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Tales From The City Of Manchester

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 5 December 2009.

With the late kick-off for our game at Eastlands, let me say a massive thank you to the TV companies and the FA who once again make life that little bit more difficult to the fans who actually attend games.

Good work.

Looking ahead, I see that for the third consecutive year, we are at Everton on a midweek night later on this season. It’s a disgrace and makes me sick.

For a few moments on Friday evening, my head was full of the World Cup draw. Rarely has my mobile phone been busier thanks to all the Stateside messages I received within an hour of England and USA being drawn together. However, thoughts of the World Cup rapidly evaporated when I awoke on Saturday morning.

Manchester City vs. Chelsea. The battle of the money men. Game on.

I had been suffering with a slight cold on Thursday and Friday and so wasn’t relishing the 200 mile drive up to Raintown.

I left home at 11am and listened to “Fighting Talk” on Five Live. I would be travelling alone, cocooned in my car with thoughts of the day ahead, battling the traffic, the wet weather and the cold. It was a typical winter day – low lying cloud and virtually no sun. With the Pompey vs. Burnley match on the radio, I decided to listen to Kings Of Leon instead. Not even I am that much of a footy fan.

I sent the usual cryptic clues to Alan as to my whereabouts as I zipped past the oh-so familiar M6 service stations –

“Cripps” – Stafford

“Howard” – Keele

“City Limits” – Knutsford

It was a pretty uneventful trip north. The Cocteau Twins replaced the Kings Of Lyon as I spun around the M60, the Manchester orbital. With the massive Stockport train viaduct ahead of me and then three massive red-brick mill buildings ( now rejuvenated as shopping malls / offices ) it suddenly dawned on me that I was “up north,” in the country’s former industrial heartland.

Stockport – of course, the location of Chelsea Football Club’s first ever competitive game, some 104 years ago.

At around 1.30pm, I found myself in the district of Clayton, where Manchester United’s first ground was located. I could see the supports to the City Of Manchester Stadium roof and so hunted for a place to park. I decided against street parking as I saw a few shady looking youths loitering. I paid a fiver for secure parking in a car wash, opposite a pub. I was reminded of the memorable welcome a few of us received from a female City fan way back in 1989. We had walked down to Maine Road from Piccadilly on a wet Saturday morning and as we crossed the road by the main stand, a Ford Capri stopped. The passenger window was wound down and the girl shouted out

“You’re gonna die, you cockney cunts.”

How charming.

As I approached the stadium, Beth called to say that she had just arrived too. She had travelled up by car with Gill and Graeme.

The weather turned murkier and the drizzle increased.

This was my fifth visit to the new City stadium. On a similarly rainy evening in 2004, a Nicolas Anelka consigned us to our only league defeat that season…I wondered about the omens.

Just before I bumped into Alan, Gary, Whitey, Beth, Gill and Graeme, I noted a long wall adjacent to one of the car parks. Emblazoned on it was a long piece of graffiti, signifying “speed”( all zig-zags and stripes ) with none other than an image of Shaun Wright-Phillips at the front. It looked pretty tasty. However, I soon realised that it was ultra-realistic.

He didn’t have the ball at his feet.

There was probably an image of a ball on another wall somewhere, or on the other side of the road. Maybe next to a chip shop in Droylesden or somewhere. Anywhere but at SWP’s feet.

I had time for two pints inside the stadium and a bit of a chat with a few mates.

As I took my seat in the upper tier, we noted that the stadium lights did not appear to be on full power. All was revealed. Just before the teams came on, all stadium lights were turned off, leaving just a “blue moon” image on the two scoreboards at each end of the stadium. With that, the City fans began bellowing their club song.

It was pretty good actually – the best example of a stadium helping to orchestrate an atmosphere I have seen outside of SW6.

Like The Bridge, the balcony walls were covered with City flags and slogans. The best one – and the biggest – simply stated

“We’re Not Really Here.”

I’m not sure of the origins of this City chant, but I guess it could be City’s particularly tongue-in-cheek reaction to being the second-class citizens of Manchester. I like City’s self-deprecating sense of humour. They remind me of us. In fact, just before kick-off, I spoke to Gary about City being the only other team I could stomach winning the title, mainly in lieu of all the hard times they endure as a result of United being across the city.

Soon into the game, we regaled the City left-back with a nice song about a game at Highbury in 2004. It didn’t take Gary long, once he had spotted a certain H Webb as the referee, to state

“We’ll get nothing here.”

However, it is worth saying that Gary says this at every one of our domestic away games, as if every Premiership ref has a personal vendetta against us. I had to chuckle.

We began well and appeared to be continuing on from the Arsenal game. We had a couple of chances even before we went ahead via Adebayor’s own goal.

Oh how we laughed.

However, for the rest of the first-half, City played really well and smothered us. Our midfield was poor by comparison to theirs. However, it was especially grating to hear that their equaliser had come via a handball. There were many grumbles at half-time, but I had confidence in Carlo sorting them out during the interval.

We played better in the second-half, but the Tevez free-kick made it hard for us to get on top of City. That lead gave them an extra yard. However, our midfield was truly abysmal…in fact, only Anelka seemed to play well. It was a disjointed affair. No passion.

Despite the fact that we stood for most of the game, our vocal support was poor, too.

Drogba was put through, one on one, and I was convinced he would score. I turned around in dismay and kicked the seat when he stroked the ball wide.

We piled on some late pressure and we prayed that a goal would come. Then, a ball for Drogba and he was scythed down. I pointed a finger at Gary – “He’s given it!” – and was full of emotion. I turned around to share my jubilation with my fellow fans.

And there she was.

Stood behind me, away shirt on, was a girl in her early ‘twenties. She had no expression. No smile. No laughter. No jubilation. I felt like shaking her. Why wasn’t she going mental like Alan, Gary and yours truly? Her obvious ambivalence to the emotion of the moment truly saddened me to the core.

Why do these people bother?

The away end held its collective breath and hoped Frank would score.

I snapped just as he was about to strike.

The scuffed shot. The save. A miserable 3,000 strong groan. The City fans erupted.

Despite five extra minutes, we looked unlikely to do it. As the final whistle blew, I quickly exited and I was soon out in the rainy evening. A few City fan were goading us and Dave Johnstone walked over to remonstrate with the Manchester police. I sped on back to the car.

The City lot were full of it – no complaints, they deserved it.

A gaggle of them sang “We’re not really here”

“We’re not really here, we’re not really here
Like the friends of the Invisible Man
We’re not really here.”

And I wished they weren’t.

I was lucky to get away relatively early. I edged out of the car park and was away, the rain coming down thicker now…the car windows steamed up and all around me car lights came on. The terraced houses seemed to go on forever. The City fans were bouncing. It would be a good night in Manchester’s blue half.

