Tales From Out East

Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 24 August 2019.

The three-day August Bank Holiday had arrived and it would begin with a lunchtime match at Carrow Road in the Norfolk city of Norwich. This would be our most easterly league match of the domestic season, and – for us in the south west of England – it meant that it would entail a five-hour trek through nine counties. I have driven up and back to Norwich on the same day on a couple of occasions, but those days are gone. As soon as the date of the game was confirmed, my hopeful booking of a Saturday night at a hotel a mere ten minutes’ walk from the ground came to fruition. There was no need to cancel and re-book. We were on our way.

And the three of us – LP, PD and little old me – were well happy. Norwich is a cracking city and we have enjoyed some good times there in recent memory.

I had left the office at 5pm on Friday evening with a skip in my step. We had managed to get through a busy two-week period at work, I was looking forward to the weekend ahead, and on a personal note, I had managed to lose a little more weight. I was the lightest for over three years. I have been a little inspired by a couple of good people among my Chelsea friends who have shed – pardon the pun – many pounds over the past year or so. A few weeks of eating sensibly and eating moderately had paid off and it felt great.

I was in a good place.

On Saturday morning, the alarm sounded at four o’clock. It would be a long day. I collected PD at 5am and Parky soon after. This weekend would be a bittersweet moment for Parky, and indeed for all three of us, since he is going in – at long last – on Thursday for his long-awaited hip operation. He will be in hospital in Bath for a few days, and out of action, football-wise, for five or six games.

So we’ll miss the old bugger, that is for sure.

If there was a lot of traffic on England’s roads on Saturday morning, we didn’t see much of it. Leaving so early, we were ahead of the game. The M4, especially, was super-clear. We stopped for a “Harry Ramsden’s” breakfast on the M11, pretty close to Stansted Airport where a few European adventures have started, and we bumped into four lads from our local area who were breakfasting too. And this was where the diet went off the rails for one day only. These football excursions are notorious for junk food. It is difficult to ask for a salad after a heavy away defeat.

Soul food is sometimes the only answer.

Just to the east of Cambridge there were signs for Babraham and then The Wilbrahams. I wondered if I might see a sign for Abraham. I rolled into the hotel car park in Norwich at about 10.15am. Luckily, we were only a five-minute walk from the “Coach & Horses” pub where we spent a good few hours before the “Peter Osgood Ten Year Anniversary” game in 2016. There were familiar faces in the packed beer garden. Although it was only mid-morning, the heat from the sun was relentless.

Talk turned to the game and the mood was of objective pragmatism.

“I’ll be honest; I’ll take a draw now. This won’t be easy. We just must not lose.”

There were doubts about N’Golo Kante’s fitness. That really would be a huge miss. In the beer garden, Parky met up again with the other lads from Wiltshire that we had seen earlier; Sir Les and Stretch from Melksham, plus two lads from Swindon who I first spotted in Baku and then en route to Dublin at Bristol Airport. PD and I sat with Julie and Tim from Bristol. The beers were going down well, but I was keen to head off to Carrow Road and be there in plenty of time. One of the security staff advised us of the route to the stadium and his accent was a thing to behold.

“Take a right down Stracey Road” seemed to have about twenty syllables and parts of it sounded like a whimpering dog. Norwich, like Bristol, is an urban accent that sounds decidedly rural. But we were on our way.

And it was turning out to be a cracking day in Norfolk.

Inside the stadium, fans were slowly filling up the yellow and green seats. Whoever chose these club colours for the team all those years ago did well. The vast fields which were visible on the roads in to the city, and certainly at this time of year, were painted with these most agricultural of hues and tones. Flags had been arranged on the seats in the home Barclay’s Stand to our right. I prepared myself for a photo opportunity. I reached our seats, just three rows from the front – but row B, work that out – and nodded a few “hellos” to distant acquaintances and shook hands with others. Glenn, watching at a bar in Frome, messaged to say that Pedro had been injured in the warm up and would consequently be subsequently replaced by Ross Barkley.

