We were content to knock the ball sideways and never forward.

“Someone take ownership of the ball.”

Eventually, we got it together. Mason looked neat and blasted a couple of efforts towards goal. Reece James was more involved. At last we were starting to run, to exploit gaps. Olivier Giroud made a couple of darting runs into space, not really his thing, and it almost – almost – paid off.

“This is better Chelsea.”

A couple of rows in front, “The World’s Most Tedious Chelsea Fan” was sadly positioned within earshot. All by himself, he was singing songs incorrectly and with no desire to get the words right. On and on he bellowed.

“For fuck sake, shut up.”

Poor old Beardy couldn’t take it. He was trying to edge away.

The home fans – no noise for the boys – were ridiculously quiet. We were quiet too.

On thirty-three minutes, Reece James sent in a fine low ball from the right which Giroud met perfectly. His touch sent the ball rising up against the bar and the ball spun off at an angle. Thankfully, Marcos Alonso – whose role had been increasing – slammed the ball home from an angle with a fierce volley.

GET IN.

We celebrated that one alright. And so did the players. I loved Giroud’s fist pump. There was a slight – slight – thought of VAR, but nothing came of it.

Alan, quite matter-of-factly : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris, the same : “Come on my little diamonds.”

BOSH.

Bournemouth 0 Chelsea 1.

We continued to play the upper hand as the first-half continued. A shot from James forced Aaron Ramsdale in the Cherries’ goal to save well.

We finished the half in control.

And, with the sun out, at times it was surprisingly warm.

At the break, with “TWMTCF” leaving for a half-time pint, I suggested to everyone within earshot “right, everyone change seats” in an effort to confuse the fucker.

Honestly, I have never seen him sober at a Chelsea game.

As luck would have it, as the second-half began, “TWMTCF” was nowhere to be seen.

I have never seen Beardy look so relieved.

And then, the football went pear-shaped.

Soon into the second-period, Alonso nimbly set up Olivier Giroud, but the shot was rushed and whizzed wide.

“TWMTCF” then appeared but in the wrong section completely. He was told to “fuck off” to the correct seat. Bollocks. Beardy disappeared to try to find another seat.

The football then nose-dived. A corner to Bournemouth on their right. A well-flighted ball into the mixer, and Jefferson Lerma rose unhindered to head home.

“Bollocks. Another free header. Another set piece. Fuck it.”

Just after, a swift passing move cut right through us. We were collectively and individually nowhere. A few neat passes and Josh King swept the ball home.

Memories of the four second-half goals being scored, and celebrated, at the same end last January.

Winning 1-0 with ease, we were now 2-1 down.

Bollocks.

There was half-an-hour left.

Willian for Tomori.

We changed to a flat four at the back.

Ross Barkley for Jorginho.

For the rest of the game, with the home side more than happy to defend very deep with a very low block, we absolutely dominated possession. But Bournemouth defended well and gifted us no space. We were then treated to rain hammering down on the players and supporters alike. Those in the first few rows scurried to the back of the seats. We then were pelted with sizeable hailstones.

“Lovely.”

Then, the sun came out, and we could concentrate a little better on the game. It felt odd not to have Eden Hazard down in front of us on the left wing at this intimate stadium. Instead, Pedro and Alonso did the twisting and the dancing. A Giroud header wide.

I was hoping that the manager might be tempted to play two up front, but Giroud was replaced by Michy Batshuayi, whose first real involvement was to score an offside goal.

Fackinell.

We kept piling on the pressure, but there seemed to be no fissures in gritty Bournemouth’s defensive rock. We passed and passed. Ross Barkley was centrally involved. But there was no space to exploit. At least we kept possession well. A shot from Barkley, a shot from Batshuayi, a shot from Azpilicueta.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A very poor “Zigger Zagger.”

Thankfully, “TWMTCF” had stopped singing. He had run out of fuel.

On eighty-five minutes, Pedro was gifted a few inches of space. His shot was well saved by the excellent Ramsdale but the alert Alonso was on hand to pounce, and adeptly headed home. His finish was similar in reality to his first goal; on hand to stab home a rebound.

“GETINYOUFUCKER.”

Alonso picked up the ball and raced back to the centre spot.

Bournemouth 2 Chelsea 2.

Altogether now : “phew.”

A header from Alonso – rising well – dropped wide from just outside the six yard box. It would have been the unlikeliest of winners, the unlikeliest of hat-tricks. He has had quite a week.

A few youths behind me gloated –

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

“Bloody hell lads. This is Bournemouth.”

Embarrassing. Highly so.

No more goals.