It was a four drive home…my post-match depression was short-lived. My good mate Alan had downloaded ex Cocteau Twins singer Elizabeth Fraser’s first single in 13 years and I listened to this on a loop for a good hour. It cheered me up no end. It also included her liaison with the late Jeff Buckley on “All Flowers In Time Bend Towards The Sun.”

Soon after, as I headed south past Tewkesbury and Cheltenham, I put my favourite Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” on and Fraser’s magnificent voice, shimmering one minute, crashing with emotion the next, soothed me.

“Treasure” came out in November 1984…and every time I hear the first few words, I am immediately taken back to that time. It takes me back to a cold December night, myself listening to “Treasure” on my Walkman, walking up the Fulham Road, full of Christmas shoppers, just after I had seen the Chelsea vs. Liverpool game on December 1st 1984…we had just beaten the European Champions 3-1 in front of over 40,000…Peter Osgood had been spotted in the West Stand seats just a few yards away, King Kerry scored after a few minutes and the Scousers were outplayed by an exuberant Chelsea team, newly-arrived in the top flight.

With such memories as that to draw on, the drive home was easy.

I soon reached Bristol – now home to Elisabeth Fraser, Massive Attack, Tricky, Portishead et al – and the music and memories of games past continued until I reached home at midnight. Let’s not dwell too much on a poor day at the office for Chelsea. Who needs bad memories? All flowers in time bend towards the sun.

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Tales From The Blue Country

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Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 21 November 2009.

I had been looking forward for this game for some time as it would be Danny’s first ever game at The Bridge. So often I hear comments that people experience Chelsea vicariously through me…well, I would be trying to live vicariously through him for one day.

Danny arrived on Friday, along with Beth, and Tuna was still in the UK. We had also planned to meet Gill and Graeme. Oh – and His Royal Highness The Prince Of Gumbo was arriving on the Saturday morning too.

Clearly a busy day.

With this in mind, I picked up Glenn and Parky by 8am. There was constant chat on the way up and this then gave way to The Jam’s “All Mod Cons” as we neared London. Of all of the bands from my youth, none conjures up memories of my Chelsea match-going experiences in the 1977-1982 period better than The Jam.

The Jam consisted of three working class chaps from Woking – a Chelsea hot bed – and they sang of London streets, rows going on down near Slough, tube stations at midnight and “Eton Rifles.” If you were to draw two Venn diagrams of The Jam’s support and footy fans, there would be a massive overlap. Their aggressive style mirrored that of the terraces. A perfect match.

We zipped past Windsor Castle and I was reminded that Frome Town would be playing at Windsor & Eton later that day.

We were parked up at 9.45am and we marched down to “Lloyd’s” for 10am. Breakfasts were ordered and we waited for Beth and Danny to arrive. We used to drink at this bar, which is located in the shopping centre above the tube for a while, but it got too busy. I was reminded of the old saying “nobody goes there anymore because it gets too crowded.” It was great to see Beth and Danny again and I welcomed them to HQ. After a quick chat, I had to quickly visit the box office to pick up a ticket for Gumby. With Gill and Graeme with us, we then quickly arranged for a team photo outside the West Stand with the CIA flag ( which has become a TV star in its own right ). I hinted that there might be several CIA match reports which will be converging at several points. There was then a quick trip up to the hotel foyer for Danny to meet Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti. I think Danny appreciated that.

I then had to meet a chap who was able to use a spare ticket – a friend of a friend – and we spent about forty-five minutes in The So Bar, awaiting Gumby’s arrival. Years ago, I think I would be a bit concerned about meeting a stranger – what to talk about! – but as we were both Chelsea fans, it was easy…we have that shared history to refer to. Bob was from North London, a fan since the 1967 Cup Final, but now lives in Devon. A few pieces of celery were thrown around and I told Bob about my little protest the day celery was officially banned from The Bridge in around 2006. I smuggled in a small piece and pinned it to my shirt. As protests go, it was hardly on the same scale as the lone Chinese student standing in front of that tank in Tiananmen Square, but there you go.

I don’t often drink in the So Bar and although it’s nicely noisy and very dark and atmospheric, I objected to a couple of nazi salutes.

Sort your lives out.

Gumby arrived with Lee and Mark at about 1.15pm and I handed over his Porto ticket. Bob and myself then spent about an hour in an absolutely packed Goose.

Phew – it had been manic.

At Chelsea, there are sometimes people handing outside various products by the main gates and, on this occasion, I was handed some chewing gum. Apparently, they were handing out toothbrushes too. I thought this was a bit bizarre, but then wondered if some bright spark at an advertising agency remembered the guy versus United cleaning his teeth and thought we all do this at Chelsea. Who knows how their minds work.

I got inside the ground and located Beth and Danny, down at The Shed, behind the west corner flag. The rain was starting to fall – oh well, Danny had said he had wanted some authentic winter weather. Liverpool had dropped yet more points and this was met with much laughter.

The 3,000 away fans were in early and I noted a few flags. One was “Devizes – Wolves” and I had seen this one on TV last Saturday for the England vs. Brazil game in Dubai. Devizes is a small town in Wiltshire, not far from where I work. I also spotted a Wolves flag which simply said “Wolves – Aye – We.” ( “Wolves – Yes, us” in English ) Wolves are based in The Black Country and their accent is pretty thick. The most famous Chelsea vs. Wolves game is, of course the 1955 game, but I remember the 1994 FA Cup quarter final when we won 1-0 and the “Blue Flag” song really came into our common consciousness. We sang that endlessly on that day.

“The Liquidater” was aired at about 2.50pm and the Wolves support joined in too – they also have it as a pre-game song. I saw Danny joining in.

In fact, throughout the game, I put myself in Danny’s shoes and wondered if he was having a good time. Would all of the pre-match hype live up to expectations? Would he be happy with the noise levels in The Shed? Would he feel at home? These thoughts fascinated me all day.

I noted three new, presumably permanent, Supporters Clubs banners on the balcony of the East Middle…those belonging to Sweden, Bermuda and Hastings. I think the idea is to get all of the balconies completely adorned with these and I like this idea.

It annoyed me that we weren’t treated to the classic old gold of Wolves’ first choice kit.

Wolves began brightly and a cross zipped across the wet surface at the North End of the stadium. Thankfully, no attacker was at hand to cause us any damage. Soon after, a quick break and some poor defending allowed Malouda to advance unhindered. He unleashed a real snorter which lashed into the Wolves goal and The Bridge erupted. Soon after, I received a text from Kyle in LA laughing about Danny’s nemesis Malouda scoring the first ever goal that Danny would witness at The Bridge. I had forgotten that Danny shares my opinions about Malouda and I had to chuckle.