So here was the team :

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Zouma – Emerson

Jorginho – Kovacic

Mount – Barkley – Pulisic

Abraham

The kick-off time of 12.30pm approached. The Chelsea section of three thousand filled up. Our usual match day chants reverberated around the whole stadium as the minutes passed. I spotted Danny, originally from nearby Cambridge, but now a long-time resident of Massachusetts, and I called him over for a photo. Thankfully we were all in the shade; those in two of the home stands were going to be baked in the August sun. A special mention for Leigh, who was in the middle of a long weekend break with his loved ones in Bournemouth. On match day, Chelsea came calling and he made the four-hundred and sixty return trip to see us play.

“Top marks.”

With a couple of minutes remaining, the locals waved their colourful flags both sides of a large “Pride of Anglia” banner.

I commented to Gary :

“Bloody hell, they like their replica shirts here, don’t they?”

We were, of course, stood all match.

From the left : Alan, Gary, Parky, me.

Let’s go to work.

Many words have been spoken about our crisp white away shirt this season, but I soon fell in love with the socks; all blue with a simple red and white band. Classy. It reminded me of those blue socks that we sometimes used to wear at certain away games; Tottenham in 1987, when we wore blue / white / blue sprang to mind.

I spotted a few Norwich City fans wearing their jarring red away shirt. It looked horrible and seemed to be completely ill-judged.

Yellow. Green. Red.

No.

We began very brightly. Christian Pulisic had already seen some of the early ball, and when we broke at pace, a nice cross-field ball from Mason Mount fed the American on the right wing. He gathered the ball with ease and spotted the overlap of Cesar Azpilicueta. His long cross fell conveniently at the feet of Tammy Abraham who screwed it low past Tim Krul in the Norwich City goal. It was an excellent move and an excellent goal, and a real antidote to the tedious football of last season. How Tammy celebrated his first Chelsea goal. It was his well-cushioned lay-off in his own half that had released the ball to Mount. It was an exceptional team goal.

“Oh Tammy Tammy. Tammy Tammy Tammy Abraham.”

We roared his name.

Beautiful.

Sadly – and I hope that this is not a phrase that I will be repeating throughout this season – we soon conceded a soft goal. Our lead in fact lasted just three minutes. Norwich wriggled their way through our defence, with Emi Buendia allowed space. The ball was pushed out to Teemu Puuki and his low cross was turned in at the near post by Todd Cantwell, the ball nut-megging Kepa.

Fackinell.

The club anthem “On The Ball City” was bellowed by those to our right and it was quite a sound. Two goals in six minutes, a crackling atmosphere, what next?

We took control. In fact, we played some lovely football. Mount was often involved and it was the young midfielder who received a neat ball from a more central Pulisic, took a touch or two to glide past his defender and his finish, slightly curled, in to the goal was a joy to behold.

The young man was among the goals again and we loved his celebration in front of us all. I hope that I will not tire of the Frank Lampard comparisons as the season develops.

Seventeen minutes had passed, and the home team had rarely touched the ball since their goal. I liked the way that there was a variety in our attacks. Sometimes an overlap from wide and a traditional delivery in to the box. Sometimes some crisp passing on the deck. Sometimes a cross from deep.

From a corner, taken short, Ross Barkley played it way back to Emerson. His deep cross was met by a stooping header from Andreas Christensen, who forced a very fine point blank save from Krul. We were all over them. Shots from Barkley – neat but not overly productive – and Abraham kept the pressure on the home team. A nice run from Kovacic but he could not get his shot away. Jorginho took too many touches before being able to shoot.

There was a chant for Jorginho and hopefully his days as Maurizio Sarri’s poster boy are now forgotten.

We were bossing the game, but on the half-hour the match changed again. Norwich played through us from deep, and our defensive frailties were exposed once again. At the end of a crisp move, the ball was slid through to their main threat Puuki, whose low drive crashed past Kepa.

Ugh.

It was a poor goal to concede, and our young ‘keeper will be upset that his touch was not stronger.

“He needed stronger wrists there, Gal.”

I didn’t like the musical accompaniment to both of the home team’s goals. This is, horribly, standard practice at many stadia these days. Please keep it away from Stamford Bridge. Please let us be trusted to generate our own atmosphere.