The game petered out.

In the end, I think most of us were just grateful that we had salvaged a point against one of our recent bogey teams.

On a day of parks and piers and beaches, thank heavens that the football part, heaven knows how, did not let us down.

Liverpool in the FA Cup next.

See you there.

THE PARK

THE PIER

THE BEACH

THE STADIUM

Tales From A Lilywhite Christmas Present

Posted on December 25, 2019 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2019.

On the drive to London, PD and I were not confident at all about our chances of drawing, let alone winning, at Tottenham Hotspur’s glistening new stadium, that they have decided to name – showing amazing intuition and originality – the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. We were on a dismal little run of games and “that lot” had – heaven knows how – managed to score goals for fun under their new manager Jose Mourinho, picking up wins in most of the games under his tutelage.

The signs did not look good.

I had spent the previous afternoon at Badgers Hill watching a Betvictor Southern League Division One South game between Frome Town and Thatcham Town. I had met up with a pal in the town centre, bustling with Christmas shoppers, for a pre-match drink and had assembled at the Frome ground with close on four hundred others for a top of the table clash, pitting my local team against the team in second place. Despite blustery and difficult conditions, Frome Town flew into a deserved 2-0 lead at the break, but the recent rain had left areas of mud all over the pitch. With around twenty minutes remaining, a crunching tackle took place in a particularly sticky and dangerous patch of mud, for which the word quagmire could well have been invented, and the referee brandished a yellow card, and had no real option but to abandon the game.

It was the first game in my match-going life that had been abandoned during play.

My mind had whirred into gear :

“…mmm, I wonder if I will be wishing for an abandonment at Tottenham tomorrow?”

Deep down, I wondered if the abandonment was a foretaste of gloomier things on the Sunday.

Some more bad news; Parky was unable to come with us. Not only was he unwell, his village was unreachable, isolated by flooded country lanes. So, a double whammy.

As I drove towards Stonehenge I saw a tailback and wondered if my finely-tuned journey to London was about to be disrupted and that the gloom would continue. There were police cars ahead.

“What’s this PD? Hunt saboteurs?”

No, I was quickly reminded of the date. The Winter Solstice. Within a minute or so, we were flagged through by the police as they then returned to their task of funneling the revellers away from their designated car park.

I continued on.

At least the weather was fine. The roads were clear. There was a hint of winter sun. I was grasping at positives.

“Should be a clear drive in, mate.”

PD and I chatted about the Champions League draw, and our plans for getting to Munich. I won’t bore everyone this far out, but it will be a carbon copy of 2012; flights from Bristol to Prague, a night in Prague, coach to and from Prague to Munich, a night in Munich. That’s still three months away. It will take ages to finally arrive. But it is a lovely “gift” at the end of a potentially cold winter spell.

At around 10.45am, we stopped for a bite to eat at a “Greggs” on the A303, and then I drove straight in to London, the roads ridiculously clear of traffic. At midday – exactly as I had planned – we were parked-up outside Barons Court tube station.

Inside my head : “at least this was a perfect start to the day.”

We made our way in to town. Throughout all the years of going to Tottenham, there has never been a set routine. I know that a lot mob up at Liverpool Street at “The Hamilton Hall” or “Railway Tavern” but on the one occasion that I did that, it did not look an awful lot of fun; packed pubs, loons chanting, the OB filming everyone. Not for me.

I had other plans.

We had a few hours to kill.

Leading up to my planning for this game, I remembered a pub crawl that I had sorted for the lads for our home game with Manchester City last season; it was centered on Whitehall. Sadly, I was too ill to attend, so the pub crawl never happened. Bearing in mind that we won – against all odds – that day, the superstitious part of me decided to have another stab at it.

So, from 12.30pm to around 2.45pm, PD and I visited “The Clarence”, “The Old Shades”, “The Silver Cross” and “Walkers of Whitehall”, all of which are within one hundred yards of each other. It was a lovely and relaxing time, away from the madness of Liverpool Street.

We toasted absent friends – not just Parky, there were friends that had missed out on tickets for this, the most sought-after away game in years and years – and chatted about European games past, European games present and European games future.

One thing struck me.

“Still not seen any Tottenham fans, nor Chelsea fans for that matter.”

London would be full of 61,000 match-goers, but we had seen not one of them the entire day, or at least nobody sporting club favours, more to the point.

As we walked from one glorious boozer to the next, pub two to pub three – a full six yards – PD moaned.

“I do wish you wouldn’t make me walk so far between pubs, Chris.”

