Tag Archives: Nicolas Anelka

Tales From The Rock-Steady Beat Of Madness

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Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 December 2011.

From a long way out, the Monday evening game with unbeaten Manchester City always felt like a big game on a big night. Our uplifting victories over Newcastle United and Valencia, plus the absence of a game for six days, only heightened my sense of anticipation. Two formerly under-achieving clubs, now enjoying a much more prosperous time. Two moneyed clubs heading for a showdown. It felt good.

With Manchester City going on such a tear this season, I could not help thinking back to our championship in 2004-2005. There are certain similarities, of that nobody can deny. And I wondered if we could inflict on City the same sort of wound on them that City inflicted on us. Think back to October 2004 and a single Nicolas Anelka goal gave City a 1-0 win at Eastlands. It was to be our only defeat throughout that entire league campaign.

During the day, I was upbeat about the match and told a few people that I felt that we would win. I could feel it in my heart. I could feel it in my bones. I could even visualise it in my head.

Parky and I had a new travelling companion for this game. Simon works in Bath for my company’s client Herman Miller. He drove over to the Chippenham warehouse and offices in the afternoon in order to enable us to get away dead on 4pm. We made better time than usual on the drive east. The weather was OK, the roads relatively free of heavy traffic. I cut the recent three hour trip by 30 minutes and we were inside The Goose just after 6.30pm. We joined up with the usual assortment of mates at the end of the bar. Andy was there with his father; a nice treat for them both. A few handshakes with the boys and I then looked down at the table. And there he was –

It was a quarter to seven and Rob was tucking in to a fry-up. It was his match-day breakfast.

Old habits die hard, eh?

With the game kicking off at 8pm, the three of us from the shires of Somerset and Wiltshire had a full 45 minutes of pre-match reverie. The Goose was packed with loads of familiar faces. Two pints of lager for me. They left me rather light-headed and I knew that I had to stop there. The vibes were good, the pub was boisterous. But then I saw City’s team flashed up on the nearby TV screen and their forward line made me stop in my tracks.

Silva, Aguero, Balotelli.

Gulp.

We were in for a tough one.

However, I was certainly happy with our team and, for once, AVB chose exactly the same team that I would have. Significantly, Romeu was in and Lampard was on the bench. The times they are-a-changing.

Just as I put my jacket back on, Alan asked me –

“Did you realise you are wearing a sky blue cap?”

To be honest, I hadn’t realised the significance of my light blue Hackett cap, adorned with the badge of the Chelsea Supporters Group. It is my favourite cap at the moment – it fits well – and the fact that I was wearing the colours of our opponents had completely slipped my mind.

Simon and I headed off down the North End Road, leaving His Lordship to finish swilling the last of his lager. As we walked past the tube, past the CFCUK stall, the wind whistled around our ears, fallen leaves swirling around in circling patterns. Spectators were in a hurry, bustling along to get inside, jackets tight, scarves and caps to the fore. The familiar match day aroma of burgers and onions. The lights of the stadium beckoned us in.

Inside with a good ten minutes to spare, we could relax. Simon sat next to Alan and I. Tom, our spritely 75 year old companion, was wearing a hoody to keep himself warm and I couldn’t resist a photo. 85 year old Joe handed over a Christmas card to me; he has done so every year for the past seven years. I well remember the little message he wrote in the first of these in December 2004 –

“Chelsea will win the league this season.”

The pre-match rituals; The Liquidator, the flags, the entrance of the teams. The rain was lashing down, but we didn’t care. With everybody in place, I realised that Manchester City had only brought half of their potential allocation on this big night in SW6. This really surprised me. I could imagine the United fans, ironically watching from their Old Trafford season ticket seat on their sofa, laughing at this. United always bring three thousand, City hardly ever. Only three City flags. Poor showing, the team of Manchester.