Soon after, a quickly taken Norwich free-kick by Buendia resulted in an ugly, but effective, save from Kepa who did well to save the rebound from Grant Hanley. We then returned to our attacking patterns and there were a couple of late chances, including a blocked Pulisic effort after a deep ball from Barkley.

At the break, it was all square. It seemed that the home team had only enjoyed a handful of chances, whereas we had dominated.

Soon into the second period, a fine ball from Jorginho found Pulisic in the inside right channel. He possibly took one too many touches and the angle worked against him. His low shot rippled the side netting. The game drifted a little and I felt that it became a little scrappy. The team were not as dynamic as in the first-half. I hoped for no Leicester-style fade. The sun was still beating down though. There was no air. I was glad that I was watching from the cooler shadows.

We worked a fine opening for Emerson after some crisp and incisive passing, and our impressive Brazilian found himself in the same position as he did against United at Old Trafford. This time, his effort stayed low and Krul easily saved. A shot from Barkley was saved by Krul. Although chances were rarer during this second period, we were still dominating. In a rare Norwich attack, the ever-dangerous Puuki shimmied into space inside our box but hit straight at Kepa. The ‘keeper then released the ball early, rolling it to Barkley. He passed it square to Kovacic who – beautifully – slid the ball in to the path of a central raid from Abraham. He shifted the ball on to his right and hit a low belter past Krul.

I took a photo just after the impact and it is one of those shots where, in the follow through, his whole body is airborne.

Whack.

Oh how we celebrated that, and how Tammy did too. He jumped high and was soon mobbed by his team mates.

The Norwich manager was heard to utter “Farkenell.”

We had our noses in front once again and we were threatening our first league win of the season.

“OH TAMMY TAMMY.”

We did get the ball in the net again, but it looked like a foul on Krul to be honest. Hardly anyone in the Chelsea section celebrated.

It went to VAR.

How tedious.

Two loud chants from the away end.

“FUCK VAR.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

No goal.

A strong run from Godfrey – “do you think I might be excused?” – resulted in a slight scare, and then the same player rattled the Chelsea bar from the resulting corner. In the last action of an entertaining game, Barkley shot from distance but the ball slid past the near post.

At the final whistle, there was a mixture of relief and joy. All eyes were on Tammy. He looked drained but ecstatic. A heady mixture.

It was indeed a day of Wilbrahams, Babrahams and Abrahams after all.

And then the focus was on Frank Lampard, looking neat in a navy polo and track suit, as he hugged his players and slowly strode over to us. We didn’t get this engagement with Sarri last season. In Norwich, here was a really special moment. I used to love the fist-pumping and maniacal stares from Antonio Conte, and this was the Lampard version. His wide smile celebrated our first league win of the season, and his first win as the Chelsea manager.

It was bloody lovely.

We took our time leaving Carrow Road. There were a few pitch side chats. I was impressed with Mason Mount, and all three of our goals were absolute beauties. I think that Mateo Kovacic has been one of our most consistent players and he again played well, breaking up play and grinding away in midfield. There are defensive question marks, but we knew that.

We walked back to the hotel, freshened-up and donned a change of clothes. We took a quick cab up to “The Ribs Of Beef.” This is a cracking pub on the banks of the River Wensum that we visited in 2017/18. It’s a beauty. We got stuck in to some Peronis, and – quite unintentionally, but perfectly – met up with Tim and Julie again, and they became an honorary Chuckle Bother and Chuckle sister for the evening. We happily celebrated a late – late! – winner for Crystal Palace at Old Trafford, and the post-match giggles continued as we devoured some curries at a nearby Indian.

Good times, good people.

It was a blast.

There was a G&T nightcap in the hotel bar, but at just after 10pm – and after being awake for eighteen hours – it was time to call it a night.

I slept well.

Our next game is on Saturday at three o’clock at home to Sheffield United, but – before that – we have the most exciting day of the summer.

The Champions League draw will take place at 5pm next Thursday.

Happy days.

 

Tales From The Nightshift

Chelsea vs. Norwich City : 17 January 2018.

2.00pm : I clocked out from work, what a relief. These past few days have been as manic as I can remember. Over the road to “The Milk Churn” for a quick bite to eat and a drink with PD before the drive to Chelsea. Alas, Parky would not be joining us.