Our drinking over – I was mixing my drinks, lagers and cokes, the designated driver – we moved on. We walked to Charing Cross station and then caught the Northern Line to Tottenham Court Road. From there, the Central Line to Liverpool Street.

“Still no Tottenham. Still no Chelsea.”

At Liverpool Street, up on the concourse, I looked around and saw a familiar face.

Les from Melksham, but no club colours of course.

We hopped onto the 3.30pm train with only a few seconds to spare.

Perfect timing.

On the train – at last a few Tottenham scarves – we sat with Les and some Chelsea mates, no colours. We ran through the team.

“Three at the back, then.”

“Alonso.”

“Mason.”

This train seemed to take forever.

At just before 4pm, it slowed and we pulled into White Hart Lane station, which – in order to cope with an extra 25,000 match-goers every fortnight – had undergone a fine upgrade.

In the distance, high above the shop fronts on the High Road, a first glimpse of the steel and glass of their new gaff.

We approached the stadium, time moving on now, ten past four, but realised that there was no noticeable signage for away fans. We were shooed north, through a supermarket car park – ambush anyone? – and out on to Northumberland Park. Another glimpse of the outer shell of the stadium, and then the approach to the away section. But here, it seemed that the planners had realised way too late that the away turnstiles were several feet higher than pavement level, resulting in some short steep steps being required to lift fans the final few yards.

An odd arrangement. I have no doubt that the Tottenham stadium is better than the Arsenal one, but it certainly seems cramped. There is not the space nor sense of space that you encounter at The Emirates.

Amid all of this rush to get in, I needed to collect tickets for future games.

Twenty past four.

Thankfully, I spotted one friend – “three for Southampton” – right at the top of the steps from the pavement.

Perfect.

I spotted lines of stewards all lined up, patting people down, and with tables for bag searches too. I had no time for that. I gazed into the distance, avoided eye-contact and shimmied past about eight stewards, with body swerves that JPR Williams would have been proud. Not one single search. Get in. I flashed my ticket against the sensor and I was inside.

The first person that I saw in our cramped concourse was the other friend – “Brighton away” – and I was sorted.

A double dose of “perfect.”

Twenty-five minutes past four.

Chelsea were banging on the metallic panels of the concourse, kicking up a mighty fine racket. I needed to use the little boys’ room. Rush, rush, rush.

Phew.

As I entered the seating bowl, I saw the Chelsea players break from the line-up and race over to us.

Chelsea in all blue. Love those red, white and blue socks.

We had made it.

Two minutes to go.

Perfect.

More positivity.

Initial thoughts about the stadium?

Impressive.

They have obviously learned from Arsenal’s mistakes (seats too far from the pitch, a shallow rake in the lower tier, corporate tiers that get in the way of a continuous wall of noise) and – bloody hell – that single tier at the South End reaches high into the sky. It is very impressive.

(A note to the fools who still blather on about a similar single tiered Shed End at a revamped Stamford Bridge – where are we going to get the room to do that, then?)

I really do not know why the place isn’t still called White Hart Lane though. If anything, the new stadium is nearer the street by the same name by a good fifty yards.

Naming rights, I guess.

I Hate Modern Football Part 519.

Everyone – apart from Parky – was in, and the 3,000 away fans in our section around the north-east corner flag seemed more.

We were ready.

But first, a moment to remember a hero from 1966, Martin Peters, who sadly passed away the previous day. I am not old enough to remember Peters as a West Ham player, but I certainly remember him as a Tottenham player alongside Chivers, Gilzean, England, Jennings and all. He is a strong link to my childhood, so he is another one will who be sadly missed.

There was warm applause from both sets of fans.

RIP.

The game began, and how.

In the first two minutes it was all Chelsea, in the first five minutes it was all Chelsea, in the first ten minutes it was all Chelsea.

It was as if we were the home team.

And I’ll say this. I was expecting great things from the wall of support from the opposite end – after all, they hate us right? – but the lack of noise from the Tottenham fans really surprised me. They had been right on it at Wembley in 2008, and at virtually every game at the old White Hart Lane around that era, but this was a very poor show.

On the pitch, everyone shone, confidently passing to each other, with the wide full-backs stretching play nicely. There were a couple of half-chances from us and yet nothing from Tottenham. From my lowly position – row seven – I did not have a great view of our attacks down the left, but it was from this area that provided some early cheer.

A corner played short by Willian to Kovacic was returned to him. The Brazilian received the ball, fleet-footed it into space and in prime territory, curled a shot (I was right behind the course of the ball once again) past Paulo Gazzaniga into the goal in front of seventeen thousand of the fuckers.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just before the goal, a fan had tapped me on the back to tell me that Andy from Trowbridge had spotted me; he had prime seats above the exit to my right. I seized the moment and snapped Andy’s euphoric celebrations.