By 3.22pm, two further goals had been scored at The Shed and it was a case of “game over.” I loved the players going down to celebrate all three at the corner flag were Beth and Danny were sitting. For Essien’s header, I have a wide angled shot of Essien waiting for the oncoming players to join him, arms outstretched, with Danny in the crowd, camera at the ready. I hoped for an onslaught of Chelsea pressure and many more goals. Although we passed the ball well nicely, no more goals ensued in the first period.

However, two pieces of play to talk about.

Firstly, there was a classic JT chest pass out of defence ( does everyone else notice how often JT does this? I counted three in one game a while ago…) and then that superb save by Cech, down low, from Ebanks-Blake.

Superb stuff.

We played some lovely stuff at times in the second-half, but with only the one Joe Cole goal to show for it. I took a nice shot of him when he was lifted up by Kalou, his face beaming towards the Matthew Harding. Essien was on fire the entire game and deserved a hat-trick…how unlucky he was with that strike which was saved and then hit the bar. I have always said Ess should score more goals for us.

The support was great at times…a “Super Chelsea – Super Chelsea FC” being the highlight…again I looked towards The Shed and spotted Danny’s arms outstretched. Now, I bet he felt at home at that stage.

Wolves countered with the dull “WWYWYWS?” and I groaned. How original. They also sang “four nil and you still don’t sing” at the East Lower, full of families and kids – a pretty anaemic part of our ground really.

So be it.

The highlight of the second-half was the lovely debut of Gael Kakuta. He showed real class and was a bundle of skilful ingenuity. That one delightful body swerve and shot was simply beautiful. Let’s hope he fulfils his vast promise at Chelsea.

So, 4-0 and it was a breeze.

Since that Stephen Hunt goal during the home opener, we have since conceded no further goals at home in the league. Let’s get back to Fortress Stamford Bridge.

The rain lashed down as we exited the stadium – buoyed by news of Arsenal’s defeat, we were full of smiles as we briefly met Cathy, Beth and Danny by the hotel. Danny looked a bit dazed to be honest – I eagerly await his match report.

Glenn, Parky and myself sloped off to The Finborough and then Salvo’s for pizza and beers. We watched a bit of the United vs. Everton game, but they couldn’t touch us this week.

Five points clear and having a laugh.

I drove back to Somerset, Glenn and Parky asleep for the most part, and got home just in time to see the games on “Match Of The Day.” We looked great and Alan Hansen was full of praise. I noted that Didier’s goal at The Reebok had been voted the goal of the month for October.

Happy days.

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Tales From The North-West

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Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea : 26 September 2009.

I think I might find it a struggle to reflect on this one.

This was to be yet another trip up to the old professional heartland of the game ( the cotton towns of the north-west provided a good majority of the founder members of the Football League ), another drive up to Lancashire and my sixth journey to Wigan in slightly over four years.

Apart from the very first of these games, which was Wigan’s first ever game in the top flight, the attendances have been well under capacity. However, the population of Wigan is only around 80,000 and has a richer history as one of the major rugby league towns. I personally think that Wigan do well to muster 15,000 home fans for most games at their trim new stadium. Of course, a lot of their success has come as a result of the investment from Dave Whelan, their former footballer-turned chairman. In all of these games, I think Wigan hasn’t had the rub of the green. We have come away with six wins out of six and two games stick out. Firstly, that game on a balmy Sunday in August 2005…Chelsea as newly-crowned champions, Wigan as top-league debutantes. They made it tough for us, but that Crespo winner in the last minute gave us the points. Then, the second visit in December 2006 and another late winner, that time via the boot of Arjen Robben.

So, with our past history at Wigan and given our start to the season, I predicted another three points.

Judy ( yes, we are back together again…for those keeping score – our third attempt! ) was accompanying me for this weekend in the north-west. We set off at 9.45am and Judy slept on the drive north…I daren’t put the radio or music on in case it woke her. I was left alone with my thoughts. Only two weeks earlier, I had driven up this same route to the game at Stoke and memories of other trips up the M5 and M6 washed over me…

We booked into our hotel at just after 1pm and it was a hotel that I knew well. For a lot of our games in the north-west, my mates head for The Kilton Inn on the outskirts of Manchester. We first visited it on that fateful day in October 2004 when we suffered our only defeat of 2004-2005 at the hands of Manchester City – and Nikolas Anelka. Then – most memorably – Frank, Glenn and myself stopped off for a meal there before Bolton away in April 2005.

What a day in our history.

For that reason alone, I like returning. They do great food, too – as Jenni ( BlueBelle) will testify!

Judy didn’t fancy the game and rested at the hotel. This concerned me – since 1998, Judy has accompanied me to seven Chelsea games and her record is a perfect seven. I set off for Wigan wondering if we would miss my “lucky charm.”

As I turned off the M6, I spotted the very top of the stand supports of Bolton’s Reebok Stadium away in the distance.

2005 came back into my consciousness again – lovely.

There was a fair bit of traffic on the main approach into the town, but I was parked up soon after 2pm. I spotted a gaggle of young kids, each wearing Wigan shirts – one with his shirt festooned with players’ signatures – and it made me happy. Nice to know that not everyone young kid in the north-west supports United or Liverpool. There is hope. I had arranged to meet Elliott from the New York Blues, along with a few more mates, in the Queens Arms, but nobody was around. I decided to head on to the stadium where I knew my two away stalwarts, Alan and Gary, were already located. As I left the boozer, I bumped into Terry, a fan I first met in Norway ten years ago. We always have a nice natter and he used to run the West Midlands supporters club. I hadn’t seen him for a while. Well, he soon told me that he had a heart-attack soon after the Barcelona game in May. He missed the Cup Final and this game – a gentle start at friendly Wigan – was his first game since his heart attack. Phew. It made me think. He is a non-smoker and a non-drinker and keeps relatively fit. What pressures do we put on ourselves in this mad devotion to Chelsea?

I wished him all the best as he shot off to sort out some tickets.

With the weather overcast – sun down south! – I scrambled up the steps to where Alan and Gary were finishing off their pints. Soon into the stadium and I took up my position half-way back and with the near goal slightly to my left.

“A Town Called Malice” by The Jam was played on the loud and booming PA and I looked around to see a lot of fans in their forties singing along.

“Stop dreaming of the quiet life – it’s the one you’ll never know.”

We stood the entire game. We spotted the strangely sober – and sombre – Lovejoy a few rows behind.