I’m not sure why, but as this Monday night game kicked-off, I was reminded of a previous match, as I so often am. Way back in 1994, our second home game of the season was a Wednesday night game against City. I’m pretty sure they wore their famous red and black stripes in that game, too. Maybe that is why I was sent swirling back through the years. We won 3-0 that night, but what I remember most is the attendance. We were on the up, having qualified for our first European campaign in 23 years and had begun the season under Hoddle in good form. With The Bridge undergoing its long awaited rebuilding programme, the capacity was cut to around 23,000. A full house on the opening day against Norwich was followed eleven days later with a game against City. We are used to full houses these days with every game over 40,000. Gone are the days when “Guess the Gate” was such an integral part of the Chelsea match day experience. Back in the old days, we all got rather good at this.

“Poor last week, not many away fans, midweek game – I reckon 15,000.”

“Two games in a week, bit better last time – how about 17,000?”

In those days, the number of spectators present was an easy indicator of how big Chelsea was, as opposed to how big it thought it was. Back in August 1994, I was hoping that we would get over 20,000 for the City game, but was certainly preparing for a “typical Chelsea” midweek gate of 15,000. Well, I remember being immensely happy with the gate of 21,740 for that midweek game all those years ago. It was a sign that, perhaps, the momentum at our club was changing for the better.

Small details from all those years ago – it seems a different age, a different game, in some respects. Crazy, really. How both of the two clubs have enjoyed varying fortunes since 1994.

Chelsea – always improving, year on year, but with a few minor setbacks.

City – down to the old third division but now back with a vengeance.

Well, City were in sublime form during the first twenty-five minutes of the game. I wasn’t paying particularly strong attention on just two minutes – taking a photo, no doubt – when our high line was breached and Balotelli broke and rounded Cech to almost embarrassingly pass the ball into the net. This was only after two minutes and The Bridge fell silent. Out of sight, the Citizens were celebrating, but my eyes were fixed on the nonchalant shrug of Balotelli. A plastic bottle from the MHL flew past him.

City purred in the opening exchanges, finding spaces in all parts of our final third. There was a supreme fluidity to their play, with Silva at the heart. Passes were exchanged at will and Chelsea’s best was clearly not good enough. We all feared for the worst. Simon, who runs a local Saturday team, was passing comments about our defensive failings and we were lamenting our play. A Gareth Barry shot whizzed past. A Silva penalty claim was thankfully waved away.

Texts from Glenn in Frome and Steve in Philadelphia came through within ten seconds of each other saying that we had been lucky; it was a penalty and only Silva’s theatrics saved us.

Slowly, but surely – I can’t say how – we enjoyed more of the ball, more of the territory, more of the game. I guess we stood up as men and Chelsea players. Somehow, we got closer to City, we became less scared.

A delightful dribble and shimmy from the lively Daniel Sturridge, way down in front of Parky in the Shed Lower, and a dagger into the heart of the City defence.

Meireles arriving, a stab at goal, the ball crashing against the net.

What a strike – a truly dramatic moment.

We were level and the crowd, already stirring before the goal, were roaring.

A text from Michigan –

“Get the fcuk in there Meireles.”

We were getting back into the game, for sure, and the rest of the first-half was played out with growing confidence as the players fed off the support roaring from the four stands, cascading down on the team. Heartening for the Chelsea players, but disquieting for the visitors. Just before the break, the crowd were bellowing scorn on City’s Champions League exit –

“Thursday Night – Channel Five, Thursday Night – Channel Five.”

Not even the United fans at home could join in with that one.

At the break, a star from that 1994 game was on the pitch with Neil Barnett; our Russian goalkeeper Dmitri Kharine .

As Joe Hart approached the Matthew Harding, he was clapped by a few hundred fans and I realised how this old-fashioned tradition has almost died in modern day football. As Hart is an England international, I guess he is one of the few visiting goalkeepers who will warrant such a response from the Chelsea faithful.

If the first-half was eventually shared, the second period belonged to us. A Mata free kick was belted over by Sturridge from an angle, but we were enjoying much more of the ball. Romeu was closing space and tackling hard, his passing clean and intelligent. Mata was the magician, twisting like Gianfranco in his prime. One sublime piece of skill below me drew a foul from Kompany, but the free-kick was wasted.

Soon after, a run by Ramires – another player growing as the game progressed- and he drew a foul from Clichy. It was his second yellow and he was off.

The home crowd roared. Things were getting better by the minute.

It struck me that there were growing similarities to the home game with Manchester United back in March; a goal down, outclassed, an equaliser through dogged perseverance, a sending-off. I mentioned this to both Simon and Alan.