And then it was time for me to smile, to scream, to celebrate.

Good on you, Willian.

Braziliant.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Phew.

This was a dream start.

We continued on in the same vein for the next portion of the game; always in control, always looking to puncture the Tottenham defence with incisive passing, always determined to halt any approach by the home team. We had chances throughout that first-half, with Tammy looking vibrant, but they had to wait for their first one.

On the half-hour, Harry Kane skied a chance from close in, and not long after Son Hueng Min walloped a shot high too, though from a tighter angle.

The three defenders looked in control and relaxed. This might not be our standard formation for much of the remainder of this season but here it worked a treat.

Tomori. Zouma. Rudiger.

“Young, gifted and at the back.” (…thanks for the inspiration John Drewitt, the cheque is in the post.)

Tottenham – damn, another cliché – really were chasing shadows.

They were simply not in it.

At all.

Chelsea were in fine voice. One song dominated.

“We’ve got Super Frankie Lampard. He knows exactly what we need. Tomori at the back. Tammy in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”

And it repeated and repeated. I am sure the watching millions heard it on TV because it was deathly silent in all of the 58,000 seats of the home areas.

Another tried an tested chant was aired :

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

On the balcony walls between the tiers, electronic messages flashed.

“THE GAME IS ABOUT GLORY.”

Snigger snigger.

“THIS IS MY CLUB, MY ONE AND ONLY CLUB.”

Yes, and you are fucking welcome to it.

“COME ON YOU SPURS.”

Fuck off you Spurs.

There was a worrying moment when Kepa hesitated to reach a ball into the box and he was clattered by Moussa Sissoko. Just after, there was a kerfuffle involving Kovacic, Kane, Rudiger, Zouma and Delle Ali. It was clear that tensions were rising.

Over on the far touchline, Frank Lampard was the more animated of the two managers by far, constantly cajoling and encouraging his players whereas Jose Mourinho looked unresponsive.

Some in the Chelsea end roared “Fuck off Mourinho” but that chant was not for me.

Forty-five minutes were up, but the first-half was far from finished. Willian lobbed the ball in to the box but the Tottenham ‘keeper bizarrely, and dangerously, chose to claim the ball with a ridiculously high challenge (reminiscent of Schumacher versus Battiston in 1982) and almost decapitated Alonso. For reasons known only to the referee Anthony Taylor, he awarded a free-kick to Tottenham.

We were rightly incandescent with anger.

“His legs were up before Alonso even got close. For fuck sake.”

Then, VAR.

I made a pact with myself – as did Alan, two seats along – not to cheer if the decision went our way.

VAR – penalty.

All eyes on Willian. A halt in his run, but his shot was to the ‘keeper’s left as was the first goal.

GET IN.

What a half of football.

The referee blew up and the Chelsea faithful roared. It had been, make no mistake, a beautiful half of football. At half-time, as I gleefully trotted through the away seats and out to the concourse, shaking hands with a few, and hugging a few more, and I can rarely remember such a joyous bunch at half-time anywhere. And it was great to see a few old stagers present – you know who you are – who had managed to beg, steal or borrow to get in.

Good times.

On the way up in the car, we had highlighted Son as probably Tottenham’s most influential player, but Christian Eriksen was surely not far behind. It was a surprise that Mourinho had not picked him to start, but he replaced Eric Dier as the second-half began.

There were two early attempts on goal from Tammy, and as the game continued it was the away team who still dominated.

Inside my head : “bloody hell, we can do this.”

Willian was bundled off the pitch, and found himself way below the pitch behind the goal. Just like at Old Trafford, there is a marked “fall-off” from the pitch to the surrounds of the stands. I was reminded that there was a retractable NFL – another reason to hate the twats – pitch under the grass pitch for football at this new stadium.

Inside my head : “and below that, a fucking full size circus ring.”

At around the hour mark, my visibility not great, I was vaguely aware of the “coming together” of Son and Rudiger down on the Spurs left. I honestly did not see anything, and perhaps my mind was elsewhere.

Out of nowhere, VAR became involved. Nobody around me really knew what was going on. The TV screen displayed “possible violent conduct” but we were clueless. After a good minute or so, probably more, came the message :

“Decision Red Card. Violent Conduct.”

And Taylor brandished the red to Son.

Oh my days.

Could life get any better?