Despite a promising start and a couple of free-kicks, our form soon dipped. Wigan went ahead when a corner was swung in for Titus Bramble. I saw that Mikel had left his position on the near post and muttered an obscenity. Bramble headed down and into the goal, the trajectory right towards me. We went to pieces. I said to Gary that we have gone behind on loads of occasions this season, but on this occasion, we couldn’t regroup and retaliate. As the first-half progressed, we seemed to get worse and Alan noted a few players bickering amongst themselves. We don’t usually do that and it was worrying to see. JT made a last-ditch challenge to prevent a goal and then Cech blocked from close range. Wigan had more attempts on goal than us and we were looking ragged. Our midfield were not combative and it was so unlike us. Mikel had a woeful first-half, but nobody shone.

There were no surprises when Juliano – who scored a belter at Wigan a couple of years back – replaced Mikel at the break.

How we laughed when Kirkland let Drogba’s flick go through him.

We were level – phew.

This joy was short-lived, though and Cech was harshly sent-off in our opinion. Was Rodallega not going away from goal and was there not a covering defender? Hilario took his place but couldn’t stop the penalty.

Groan.

We now had a hapless task ahead of us.

Despite winning 2-1, the home support remained pretty quiet. The only section which made any noise was a block of two-hundred, mainly youngsters, aided a bloody incessant drummer, away to my left. I turned to Alan and said that I had only just heard the last few days that since 2005, Wigan had not beaten any of the “top four.”

Ominous.

Judy – where are you girl?

We made some changes and the hapless Kalou came on, but struggled to fit in. Anelka seemed to be playing too deep. But it’s wrong to single anybody out – the whole team played below par. Our support was quiet too. JT played upfront for a good deal of the last twenty minutes, with Essien covering at the rear, but we hardly threatened. One shot from Kalou sailed over my head in Row 25.

Five minutes of added-time and we sensed a chance…keep going, boys!

Then – a Wigan break on our right and – Oh God – a third.

The news from Anfield, White Hart Lane and the Brittania Stadium heightened the gloom and I quickly exited the stadium. As I rushed to get back to my car, one sight made me see red.

I walked past two young Chelsea fans, giggling away, mobile phones in hand, chatting and smiling at each other. I had my “we lost – do not disturb” face on and their ambivalence to our plight made me sick.

Sigh.

I grumbled to myself about “the youth of today” and wondered how long my state of mild depression would last.

I was soon back at the hotel, some fifteen miles south, and Judy was shocked that we had lost. I shrugged it off – how mature of me! I had seen Chelsea lose hundreds of times. One more won’t make much difference.

After a meal, I drove up to Blackpool, that crazy working-class holiday resort on the Lancashire coast. We wandered around the seafront which was teeming with ugly northerners – hen parties with middle-aged women in schoolgirls uniforms, men in fancy dress, The Incredible Hulk and Scooby Doo, hot-dogs, candy floss, sticks of rock, bag-pipes, Freddie Starr on the pier, trams, the illuminations, the fresh autumn air.

Crazy town.

It took my mind off our loss, but only just. It had been a bad day at the office for Chelsea Football Club, but let us see how everyone reacts over the next two games.

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Tales From The Borough

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 28 December 2008.

There are three professional football clubs in the Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham.

Chelsea, Fulham and Queens Park Rangers all lie within about three miles of each other – the three grounds must be the closest three in all of the UK. I have an inherent dislike of QPR and I know this stems from the brief period of my youth when – despite small gates – QPR were able to Lord it over us on the pitch. That really hurt.

Fulham are a bit different. I, like most Chelsea fans I know, have a genuine soft-spot for them…but that winds the Fulham fans up even more.

You see – they don’t like us. They don’t like us one little bit.

The last time Fulham finished above us was in 1982-83 when they narrowly missed out on promotion to the top division. This is how bad it was – QPR were already in Division One and Chelsea were trying to fight off relegation to Division Three. Yes, dear reader, in Spring 1983, Chelsea Football Club was bottom, by some distance, in The Hammersmith & Fulham League Table. But more about 1983 later.

Craven Cottage, down by The Thames, is one of my favourite away games.

I set off alone – in the end,Cookie was making his on way up with some more friends from Shepton Mallet – at 8.45am and for the first hour it was yet another crisp, clear and sunny winter morning. As I approached Stonehenge, the roads were icy and I needed to slow my speed. I received a call from my mate in Turin, Tullio, checking about accommodation for the Juventus trip – I’m really hoping that both he and Mario ( now residing in Germany ) can get tickets for that one.

Stopped at Fleet for a McBreakfast and had a chat with some Yeovil fans en route to Millwall. Yeovil are Somerset’s only league team and I look out for their results. The weather got a bit greyer as I approached London. Cookie was already parked-up and I gave him directions of how to get to our “meet”, the Duke’s Head in Putney. As I veered off the usual approach to Chelsea, heading south of the river, in through Mortlake, Barnes and Putney, I couldn’t help but notice the huge amount of Young’s pubs. A real London brewery. I parked up at 11am and headed for the pub, wondering if I would be the first one in.

No chance – Alan, Daryl, Ed and Neil were already at a long table in the corner, pints in front of them. Daryl was supping on a Young’s Light Ale. Gary soon joined us. Ed, the youngster – Daryl’s 17 year old son – had been on the ale the previous night and was nursing a hangover…bottled water for him. I bought a pint of Nastro Azzurro and was knocked out by the price – £4.05. Welcome to Putney!

The pub filled up quickly – a mixture of Fulham and Chelsea. My mate Andy from Nuneaton joined us for a beer. He rarely misses a game. Eliot from the New York Blues popped in – he was over visiting relatives for the Xmas period and it was good to see him. I last saw him out in LA, where he masterminded the fans’ football competition. No sign of Cookie!

We set off on the twenty minute walk to The Cottage – up and over Putney Bridge, the icy wind blowing off The Thames. My new Victorinox coat was passing its first real test with flying colours. I know that a few CIAers have visited Craven Cottage and it’s a very nice ground…I can’t really call it a stadium as such. It’s homey rather than grand. I am told that the Johnny Haynes Stand – the old one on Stevenage Road – has exactly the same dimensions as the old East Stand at Chelsea – both Leitch stands.

Back in 1983-84, one of Chelsea’s defining moments took place at Fulham, where about 25,000 saw us win 5-3 in the October. Alas – I didn’t go, but my mate Glenn did. Oh – and Daryl, Andy, Alan, Gary and Neil. I was gutted I missed it…”how dare you score five without me being there!”

My fifth trip to HQ in 1983 was for the Portsmouth game on December 27th…I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted, brought a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had, unbeknown to us, been developing in the main football cities since 1977. Now, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture…”the thing with no name” one Manc calls it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983, had many – there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around, the Goths were about, the soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon ) too…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, the Duranies, the girls who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…and hip hop was making inroads too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years – some still aren’t. Not only was Chelsea playing some great football, but I was going to more games and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? YES PLEASE! Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with Tullio and Mario, polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop green flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that..get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers! Look – they’re either Pringles ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea! ) or Lyle and Scotts ( yellow eagle )…why are all the trainers either Nikes or – what are they? What make are THEY? Diadoras? Dunno. Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s Sergio Tacchini and Bjorn Borg’s Fila. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research! – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies.”