The game was brewing nicely. I kept looking at the clock and wanted the game to stir us further in the remaining 25, 20, 15 minutes.

On 72 minutes, Frank Lampard replaced the excellent Ramires and I thought back to that night in March when Frank struck a late penalty past Van de Sar. City had already taken off Aguero and Silva; they were settling for a point. This pleased me further. Their attacks were infrequent now and Chelsea were fighting for possession, though efforts on Hart’s goal were rare commodities.

Then, in a moment of play which was a blur, the fresh Lampard found Studge, whose shot struck the raised arm of Lescott. The crowd stopped to a man and all eyes centred on the referee Mark Clattenburg.

He pointed to the spot and the Stamford Bridge crowd exploded.

More thoughts of that game against United.

Frank placed the ball on the spot, retreated and the crowd waited. I held my camera steady and clicked just as Frank struck.

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Straight down Broadway, straight down Regent Street.

The ball thundered past Hart and the net flew back as the white ball crashed into it.

We exploded again and I watched as Frank dived into the first few rows of the MHL. He was soon joined by his team mates down below me and I clicked away, then celebrated wildly with Alan and Simon, who I inadvertently thumped in the stomach.

Wild scenes on a wild night.

I was right about comparisons with that United game.

Again the home fans were united in voice, as that lovely old standard echoed sublimely around all four stands –

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

I looked around in awe – it really did seem that every one of the 40,000 Chelsea fans were joining in.

What a moment. The best noise at Chelsea for years.

The rest of the game really was a blur.

The final whistle blew and we all hugged and clapped. It had been a truly thrilling game and it was oh-so enjoyable. Before I could stop and think further, the PA was ignited and these words blasted out into the dark, wet, London night –

“Hey you, don’t watch that –
Watch this!
This is the heavy heavy monster sound.
The nuttiest sound around.
So if you’ve come in off the street.
And you’re beginning to feel the heat.
Well listen buster
You better start to move your feet.
To the rockinest, rock-steady beat
Of Madness.
One Step Beyond!”

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…and the Stamford Bridge stands bounced as thousands of Chelsea fans turned nutty.

What a night. We got absolutely drenched on the trudge back to the car, and the long drive home was horrible; full of rain, spray, gusts of wind, surface water.

But I didn’t care. This had been a superb night, long to be remembered in the history of our beloved club. We had stood up to the challenge and had overcome an excellent Manchester City team. More importantly, perhaps, the crowd had supported the team in a way that I thought had almost disappeared. It had been a lovely night.

Well done Chelsea.

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Tales From Matchday Four

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Chelsea vs. Spartak Moscow : 3 November 2010.

An alternative title –

“Friends And Roman’s Countrymen.”

It seems rather obvious to state, but the history of Chelsea Football Club has changed dramatically since the arrival of Roman in 2003. However, the game against Spartak Moscow got me thinking about our other links with that nation. Of course, the Champions League Final in 2008 comes immediately to mind – and I have detailed that emotional day elsewhere – but there have been other dalliances with Russian teams and players in our recent and not so recent past.

If there is one game in our ancient history that I wish I had seen it was the momentous 1945 game against the crack Russian team Moscow Dynamo. This game was one of four games that the touring Russians played on that tour and the others were at Rangers, Cardiff and White Hart Lane ( against Arsenal ). The tour is wonderfully evoked in a great football book called “Passovotchka” by David Downing which I bought a while back. My great friend John, who was a schoolboy in South London during the war, spoke to me once about going to the game at Tottenham on a murky winter day in 1945. His memories helped solidify the images in my mind which the author’s words had planted. The few photographs from that tour are priceless of course. It is one of those occasions which I often daydream about – I can almost smell the spectators’ tobacco smoke, the mustiness of soldiers’ demob suits, the greyness of the London air, the sense of anticipation amongst the thousands upon thousands swarming on Fulham Road, the joy of a top flight game after years of ersatz friendlies during the preceding six years, the noise and the colour of the Moscow team in blue and the Chelsea team in red.