In the aftermath of this incident, we spotted a few Tottenham fans getting up from their seats and it appeared that they were doing one of three things :

Heading off to try one of the craft ales on sale at the “Moustachioed & Bearded Hipster” bar.

Heading off to buy some Christmas presents at one of the ninety-seven retail outlets at the new stadium.

Heading home.

I suspect the latter, don’t you?

There were a couple of long announcements about “racist chanting” on the PA, but I did not think that this was in any way related to any one incident that had just taken place. I only learned about this while heading back in to London long after the game had finished. For the record, there was only a barely audible “Y” word at the end of the “Barcelona, Real Madrid” chant from the Chelsea contingent, most people deciding not to join in, and many deciding to “sssshhhhh.”

The game continued. It was eleven against ten, we were 2-0 up at the home of our bitterest rivals on our first-ever visit to their new gaff.

Oh, and our Frank was having the best of it against a formerly-loved, but now derided, manager.

“We used to love you Jose, but you’re a bit of a twat really aren’t you?”

Although there was not the high quality of the first-half, everywhere I looked there were sublime performances. Kante was his usual self, winning virtually all the 50/50 battles. One strong run was the stuff of legend. Mount ran and ran and ran, his energy just fantastic. Willian was sublime, the man of the match by far. One piece of control on the far side was worth the admission money alone. Special praise for Marcos Alonso too, a game that reminded me of his special role in 2016/17. I loved the spirited Azpilicueta too. I admired how he stretched – and reached – for a high ball that was going off for a throw-in, thus keeping the ball “live.”

Inside my head : “if I had tried that, I would have sprained seven different muscles, two of which weren’t even mine.”

Jorginho for Kovacic.

A Kante swipe from distance went close.

Reece James for Azpilicueta.

Michy Batshuayi for Abraham.

Fresh legs.

We dominated still. Tottenham were now launching balls high from deep.

“Hoof.”

Or “Huth” to be more precise. Remember Mourinho playing him upfront a few times? I think we should have seen that as a warning sign way back in 2005.

Eight minutes of added time were signalled.

Oh boy.

There was still time for a couple of lightning breaks – Willian usually involved – and Michy went close with a left-footed strike from outside the box. At the other end, the stadium now full of empty seats, Kane – who? – forced Kepa to make his very first save of the entire game.

I watched as the referee blew up and a forest of Chelsea arms flew into the air.

There was a little lull…a feeling of “I can’t believe this” permeated the mild North London air, and then the players and managers walked over towards us. I clambered up on to my seat (I noted that there are horizontal retaining bars above the back of each seat, almost paving the way – I suppose – for safe standing…well done Tottenham) and waited. I then photographed the frenzy of smiles, laughs, hugs and fist punches.

Then, ridiculously, the Tottenham PA chose to play the de facto Christmas song from my childhood (I can vividly remember sitting around the lunch table at my primary school in December 1973 when Slade’s “Merry Christmas Everybody” took over the number one slot).

“Are you hanging up a stocking on your wall?
It’s the time that every Santa has a ball.
Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer?
Does a ton-up on his sleigh?
Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?

So here it is, Merry Xmas.
Everybody’s having fun.
Look to the future now.
It’s only just begun.”

It wasn’t quite ten thousand Jocks singing “Rocking All Over The World” at half-time at Wembley in 1996, but it felt good enough.

What a giggle.

Frank was a picture. Look at the evidence below.

No words.

Outside, PD and I darted into “Sam’s Chicken” on the High Road to let the crowds subside. The food warmed us, and the dead man’s stare of many a Tottenham fan made me giggle some more.

We had not let them play, and they had been oh-so poor. It was a lovely Christmas present from them on our first-ever visit to their new home.

We caught a train back to Liverpool Street at about 7.30pm. Who should scuttle past me on the platform but Dan Levene? I would soon learn about the “racist chanting” and I wondered what spin he would put on it all.

Inside the train compartment, I spotted the actor Matthew Horne who plays Gavin in the excellent “Gavin & Stacey” comedy series on the BBC. He is a Tottenham fan in the show and I knew that he was a Tottenham fan in real life too. He was with his girlfriend so I left him alone. He was, oddly, combining a white and navy bar scarf with a Stone Island jacket.

Inside my head : “typical Tottenham.”

I overheard him say :

“We just didn’t show up today.”

That raised a giggle too.

After changing tube lines a few times, we eventually reached Barons Court at 9pm. It was a quiet but peaceful ride home and we reached Frome at 11pm.

It was, after all the initial worry, a bloody perfect day out.

Next up, Southampton at home on Boxing Day.

See you in the pub. Don’t be late.