And here’s the thing – it was all about the football, the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and was notable for two things…Kerry Dixon missing two penalties and a lone Pompey fan, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below…dressed in pink.

The Benches were roaring…”who’s the poser in the pink?”

But deep down – we all knew.

Fast forward twenty five glorious years and the assembled ranks of Chelsea Football Club, all 4,000 of us, were making a racket in the Putney End. Alan, Gary and myself had seats high up in the middle, sat alongside John Terry’s Barmy Army, with Big John bashing the wire mesh every few minutes to our left. Fulham – bless them – had given out several thousand cardboard concertina’d noise-makers. The Fulham fans vigorously used these, but the resultant “noise” was pitiful.

Sod that – we’re Chelsea and we’ll make our own noise.

The game was so frustrating. We had a lot of the ball in the first half, but fell to a poor bit of marking to go 1-0 down. The fans weren’t happy. Thought Joe Cole was poor, but Mikel was doing OK. He has been my player of the year – I think – so far. We had a few chances, but it wasn’t convincing at all. Gary was having a go at Joey – a bit unfair I think. I noticed that “Familiar Fan Name Unknown” was glaring at Gary in these moments.

We played a lot lot better in the second-half. Very encouraging – I couldn’t doubt the team’s spirit. A quick move, a blunder from the ‘keeper Schwarzer and Frank is there to knock it in. Get in, you beauty…I took a few shots of the resultant aftermath, fans’ arms flailing, Frank running to the corner flag. “Familiar Fan Name Unknown” was yelling at Gary “JOEY COLE, JOEY COLE, JOEY COLE!” with a look of aggression…Joe had certainly upped his performance in the second and was having a blinder. Bizarrely, Joe was then subbed and this was met with boos from us. I took a few more snaps, but then – with typical bad luck – put the camera away just before Frank lined up a free-kick. I was right behind the flight of the ball and Schwarzer really should have done better. Yet more wild celebrations. It reminded me of his free-kick at Fulham in 2004 – virtually the same place too. Surely we would score more. Drogba was leading the line well and the Chelsea fans were rewarding him with his song. I – notably – was clapping along, but not singing his name. I remember Moscow.

We had heard of Liverpool’s win – we needed these points.

Dempsey’s goal at the death knocked all of the stuffing out of me. Silence in our section. Disbelief.

But then one last, agonising, chance for Frank at the end, but a double block. A mighty groan.

A damned fine game of football – but not good enough.

“Happy New Year – see you on Saturday.”

I walked briskly back to the car, over the Thames, the floodlights lighting up the winter sky. The Fulham fans were bubbly, the Chelsea fans were downbeat.

At 3.30pm, we were singing “There’s only one team in Fulham” and at the final whistle, it was their turn.

Pah.

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Tales From Fulham Broadway

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 14 December 2008.

This is the story of Saturday night, Sunday morning and Sunday afternoon.

On Saturday evening I met up with a few friends to see The Blockheads perform in my local town of Frome. This band was fronted by the king of lyrical wizardry Ian Dury, who sadly passed away a few years ago. They have produced some great songs over the years, especially in the 1977-80 period. Infact, I worked out that the fourth single I ever bought, back in around April 1978, was The Blockheads’ “What a Waste.” This song has a certain amount of notoriety in Chelsea circles because of one line, referring to Fulham Broadway tube station. For a twelve year old boy in Somerset to hear the “Chelsea station” mentioned in a pop song was great. Many debates have been held over the years, questioning if Dury was a Chelsea fan. If not, why did he mention that station? Maybe we will never know. This was a Stiff record – and I remember being ever so thrilled by a swear word on the sleeve. Rock and roll! Half way through the gig, The Blockheads aired the song…their first real hit.

“I could be the driver in an articulated lorry I could be a poet, I wouldn’t need to worry I could be the teacher in a classroom full of scholars I could be the sergeant in a squadron full of wallahs What a waste What a waste What a waste What a waste Because I chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind (Schtum) I could be a lawyer with stratagems and ruses I could be a doctor with poultices and bruises I could be a writer with a growing reputation I could be the ticket man at Fulham Broadway station What a waste What a waste What a waste What a waste Because I chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind I could be the catalyst that sparks the revolution I could be an inmate in a long-term institution I could lead to wide extremes, I could do or die I could yawn and be withdrawn and watch them gallop by What a waste What a waste What a waste What a waste Because I chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind Chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind Chose to play the fool in a six-piece band First night nerves every one night stand I should be glad to be so inclined What a waste! What a waste! Rock and roll don’t mind”

Great stuff. During the gig, I realised that I most probably bought the single in the town’s “Woolworths.” Pretty poignant really – this very week, “Woolworhs” shops all over Britain have been having their closing down sales, the most notable name in the high street to be affected by the global downturn thus far. A real shame.

“What a waste” indeed.

A few of the songs were careering around my head as I drove into Frome on Sunday morning. Due to the lack of work around at the moment, PD. Dave and Karen had decided not to go to the game. I had acted as ticket-broker and had shifted the tickets to some close mates. I volunteered to drive. Parky from Trowbridge was travelling up with Glenn and myself. We left at 9am and I made great time. Constant chat on the way up yet again – they should connect Parky to the National Grid, the energy he expels.

Parked up at 11am and straight into the café for a fry-up. Frank and Andy were already there. The owners presented us all with individual Xmas cards, thanking us for our custom throughout the year. A nice touch.

I needed to zip down to the stadium in order to get a few things sorted out. Popped into the shop – bought the late Ron Hockings’ “100 Years Of The Blues” for £25…I already have his 1985 and 1995 editions of these books, in which every game is detailed. I love pouring over the games. So many memories. Ron was th official historian until his untimely death in 2006, just after we secured our third championship. He went to about 4,000 Chelsea games apparently.

By the time I had retraced my steps to the refurbished Goose, the clans were gathering. I made my two pints last forever. Good to see three of the Nuneaton lot pop in. Neil had a glance at my newly-acquired book and spotted his first ever game – a 3-1 win at Highfield Road back in 1971…a week after Trowbridge Andy’s first game! The banter was flying about. Had a word with Dutch Mick in the beer garden – he spotted my Blockhead T-Shirt and it turns out he is a big fan too. On the subject of music, about 16 of us are going to The Specials gig at Brixton next May…that promises to be a classic. Another potential legendary weekend is planned for Cup Final weekend too. Alan and myself are seeing Morrissey on the Friday. Alan, Daryl, Gary and myself are seeing Depeche Mode on the Saturday. We just need to get Chelsea to the FA Cup Final for one of the best two days ever. Watch this space!