When I visited Moscow on that monumental day in 2008 – another grey day in more ways than one – I wanted to pick up a Dynamo souvenir in honour of that game from our history. On Arbatskaya, midway through a drinking session with a few close mates, I purchased a Dynamo scarf from a stall. It’s great. I love that great big “D” – the Dynamo logo. I did think about wearing it to the game against Spartak, but thought better of it. Of course, Moscow is like London in its many teams…in addition to Spartak and Dynamo, there are Torpedo, Lokomotiv and CSKA. I think that Dynamo’s fortunes have waned since the break-up of the communist regime, but I’m hoping that we play them again one day.

I was worried about getting caught in horrendous traffic on the journey up to HQ as there was a tube strike taking place in London. I mentioned it to my bosses during the day – oh, at least five times – and I was thankfully allowed out early at 3.50pm. My colleague Bill, an Aberdeen fan from Brechin was travelling up with his Chelsea supporting son. I said I’d tip him off if the traffic got heavy.

Every second counts.

I collected Parky and made great time…until the last two miles, when time stood still.

Not to worry – into The Goose at 6.40pm. Bill wasn’t far behind me, happy I had texted him with some parking options. Just time for two pints of lager with the chaps. San Francisco Bob is over for a week and it was great to see him again. He is coming down to The Wild West on Friday and we are catching the Frome Town ( five league wins on the bounce! ) versus Clevedon Town game on the Saturday ahead of our assault on Anfield the following day. Bob’s excitement was palpable.

Texas Wes and his Russian mate Sergey soon arrived and I handed over the Shed tickets I had managed to get for them. Mo was able to come up trumps with another of Wes’ mates too – quite a hive of activity. Lots of laughter and Mickey-taking of course. Bob’s eyes lit up when I told him that there is a Henri Lloyd shop in Street and we planned a flying visit on Saturday morning before I give him a tour of my home town.

I checked my phone and sat at my seat exactly at 7.45pm. It was just a shame that my phone was obviously two minutes slow.

Drat.

The Russians were encamped in the away section and soon unfurled a massive red flag with a diagonal stripe and this was passed overhead for a few minutes. No words, but the familiar iconic silhouette of Lenin in the top left corner. It was quite striking. I checked the starting line up with Alan and there was no JT. Ivanovic was shifted into the middle and Paolo took over at right-back. As soon as the game began, ex-CSKA player Zhirkov was roundly booed by the visiting hordes. I imagined that the Russians had been queuing since breakfast – they like a good queue, the Russians.

The next thing I spotted was that ex-Celtic winger Aiden McGeady wearing blue boots. I immediately thought of legions of “Cellic” followers in Cambuslang, Easterhouse, Cumbernauld, Dublin and Boston spitting out their pints of Buckfast fortified wine and turning the air – er, blue. It certainly came as a surprise to me.

The first-half was poor wasn’t it? Our Russian visitors were surprisingly unadventurous, but we seemed to be quite ponderous in our attacks. I can hardly remember anything specific. Anelka cut in adeptly in that favoured inside-left channel, but his firm strike flew high and wide. From a whipped-in corner, the ball found Alex lurking on the far post, inside the six yard box. He flung himself at the ball but managed to deflect the ball up and over the crossbar. This action was up the other end and so I think the magnitude of this miss was lost on us in the Matthew Harding. It certainly looked a shocker, though. Chances were few and far between.

I heard the Muscovites singing, in English – “We Are Top Of The League.”

At half-time, Charlie Cooke was on the pitch with Neil while the Lenin flag was being passed overhead in the SE corner again. A right-winger and a left-winger together. On the PA, the classic Ian Dury song “Reasons To Be Cheerful” was being played.

“Some of Buddy Holly, the working folly
Good Golly Miss Molly and boats
Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet
Jump back in the alley, and nanny goats

Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domineker camels
All other mammals plus equal votes
Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willy
Being rather silly and porridge oats

A bit of grin and bear it, a bit of come and share it
You’re welcome, we can spare it, yellow socks
Too short to be haughty, too nutty to be naughty
Going on forty, no electric shocks

The juice of the carrot, the smile of a parrot
A little drop of claret – anything that rocks
Elvis and Scotty, the days when I ain’t spotty
Sitting on the potty, curing smallpox.”