2.45pm : PD pulled out of the pub car park and set off north onto the A350 and up onto the M4. For a little while, I managed to catch some “shut-eye” – I knew that sleep would be at a premium after the game as I would need to be up at just before 5am for work on the Thursday. The spectre of extra-time and penalties loomed large.

4.30pm : PD parked his trusty Chuckle Bus on Mulgrave Road. The weather was chilly and likely to get colder still as the evening would develop.

4.40pm : Into “The Goose” on the North End Road. Two pints of “Amstel”, and work was physically one hundred miles away but in reality a thousand miles away. It was time to relax. We enjoyed a lovely time chatting to Chelsea stalwarts Wycombe Stan and Tooting Pete, about their love of the club and of their first few reminiscences of their first games. Pete’s was in January 1966, a trip to Stamford Bridge with his neighbour when he was aged ten. From that day on, he was hooked. The pub seemed quiet. We soon heard why; there were widespread delays on the London Underground.

6.00pm : Down to “Simmons Bar” towards the ground and it was even quieter. Only one mate was there, Duncan, newly-arrived after ridiculous delays en route from his home in Southend. He mentioned that Daryl, travelling in from the city, needed to divert as far north as Willesden Junction. There was talk of trains stuck on the District Line. A few late arrivals entered the little bar as the evening drew on, but the place was so quiet. Two bottles of “Peroni” and memories with Duncan of games at Old Trafford, the Baseball Ground and the Goldstone Ground in the good old ‘eighties.

7.15pm : Ah, another retro programme cover. Nice work, Chelsea. This was from 1968/1969

7.30pm : On walking up the steps to the top tier of the Matthew Harding, the PA announced a delay in the kick-off time to 8pm to allow for the tube’s later arrivals. Oh great. This had all the makings of a later night. I posted on “Facebook” to that effect :

“Kick-off delayed until 8pm. Great. This has all the hallmarks of a 0-0 after extra-time and a 16-15 win on penalties. And me getting to bed five minutes after I should be waking up. Football. I loves it.”

7.45pm : Eventually the stadium started to fill, but it took ages. Norwich were supposedly bringing 6,000 and packing The Shed, yet vast swathes were empty. Something didn’t ring true. At last the troops arrived. Alan made it in. Daryl too. There were gaps in the very top corners of the East Upper, but elsewhere the home areas looked pretty full. With games stacking-up now, this looked like a very fine effort from our club. Top marks to all.

7.50pm : Time to check the Chelsea team. It was virtually the same team that had eked out that horrific 0-0 at Norwich ten days ago, but with Ethan and Dave in place of Toni and Gary.

7.55pm : The TV screens splashed images from our history as the kick-off approached. I always find myself singing along to “Blue Is The Colour.”

8.00pm : Kick-off, better late than never. Norwich, in the end, only had around 3,000 fans. A poor effort, really. The Norfolk club must have been out of pocket on that deal.

8.06pm : Danny Drinkwater shot wide as we began well. After the lethargy of the first game, it looked like Antonio had lit a fire under a few of the players. The away fans were singing in support of their team.

“Yellows! Yellows! Yellows!”

8.09pm : Kenedy lashed in a corner from in front of the empty seats of Parkyville and David Luiz rose to head towards the goal. It bounced just past the far post, and just before a Chelsea player could touch it home.

8.10pm : A Willian shot, wide. This was indeed a fine start. After just ten minutes, we had created more than in the entirety of the first game by the banks of the Wensum.

8.12pm : A fine piece of play by Tiemoue Bakayoko brought a pleasing rally of support for our under-fire midfielder. It was nice to hear. Well done to those who chose to support him.

8.14pm : Willy Caballero seemed to mistime his attempt to clear. The Norwich City attacker could not reach the ball in time. Phew.

8.19pm : A Davide Zappacosta cross allowed Michy Batshuayi to shoot but there was a block. The Chelsea crowd were as loud as could be expected. We sung in praise of the manager, who was standing throughout the game, as ever, pointing and gesticulating at his charges. I saw no diminution of his fight and passion on this particular night. And then we seemed to take our foot off the pedal a little.