A big cheer rang out in the pub when Gianfranco Zola was spotted arriving at The Bridge on TV. A few songs in his honour. Good stuff. We exchanged a few Christmas cards.

Alan gave me a rare Cocteau Twins DVD, which I was so pleased to receive. The only reference to 1983-1984 this time will be a nod towards me stumbling across the Cocteau Twins in the autumn of 1983. I first heard Liz Fraser’s voice on This Mortal Coil’s version of Tim Buckley’s “Song To The Siren.” A song so pure it still chills me to the bone. Once I heard Pat Nevin loved them too – well, perfect.

A hardy few of us will see each other a Everton next Monday…for the rest, it was “Have a good Christmas – see you on Boxing Day.” I left for the ground quite early – chatting away with Russ, another Frome / Chelsea boy. It seems that The Slug ( aka The Kings Arms ) is now the designated away pub at Chelsea on match days. I guess this is par for the course these days…think The Arkles near Anfield for Everton, The Fernhurst at Blackburn, The Beehive at Bolton. It would never have happened back in the eighties, though!

I got to my seat by about 3.30pm…plenty of time to soak up the atmosphere. A typical Chelsea Home Game of late…tons and tons of possession, but…well, you all saw it. Really, over the course of the whole game, we again deserved to win…but. Thought Mikel was our best player by far…a real solid performance, breaking up the play, playing it simple. So strong. I was really disappointed, again, by the lack of movement from the front six at times. West Ham were spirited, but I was still flabbergasted that they went 1-0 up. That Bellamy is such an irritant, but a good player of course. Ballack was woeful and deserved to be subbed at the break. My “favourite” referee Old Mother Riley was winding me up, as per usual.

A few, typical, boos at half-time. Mention Scolari to anyone now and they will say “No Plan B” in the way that Ranieri was “Tinkerman” and Mourinho was “The Special One.” Doesn’t matter that this is Scolari’s first four months in charge at Chelsea ( that he has won World Cups, that he was England’s first choice after Sven )…Scolari has no Plan B and is therefore a rubbish manager. This is the view of many at Chelsea. Funny how we urge other clubs to give new managers time, but not at Chelsea. Anyway, Drogba for Ballack at the break wasn’t rocket science. Let’s see if he does have a Plan B?

I thought that the atmosphere wasn’t bad for a change, especially in the second-half once we had got the goal back. A great goal, too. Nice stuff. At times I actually heard the West Stand singing. The second-half was a war of attrition…not a bad game at all really…a nice bit of noise. Of course, Cech’s fantastic save from Carlton Cole at the death gave us a share of the points. Deeply frustrating, of course. Then the boos started. After Liverpool fans booing their team off after a 0-0 draw at Anfield ( in which they went a point clear at the top ) and Arsenal fans shamelessly booing Eboue at The Emirates, it seems that Chelsea fans ( sorry – I mean Chelsea customers, not fans ) boo the team now too. What does it all mean? Maybe Booing is the new rock and roll? I can’t get my head around it. Sometimes my disgust for my fellow fans is palpable.

A quick march up the North End Road. Reached the car at 6.15pm. Glenn ( the worse for wear – he had been on the Guiness and was wobbly ) called me to say that Parky was nowhere to be seen. They had arranged to meet outside “The So” but Glenn had said that it had kicked-off. I tried to phone Parky, but no answer. The time passed. I eventually spoke to him and he had been hit by some West Ham. I was worried for him, but he seemed OK. Just like West Ham to hit someone on crutches I thought. Glenn waited in The Goose for him. I spoke to Glenn, infact, just as a mob of West Ham were scouting for stragglers. I waited in my car. At 7pm, I looked back and saw them both, safe…Parky with a beaming smile on his face. He was OK. He was buzzing, infact. I drove home, through the busy streets around Barons Court and then out onto the M4, as Parky beemed as he told me of his expoits. It seems a few lippy West Ham fans had goaded him, so he launched into them, crutches flailing. He got hit, but took a few down with him. I didn’t know what to think to be honest. He was safe, that was the main thing. He didn’t even have a bruised ego – far from it infact. He was just glad we had waited for him. As if we would leave him!

We sang a few verses of Rolf Harris’ “Two Little Boys.” “Do you think I would leave you crying when there’s room on my horse for two?” We laughed. After a few minutes, Glenn fell asleep, all limp with Guinness. Eventually dropped Parky off at 9pm, Glenn at 9.15pm…I bought another Chinese on the way home…getting back at 9.45pm. Rather than watch “MOTD2”, I instead played the Cocteau Twins’ DVD. I couldn’t stomach seeing the game again, really.

Another two points dropped – plus the chance to go top.

What a waste.

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Tales From The Roman Road

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Hull City vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2008.

Another lovely Chelsea away game.

As one record comes to an end, maybe we can seriously consider going on a long league unbeaten run, but away games this time. When was the last defeat away from SW6? Arsenal away last December. Let’s go for it – that will certainly make up for the sadness of losing the home record at 86 games.

Due to another “blip” on the Premier League fixture list, I had to take a day off to accommodate the 450 mile round trip to the delights of Humberside. Well, that makes it all sound like a bit of a hardship, but nothing can be further from the truth.

I had a leisurely start to the day and left Frome at 11am. I had decided to give the motorway network a miss for once and travel up to Hull via the “back roads.” For some games in the North, I travel up over The Cotswolds and I had decided to continue this route up to Lincoln and then take an A road up from there. I just get bored with the monotony of the M1. The road I join just north of Chippenham is the A429 and runs on the course of the old Roman road from Exeter to Lincoln…the Fosseway. It’s a beautiful road, linking a lot of gorgeous market towns in Gloucestershire. From Lincoln, I would then head north on the A15, which is another Roman road…Ermine Street. It’s pretty amazing to be driving along these oh-so straight roads, knowing that in around 50BC, centurions were marching up and down these same routes. In some sections, the route of the original Fosseway disappears for a few miles.

With all this in my mind, I had to smile when the first track on my car CD player, as I set off, happened to be the Depeche Mode version of “Route 66.”

The sun was out, blue skies ahead – a perfect day for driving. I called in to work for twenty minutes to check emails and a coffee refill, but was soon on my way. However, the weather soon clouded over as I hit Malmesbury, but there was no rain all of the way north. As I hit the Fosse just north of Cirencester, I switched to a Japan CD…those synthesisers from 1980 and 1981 seemed to be a bit incongruous as I drove past hundreds of orange and red autumnal trees…but it was a perfect mix for me. A bit stark. Very atmospheric. How I love life on the road.