To be honest, I could find few reasons to be cheerful in our pale first-half performance. I flicked through the programme and Ric Glanvill had written a great piece on the Dynamo game in 1945. A couple of great photos showed the sheer volume of spectators ( anything up to 125,000 ) plus the iconic shot of players such as John Harris, Len Goulden, Vic Woodley and Tommy Lawton clutching posies of flowers. What an iconic photograph. I’m sure you have all seen it. There was also a Q&A with our most famous Russian player, Dmitri Karin, our respected goalkeeper from the ‘nineties. He is now a goalkeeping coach at Luton town. I remember him famously saving a penalty against Viktoria Zizkov in 1994, our first European away game since 1971. He also played in the 1994 F.A. Cup Final.

The programme detailed our complete European record at Stamford Bridge and it really is phenomenal.

Played – 80
Won – 56
Drew – 20
Lost – 4

The game was being shown live on ITV1, one of our main channels, but I imagined thousands flicking through their TV guides on the back of the paucity of entertainment on offer in the first half. However, this became the hackneyed “game of two halves” with Chelsea hitting the net on four occasions in the second period. Nicolas Anelka was sent through, but I didn’t give him any chance of hitting the target from such a tight angle. Indeed, after he shot, the ball hit the side netting.

No – wait? Everyone else apart from Alan and me were cheering and Anelka was seen celebrating by running over to the far corner. This came as a complete surprise to me and I hardly celebrated, I was so shocked. This probably goes down as being the “least celebrated opening goal” in 36 years of Chelsea games. For the second goal, Didier tussled with the right back in that corner of the penalty box below me and I had a great view of his utter strength. It was amazing to see up close. What an ox.

An errant challenge, a penalty kick, two-nil to The Champions.

The Stamford Bridge faithful was surprisingly quiet all night – you knew that, right? However, we sang the old classic

“Che Sera Sera
Whatever Will Be, Will Be
We’re Going To Wembley
Che Sera Sera.”

The Cup Final song with a new European twist.

It was nice to see the three youngsters get some time on the pitch as the game progressed. With millions watching at home, some great PR for the club, too.

My camera was playing up all evening – very annoying – but I captured Ivanovic’ second goal in five days on film. However, the image was blurred and there is a white smudge from his forehead…to be honest, the image is pretty effective, though. He celebrated wildly by sliding on his knees into the arms of Didier, who I think had supplied the cross. We peppered the Moscow goal with a few late chances.

I noted that the Russian fans were doing the same as the Marseille fans – splitting themselves into two groups and chanting at each other. Meanwhile the middle of The Shed and the west side of The Shed were quiet.

We then went to sleep to allow a rapid Spartak break and a close-range goal. Not to worry, that man Ivanovic soon popped up with the fourth. A crazy game.

I briefly met up with Bill outside the Ossie statue and he had enjoyed the game. Parky, Bob, Wes, Sergey and myself met up at The Lily Tandoori at 10pm and we spent ninety minutes chatting away over some curries as the tube-strike induced traffic slowly moved outside. It was a time for celebration for Wes as he has recently nabbed a job as a schoolteacher in Ealing. He will be around for a while yet – after the Double last season, his sabbatical in west London is looking to be a perfect period in his life. Sergey tried a chicken tikka masala and it was his first taste of the English national dish. We spent a while debating if we had qualified for the final sixteen, but the football seemed to be of secondary importance on this particular night. From the gathering of the clans in The Goose to the curry after the game, it was all about laughter amongst friends to be honest.

We said our goodbyes – I’ll be seeing The Bobster on Friday – and departed at 11.30pm. Parky was soon asleep and the 110 miles were eaten up in double-quick time.

A double header coming up – Frome Town vs. Clevedon Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea.

Reports to follow.

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Tales From A Nervous One Hundred Minutes

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Chelsea vs. Bolton Wanderers : 13 April 2010.

Since the wonderful events of the weekend, I had been walking tall. Not many people wanted to talk football with me at work though. Strange, eh? However, I awoke nervous and I stayed nervous all day. This was to be a huge day in our season.