8.25pm : Alan – “Come on, move about. You’re all slower than the District Line tonight.”

8.30pm : A shot from distance from DD saw the ball crash against the underside of the bar. Howls from the home fans.

8.31pm : Oh dear Michy. Our maligned striker gave the ball away in his own half and we watched, pain-stricken, as Nelso Oliveira sent a dipping shot onto our bar. It was the away team’s first real effort. But it certainly woke them.

8.35pm : The Norwich number nine then slashed wide. The home support was getting restless.

8.50pm : Gary commented at half-time “this has got 0-0 written all over it.” On the TV screen by the toilets, I spotted Gianfranco Zola as a halftime guest on the BBC. There was the memory of his back-heeled flick against the same opposition in an FA Cup replay in around 2002 – a game I sadly missed through work – and I realised that had I stayed in my usual position at half-time (standing against the barrier by the steps near my seat) I would have been in camera shot in the distance.

9.05pm : Michy gave away a silly foul, and the frustration rose again. It annoys me how he turns into trouble rather than play an easy ball. He then so often fouls. Soon after, he was annoying us again and Alan wanted him off.

9.15pm : Down below us, Willian worked the ball well to Kenedy, who raced away and crossed into the box. Who was there, awaiting its arrival, but Michy. He touched the ball in and the place roared. Get in you bastard. I looked at Alan and gave him an old-fashioned. How Michy enjoyed that.

IMG_3795 (2)

9.16pm : There was a loud – “ish” – “CAREFREE” from the Matthew Harding. Positive signs.

9.20pm : Almost a calamity down at The Shed End, when Caballero and a Chelsea defender came for the ball, colliding, and the loose ball was slammed against the post by James Maddison.

9.22pm : Pedro, storming into the box, went flying and I had no idea one way or the other. The referee booked him for diving.

9.24pm : DD gave the ball away carelessly and Maddison forced a sublime save from Wily Caballero. Top marks.

9.34pm : An excellent break by Willian, fantastic feet, and the lay-off to DD should have given us a second goal. It was fired over.

9.35pm : Oh dear Michy. A woeful shot from distance.

9.37pm : A shot from Bakayoko. More applause. Good to hear.

9.39pm : The away fans were pretty quiet to be honest, but we were just about able to discern a vaguely humorous chant from The Shed :

“If we score, we’re on the pitch.”

9.41pm : Antonio replaced Michy with Alvaro Morata and Ethan Ampadu with Andreas Christensen.

9.42pm : DD was not enjoying the best of games but he did ever so well to reach the goal-line and cut the ball back for Morata to head down, but the ‘keeper Gunn scrambled the ball away. Home fans began leaving. The end was surely in sight.

9.45pm : N’Golo Kante replaced Kenedy, who had played his best game for us. A good effort. Surely we would close this out.

9.47pm : Morata, stretching, just could not provide the final touch.

9.50pm : Willian could not get the ball out of his feet, and the elusive second goal went begging.

9.51pm : Norwich kept plugging away. As a move developed down their left. We were deep into the four minutes that the referee had added. With surely only seconds remaining, we were deep in Iniesta Time. I yelled out – loudly, and in pain – “STOP THE FUCKING CROSS.”

9.52pm : We didn’t stop the fucking cross. Jamal Fucking Lewis rose and headed home off the post. Christ on a velocipede. The worst-ever scenario had happened. Another thirty minutes. Bollocks.

9.53pm : A text from Glenn, watching on TV – “FFS.”

10.00pm : So, extra-time. The rain continued to fall. There was talk of a fourth substitute if needed. I looked around and there were thousands of empty seats, like Dodger Stadium after the seventh inning stretch. I missed the start of the “third period” – too busy turning my bike around – but as I took my seat, I was aware of an injustice. It seemed that we had a penalty claim turned down and Willian had been booked, like Pedro, for simulation. Alan and I were not aware if VAR – expletives! – was being used or not. What a bloody shambles.

10.09pm : Our fourth substitute of the night was Eden, who replaced DD.