The Cotswolds towns came and went…Stow On The Wold, Moreton In Marsh, each with buildings made of gorgeous yellow stone.

My mates Alan, Gary, Ed, Simon and Milo were travelling up to Hull on the free Chelsea club train.

Alan and myself text each other with cryptic clues of our whereabouts and so it began like this –

Chris “Jack Kerouac” On the road
Alan “Casey Jones” On the train

As I neared Warwick, the Cotswolds yellow stone gave way to red Midland brick and I spotted the remnants of the previous night’s snow along some hedgerows. I was making slow progress, so avoided Leicester by taking the M69 up to Leicester. By the way, Leicester City’s original name was Leicester Fosse.

Chris “Piggott” Leicester
Alan “Monsters Of Rock” Knebworth

I joined up with the Fosse again just north of Leicester, making good time now.

Chris “Pork Pie” Melton Mowbray
Alan “Eczema” Hitchin

I was really enjoying this trip. I had only ever travelled on this road once before – the same time of the year in 1973, when my parents and myself drove up to stay my half-term week with Grimsby with friends. Thirty-five years ago. Unbelievable.

Alan “Barry Fry” Peterborough
Chris “Graham Taylor” Lincoln

I bypassed the historic city of Lincoln ( I was tempted to write “Abraham” but continued the football manager theme ), the towers of its cathedral visible to my right. I was now travelling due north on Ermine street, heading for Scunthorpe and Hull. The sun was disappearing behind some clouds to my west, the Lincolnshire Wolds ( hills ) were to my east, I drove over the Humber Bridge, just as Alan texted me again.

Alan “Thatcher” Grantham
Chris “4” Hull

Ah, Hull – the great unknown city. Until this season, it was allegedly the largest conurbation in Europe which had never hosted top flight football. I had only visited it once during that 1973 trip. It has certainly been more of a rugby league city in the past…( Hull – or intriguingly known as Hull FC – in the west and Hull Kingston Rovers – or Hull KR – in the east…big rivals. ) Hull FC share the KC Stadium with Hull City, Hull KR have their own, shabbier, stadium, still. The main approach into Hull is named after one of the city’s leading rugby heroes, Clive Sullivan.

Alan “Osmond” Doncaster

I parked up. Hell, it was cold. It had been a perfect day thus far and there was a special reason I was pleased…this game would be my 700th lifetime Chelsea game and so I was happy it was all going to plan. I was in no doubts we would come away with the three points.

Alan “Get Some In” Selby

I only think that Expats will be able to “get” a few of these cryptic teasers!

Sat down at “Nandos” for a 700 Game Meal. The business. Then out into the cold and the twenty minute walk to the bright lights of the KC Stadium. The locals were warming their hands as they were eating some fish and chips outside a chippy. As I approached the stadium, I heard a local speak in the very quaint East Yorkshire vernacular –

“Half-time draw tickets – win yoursen a thousand pounds.”

Into the stadium and I nodded a hello to a couple of acquaintances before spotting Alan, Gary and the boys. Team photos. As luck would have it, my decision to avoid the main roads paid dividends. We heard that the three free Chelsea coaches had been stuck in a massive tail-back on the M1. Eventually all three arrived, but our mate Mark only got in at 8.15pm. And he left Chelsea at midday!

Like a lot of new grounds, there doesn’t seem to be a home “end” at Hull – think also Bolton, Wigan and Manchester City. The most vociferous section from the home stands was the 1,000 strong kiddies to our left. Overall, the Hull support was very poor. But this is the same everywhere now, with away fans ( the 3K die-hards ) out singing the home fans.

The 3,000 Chelsea loyalists stood the entire game. We had good, central seats. I kept a few of you lot in touch with the events by texts – you know who you are…all part of the service!

What a goal from Frank – I amazingly captured this on film…just beautiful. A great start. However, Hull did well not to capitulate and had a fair share of the ball in that first period. Cousin hit the post, Cech made a few good stops. We had a few chances too, of course, but the usual suspects didn’t appear to be playing too well. We were begging for a second goal.

At the break, I handed out a few doughnuts to the boys – the Game 700 Meal overspill!

A much better team performance in the second-half. Hull gave Frank too much space and I thought he ran the game. He has been great this season. All of the first-half under performers stepped up in the second 45 – Anelka after his goal especially…the chances came and went…one miss from Malouda especially. However, it ended up 3-0 with the much-maligned Frenchman touching home.

I couldn’t understand a lot of the Hull songs to be honest. You had to admire their cheek, though, because they serenaded us with a song about fcuking off back to our 5hit hole! The cheeky young whippersnappers!

Three-nil – job done!

Walked back to the car park, where a breathless attendant told me of the ridiculous goings-on at Arsenal.

As I listened to “606” as I drove out of the city centre, couldn’t help but think – with Liverpool and United winning too – it’s going to be a great, exciting season.

Stopped for a coffee at Woodall services, then charged down the M1. Unfortunately hit some sleet at Tamworth, which made driving tiresome, and the rain stayed with me until I reached home at 2.15am. It had been a long day…but, you know, just perfect.

For the record – my first 700 games.

Won – 396
Drew – 171
Lost – 133
For – 1211
Against – 646

Hopefully more landmarks lie ahead. You know it!

Dedicated to my good friend Glenn’s grandmother, who sadly passed away last Sunday, aged 90. Rest In Peace.

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Tales From The Fulham Road

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 26 October 2008.

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

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

Let’s have a roll-call though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our support was very poor.

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

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

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

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

“See you at Hull.”

“Yes, mate.”

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

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

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

I did OK.

Hull on Wednesday will be a corker.

Let’s move on.

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Tales From The Open Road

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Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2008.

I don’t know who decides which games are brought forward to 12.45pm on Saturday lunchtimes, but I would imagine that they must be having trouble getting by with half their brain missing.

I don’t object in principle to early kick-offs, but why not limit it to local derbies…heaven knows there are enough this year, with clusters of teams in London, the Midlands, the North West and the North East. It’s just crazy to expect Chelsea fans to turn up for an away game on Teeside on a Saturday lunchtime.

However, with all that said, I was looking forward to the trip north. I am not a big fan of cars per se, but I love driving. This jaunt would be the longest round trip I have ever done following Chelsea in my own car, on my own steam, me at the wheel all the way…well, in the UK anyway. A couple in the US were much longer.

Up at 4.30am and I pulled out of my drive at 5.10am, everyone else still slumbering. Made myself a coffee for the first part of the trip and that went down well. A little drizzle as I raced through the deserted streets of Bristol. I texted my good mate Alan to let him know I was “on the road.”

“Jack Kerouac.”