Despite the concerns I had about missing a midweek home game with the new people at work, I pulled out of the car-park bang on 4.15pm, my earliest “get away” for ages. It was a stress-free trip up through Wiltshire and Berkshire and into the Thames Valley. I made Steve Azar aware of my progress using the usual shorthand –

Kerry Dixon.

David Brent.

Rifles.

This was to be Steve’s last home game on his two-month sabbatical and we had planned a post-match curry. Throughout the trip up to HQ, my only thoughts about the line-up was the “Drogba or Anelka” conundrum. As I neared London, the weather brightened, with the sun breaking through. The sky was full of vapour trails from the planes flying in and out of Heathrow and, higher, cirrus clouds were everywhere. It was a glorious evening. The traffic was light. I was on target. The Killers gave way to Morrissey and all was good with the world. As I drove past the former Chelsea training ground at Harlington ( the coldest place on Earth, according to Marcel Desailly ), I noted that the trees and hedges were almost starting to turn green with new shoots and buds. The odd cherry blossom was already in bloom. I noted the twin sights of the Wembley Arch to my north and Brentford’s Griffin Park to my south. To be honest, this had the “feel” of a mid-week CL game, such was its importance to us. Past the Fuller’s brewery at Chiswick and the sky was gorgeous blue, devoid of any clouds. Lovely stuff. I had good vibes, despite the odd nervous moments of doubt.

I was parked-up at 6.25pm – that cherry blossom in Normand Park was smelling wonderful – and I soon arrived at The Goose.

With the 8pm kick-off, I had a good hour to relax out in the sunny, but cold, beer garden with the usual suspects. Time for two pints and a chat with the boys – perfect. We were neither confident and cocky nor nervy and pessimistic. We were realistic, to be fair. We knew Bolton would be a tough set of opponents, but the game was certainly “winnable.” Immediate chat focussed on the game against Villa at Wembley. Steve told us of two “big Frank Lampard fans” who left on 80 minutes and all of us were outraged by the hordes who left at 2-0. Daryl said he bumped into more than a few Chelsea fans later in the evening who had left the ground early and had thought we had only won 1-0.

Not my Chelsea.

Our fans dominated a lot of our talk. Whitey spoke about the 2006 league-winning game against United…he couldn’t get a ticket for love nor money and watched the game unfold on the TV in The Slug at FB. He spoke of the shame of seeing hundreds drift past, immediately after the whistle, obviously oblivious – or uninterested – to see the league trophy being presented to the team.

Truly shameful behaviour. Who are these people?

I walked down to the ground just in time to make the kick-off. My first thoughts were about the truly pitiful away support…no more than 120. I then looked to the right and say a lovely new banner on The Shed balcony ( and I knew Beth would be pleased ) –

BENTLEY’S BOYS

Lovely stuff.

The line-up that Carlo chose surprised a few of us…both Drogs and Nico. We were amazed that Malouda was on the bench, along with a surely disappointed Joe Cole. Our midfield seemed solid, but having Mikel and Ballack in there always slows things. The enigma of Kalou upfront. Oh boy.

Within five minutes, our flying Russian was hurtling down the wing as if his life depended on it and set up Didier who shot over. During the first-half, we had the usual majority of possession, with a few Bolton counter-attacks keeping us on our toes. We were worried when JT appeared to twist his ankle, but he’s no Rooney. He soon rejoined the fray. Soon after, Yuri suffered a cut to the head and lay in the six-yard box for some time. He was patched up and resembled Bert from Sesame Street, a tuft of hair peaking over his bandaged forehead.

We were nervous – that word again – and The Bridge was muted for long periods. It should have been jumping.

I thought that Frank – playing deep again – and Ballack were quiet. The Bolton tackles were flying in from all angles. They were upsetting our mood. The fans were growing restless and the clock was ticking. Yuri popped off to get his head wound stitched and Frank filled in at left-back for five minutes. Kalou was miss-firing upfront, but Anelka was roving well.

With me chatting to Alan about a lack of movement, we worked the ball well out to Didier on the left, in front of the taxi-cab load of Bolton fans. He had space and time to curl in a perfect cross, on the money, and Anelka headed down – and in – from close range.

A huge sigh of relief, mixed in with a euphoric yelp. That was massive.