10.10pm : More positive noise and the remaining 30,000 bellowed “COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA.” The team needed us now. It was great to hear.

10.12pm : Two close saves by Gunn from Willian and then Morata kept Norwich in it. It looked like they were playing for penalties and who could blame them?

10.17pm : The fourth period began. I dreaded the thought of pens – delaying our getaway further – but I did not sense that we could score. Hazard weaved his way on a few occasions but was met by a wall of yellow.

10.19pm : A handball by a Norwich City defender was waved away.

10.23pm : Morata headed weakly from a Zappa cross.

10.25pm : A silly late challenge on Hoolihan by Pedro resulted in a second yellow. What a silly man. No complaints with that. But the outlook was looking bleaker than ever.

10.29pm : Morata burst into the box right down below us and I am sure I saw Zimmerman reach up and pull across Morata’s chest, and there was a loud shout for a penalty from us. No, the referee now booked Morata for a dive. I called the referee a very very bad name and I will go to hell. Morata, who had already showed a very short fuse after being tackled with no foul being rewarded in his favour, flared up at the ref and a red card followed. Despite the protestations of Eden and Dave, the referee – EXPLETIVE – would not budge. So, down to nine men. Fuck this.

10.33pm : A header from Klose was thankfully saved by good old Wily. The whistle soon followed. I joked “I don’t care who wins now, I just want to go home.”

10.38pm : With both teams watching in the centre-circle and the Chelsea management crouching on the touchline, it all began. Thoughts of Munich? Of course. But also thoughts of our last two penalty-shootouts at Stamford Bridge. At The Shed End in 2011, a loss to Everton in the FA Cup. Before that, in 2005, a League Cup loss to Charlton at the Matthew Harding. Each Norwich penalty taker was dutifully serenaded ; “Waaaaaaanker.”

10.39pm : First up was Willian. Scored. GET IN.

10.40pm : Oliveira for Norwich. Saved. GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY. NICE ONE WILY MY SON. David Luiz for us, scored, oh you beauty.

10.41pm : Maddison. Scored. Ugh.

10.42pm : Dave. Scored. YES. Vrancic. Scored. Ugh.

10.43pm : N’Golo. Scored. YES.

10.44pm : Murphy. Scored. Ugh. ONE MORE TO WIN IT.

10.45pm : Eden. A slow approach. Scored. FUCKING GET IN.

Phew. A truly mad game of football was over. Eden hugged Wily and the night was done.

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We had found a way to win, despite the knobhead referee. I felt drained. There was time for a few customary “goodbyes, see you at Brighton” and we were on our way out. I was just glad to be on my way home. My day shift had ended at 2pm. The evening shift had lasted 2pm to 10pm. We were now well-and-truly into the nightshift. As PD and I walked up the North End Road I asked him :

“Are we getting a shift bonus for this?”

11.15pm : PD set off home. I was – thank heavens – able to get an hour of sleep as he battled the rain on the M4.

12.55am : I swapped into my car in the pub car park.

1.25am : I reached home sweet home.

The magic of the cup continues in ten days. Meanwhile…”see you at Brighton.”

Tales From The Mischief And More

Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 6 January 2018.

The Cup.

This would be my second F.A. Cup game of the season. My first was back in September when I drove the three hours down to the edge of Dartmoor to watch Frome Town narrowly edge a 2-1 win against Tavistock Town. I thoroughly enjoyed myself on that occasion in deepest Devon, despite getting well-and-truly drenched. Tavistock drew around 350 for that game, much higher than their usual gates, and it is an anomaly how some cup games capture the imagination of the fans and some simply don’t. As ever, Frome Town let me down in the next round with a meek loss at Heybridge Swifts in Essex. There would be no Frome Town versus Chelsea match this season…

The Host City.

On each of my previous visits to the Norfolk city of Norwich, I have always been taken by its charms; the castle, the cathedral, its history, its pubs, and the close proximity of its football club to its tight city centre. However, it involves a five-hour drive from our homes in the West of England.  On our last visit two seasons ago, I can remember saying to the lads that it was the sort of place that I could quite happily visit every other season. So, we have to be thankful that Norwich City managed to get themselves relegated during the 2015/2016 season, and that our names were drawn out of the hat for our first tie in this season’s FA Cup campaign. And like our last visit – a nervous game in which we had marked the tenth anniversary of Peter Osgood’s passing with banners before the match – we had soon decided to stay the night in a local hotel.