He was “Reg Varney” ( on the buses )… in fact on the sole CFC official bus, which pulled out of The Bridge at 4.30am. Although he only lives eight miles to the south of Chelsea, down near Palace’s ground, he had to be up at 2am. Thank you Mr Lobotomy Man at the FA. Alan told me that Radio Five Live were going to interview “Eileen” at 6am, giving her a platform to air the views of the disgruntled fans on board. As it happens, I just missed her on the radio. Five Live were doing a section on long-distance fans and one guy phoned in to say he lives near Manchester, but is a season ticket bolder at Hamburg. I’m sure that a fair percentage of Saturday traffic on the UK motorway network is made up of football fans, each on their own particular pilgrimage to far flung outposts.

It was quite a sight to observe the sky lightening in the east, just as I drove past Worcester. Then around the M42, by-passing Birmingham. I was making good time and stopped for a McBreakfast at 7.20am, just before hitting the M1 at Nottingham.

A brilliant, dazzling sunrise at Nottingham, the sun piercing the sky behind the immense cooling towers at Nottingham. An amazing sight.

After about twenty minutes, I pulled into Tibshelf services for ten minutes as Alan’s coach had stopped there for an hour. Said “hi” to our mate Gary – Alan’s away day partner – and also Mark from Sudbury, who I first met in that 1983-84 season. Spotted Gill, who I first met at Nevada Smiths on the 2005 US tour. She travels up from Kent to all away games with her son Graeme.

Anyway, onwards and upwards, past Mansfield, Chesterfield, Sheffield, Doncaster, signs for dirty Leeds, then skimmed past Wetherby and Thirsk. Light drizzle again as the North York moors loomed ominously on the horizon. Some of you may remember that last season I stayed at Whitby with Judy and met up with my old college room mate Chris for the ‘Boro game. This year, much the same story. I soon reached Thornaby On Tees, Chris’ home town, at about 10am and soon found myself at Chris parents’ house.

Now, I don’t go along with the strongly-held view, cherished by a lot of southerners ( especially Londoners ) that anywhere north of Watford is a hole. I love travelling to each of the cities for away games and try my best to find some nice aspects to each place I visit.

But Middlesbrough is tough. When I first met Chris in 1984, even then he told me that Thornaby wasn’t a great place to live. This was my first visit really…it’s an overspill town for Middlesbrough and is completely characterless and charmless. The town centre, currently being dismantled and rebuilt, was 1960 ugliness to a tee.

Anyway, his Mum had brewed-up and we had a chat with a nice cuppa tea.

We then drove to his sisters before getting a cab to the ground, only about three miles away. It was the same scenario as last year – Chris, his Dad, his son Michael and his brother in law, Richard, ‘Boro fans the lot of them…and me.

On the way to the Riverside, the huge, sprawling ICI chemical plant to the east of Middlesbrough could be plainly seen. This is the plant that gives Middlesbrough fans their self-deprecating nickname of Smoggies. I think if you come from Teeside, you need to laugh at yourself. Smoke billowing out from a few chimneys could certainly be seen. Not pleasant.

The stadium is located on land which was obviously where wharves and warehouses had been located, adjacent to the massive frame of the Transporter Bridge, straddling the Tees. ‘Boro used to play at Ayresome Park and I like the fact that the original gates from their former ground have been relocated in front of the bright red entrance to the main stand at The Riverside. There are two statues of former players in the same area…a nice touch. I wonder when our Peter Osgood statue will be appearing at The Bridge.

Unlike in previous visits, where the away fans were located in the SE corner, away fans now are more centrally located behind the East goal. Alan, Gary and myself were in the back row of the front section. I took some nice close-ups of the boys during their pre-match stretches and shuttle runs.

Our mates Andy and Neil, from Nuneaton, were two rows in front. Had a quick word of sympathy with Cliff, the guy fined for protecting his son from police brutality. Pathetic.

I noted many many flags and banners dotted around the rear of the four stands of The Riverside. One said “Our Team, Our Club, Our Teeside.” Yeah, and you’re bloody welcome to it. One said “Spirit of ‘86”, a nod to the year in which the club were almost wound up…those Ayresome Park gates were memorably locked amidst fears of liquidation…hard to believe that the team then won consecutive promotions from the Third and Second Divisions, including an infamous play-off victory against us…for a few years, I hated ‘Boro…the 1997 FA Cup Final win eased the pain!

‘Boro’s signature tune “Pigbag” ( a dance track from 1982, years ahead of it time ) welcomed the teams onto the pitch. The home end held up cards to say “One ‘Boro.” The Chelsea support rallied with songs about meadows and celery.

Alan made the very pertinent point that through the use of mosaics, banners and piped music, the clubs these days do all they can to promote a “happy, feely, bouncy” atmosphere at games…but stand up and step out of line – and you’re out! A real paradox, eh? My mate Andy was almost banned from football four years ago on a visit to this stadium when he had the temerity to celebrate a Chelsea goal a little too near the perimeter fence ( he didn’t go onto the pitch ) but after two court appearances, he got away with a warning. Andy is a fine CFC fan, he goes everywhere and this really got to him.

What a performance, eh? Yep, Middlesbrough were pretty poor, but we did play some sweet stuff. I think all the plaudits have gone to Malouda, Kalou and Super Frank, but I would like to say a good word for Mikel, who broke up a lot of ‘Boro’s moves, especially in the first half. He seems to mature with each game.

What a strike from Juliano…so similar to the goals against Wigan and Spurs last season. That boy can certainly hit a ball. We had a great view of that one, but an even better view of Frank’s glancing header which was the endpiece of a beautiful flowing move. We scored four goals in just 16 minutes and the Chelsea choir responded in the only way we know –

“Boring Boring Chelsea.”

It really was a top-notch performance and it equalled my highest ever Cherlsea away win ( 5-0 at Wolves in 2003 ). Loads of positives – lovely passing and movement…long may it continue.

I was soon out of the ground and quickly met up with Chris’ family. His ten year old son Michael was inconsolable. I really felt for him. I joked that they must be sick of the sight of me. Next year, I won’t meet up with them, I promise! Luckily, our cab was waiting ( how good was that! ) and I was soon saying my cheerios to Chris’ family. His Mum had prepared a little packed lunch for my long drive south and I left Thornaby at 3.30pm, feeling very pleased with the result.

The traffic was fine on the long drive home…I began listening to the football on Five Live, but after wins for the Goons and Liverpool, I couldn’t face listening to a United win. As I raced south, I listened to a few bands from my youth. Echo and The Bunnymen at Tamworth, The Stranglers at Tewkesbury, The Buzzcocks at Bristol.

As I drove through Midsomer Norton, Pete Shelley was singing “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.”

Well – Chelsea fans are, for sure.

I reached home at 8.15pm…560 miles on the clock and another three points in the bag.

Roma – you are next.

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