Six minutes of added time…

Wes was sitting next to me and at half-time Alan entertained him. Alan is a master of a thousand voices and Alan chatted to Wes in the style of “Boomhauer,” the fellow Texan from “King Of The Hill.”

“Get-on-that-Chelsea-dang-flying-through-there-the-middle-ball-whoop-goal-whoo-woo-you-hear?”

Health issues from two fellow fans called Frank at half-time…London Frank, recovering from a heart-attack, getting better day by day…Frome Frank, chest pains, but still able to attend games and watching fifteen feet away. We wish them well. Peter Bonetti came out onto the pitch again at the break.

With the Chelsea players awaiting their opponents to rejoin them on the Stamford Bridge pitch, Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” was played on the Chelsea PA.

“Don’t Worry About A Thing, ‘Cus Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright.”

This is yet to really catch on…watch this space.

Yet another Yuri run down the left, yet another fluffed chance. After Drogba shot high and wild from way out, Tom commented “Drogba is either caviar or cabbage” and we knew what he meant. Salomon Kalou broke through but the ‘keeper parried and the same player shot wide barely a minute later. He was annoying large sections of the crowd. This didn’t help the collective nerves of us all. Then, out of the dark London night, a chant which lit up the entire evening. It took until 57 minutes, but at last we got behind the team –

“And It’s Super Chelsea, Suuuuuuper Chelsea Eff Ceeee – We’re By Far The Greatest Team The World Has Ever Seen”

It was the loudest, most coherent chant for ages. Good stuff.

After Drogba skied a clearance, Petr Cech back-pedalled and reached up to stop the ball going out for a corner. It reminded me of a famous catch from my other favourite sport. I spoke to Wes and texted Danny, no doubt watching in deepest Rancho Cucamonga –

“Did you see that Willie Mays at the Polo Grounds catch from Cech?”

Danny soon replied –

“I did. I was expecting him to turn and hit the cut off man. Which would be Mikel.”

I laughed. A bit of baseball humour from 6,000 miles away. I will call Mikel “the cut off man” from now on in. It seems appropriate.

The nerves increased as Bolton improved around the hour mark. However, it was becoming a game of half-chances for both teams.

Another Zhirkov run deep into their box.

We moaned when the industrious Anelka gave way for Malouda…it ought to have been Kalou in our minds. More Bolton possession. Soon after, Joe took Kalou’s place. At last, a flurry of Bolton yellow cards and these were long overdue. Joe Cole danced into the box on a few occasions…the chances were starting to come again. Frank flashed a shot against the left post. Joe set up Ballack with a super cross, but he headed weakly at the goal. From a Florent Malouda corner, JT shaped beautifully and struck a low daisy-cutter which narrowly missed that left post.

Oh boy.

Bolton had chances too and every time the balls came across our box, my heart was in my
mouth…too many late goals at that end ( the one we usually defend in the second-half ) were heavy in my mind.

The clock was ticking.

80 minutes.

Oh those nerves.

85 minutes.

Zirkov again raced forward and set up Joe, who was clean through, but with the whole crowd about to explode, Joe contrived to tread on the ball and the chance was lost.

Four minutes of added time.

Tick – tick – tick.

At last, the referee ( much berated by all ) blew up and we roared. It had been a middling performance, but the result was all-important. We headed out just as that old warhorse of a song by Journey was played on the PA. It seemed appropriate –

“Just a small town boy, born and raised in South Detroit…”

Wes, Steve and myself spent from 10pm to almost midnight in The Lily Tandoori, chatting away about all things Chelsea ( 1983, 1988, 1994, 1997, 1999, 2002, 2005, 2006…) and I could honestly have stayed all night. We visited this same curry house – the same table – after the Inter game and the mood was way different. Steve and myself chatted away like fools – all those games, all those Chelsea days out, all those laughs – and Wes watched, open-mouthed at our memory. The curries were fantastic too. Dutch Mick, also present after Inter, was across the room.

Good times. No – great times.

I was exhausted driving home and even the combined forces of Johnny Rotten and Elizabeth Fraser’s disparate voices couldn’t help. I had to stop between 1am and 2am to get some sleep.

I eventually reached home at 2.40am and watched the highlights before crashing out soon after.

And here we are – five games from Heaven.

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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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