The Drive East And North.

On the long drive, there was much to discuss. I had collected PD at 7am, and we were then joined by Young Jake and Oscar Parksorius. For the first part of the journey, we chatted about the acquisition of Ross Barkley from Everton for the relatively modest sum of £15M. Long-time followers of this blogorama will know how I have always rated him. I always like the way he seemed to burst forth from midfield with the ball, in the style of Paul Gascoigne, seemingly equally confident with both feet. It is a slight cliché to say it, but he is great box-to-box player, with a good eye for a shot. Yes, of course, we need strengthening elsewhere in the squad, but I count it as some fine business by the club. In a nutshell, I like him as a player because he excites me on the ball. This can’t be said of some others. Let’s hope he regains his fitness and becomes a valued part of our squad.

As I ate up the miles, there were periods of grey and overcast weather, interspersed with a few bursts of sunshine attempting to break through. We passed through the flat lands of Cambridgeshire, Suffolk and Norfolk, and I admired the subtle shades of winter. Jake was full of questions about the city, its football club and previous visits. I mentioned Norwich City’s old ground, which was called “The Nest” and involved several hundred spectators perching on a high bluff which overlooked the ground and its low-level stands. We reached Norwich just after midday, booked into our hotel – time for a quick lager while we waited for a cab – and then headed into the city.

The Mischief.

I had done my homework. I had prepared a little pub-crawl for the four of us along a fifty-yard stretch of Wensum Street, which would hardly tax us on a day which was allegedly going to turn colder as the night fell. First up was the beautifully named “The Mischief” which dated from 1599. Although the Fleetwood Town vs. Leicester City game was being shown on a TV above our heads, we paid it little attention. This was Jake’s first-ever night away following the team. The banter soon started flying around. This was footballing heaven. There was nowhere on Earth I would rather have been than in the wooden paneled, wooden floor boarded rickety bar of The Mischief.

The Ribs Of Beef.

After an hour, we marched over the bridge spanning the River Wensum and entered the next pub on the itinerary, “The Ribs Of Beef.” Another lovely boozer, a little more opulent than the previous one, which was rather basic. I spotted a couple of familiar Chelsea faces. Within a few minutes, we were spotted too; Goggles from the Fulham OB, alongside his partner in crime from the Norwich Constabulary, popped in and engaged in a little banter with us.

“Not expecting any trouble are, you?”

“Not really. Just the weight of numbers of the away support warrants us being here.”

Indeed. Over four-thousand Chelsea fans would be attending the game at Carrow Road, which sits alongside a stretch of the same river a mile or so downstream. And the home club, eager to entice as many fans as possible had cut the admission price to just £15 and £10 for Old Age Parkys.

What a deal.

A couple more pints, the trusted “Peroni” this time, went down very well. Parky and I chatted to a couple of Norwich fans and we asked them a few questions about “The Nest.” I was impressed that Parky had evidently done some background reading ahead of the trip and was able to name the streets where the old ground had been based, which was relatively near the city’s train station. Jake was lapping all of this up. It was a shame to move on, but we edged a few yards closer to the city centre and entered the next pub.

The Lawyer.

“The Lawyer” was a larger boozer, and I was surely pleased that the place was far from rammed. We chatted to some local Chelsea fans – members of the Eastern Blues – and they made us very welcome. More pints of Peroni followed. The laughter was now bouncing off the walls. We rounded things off with a short apiece and then bundled ourselves out into the night at just before 5pm. It had been four hours of heaven and, after a couple of very hectic days of work for me, just what the doctor had ordered. Of course we all love the buzz of a rarely-visited city, a few beers, good friends, and football.

Carrow Road.

The football stadium is thankfully not far from the city centre. We strolled down the main drag – Prince of Wales Road – past a few less-inviting bars and boozers. At the bottom of the gradual slope was a pub called “The Compleat Angler” – as ever, full of Chelsea – and there were around a dozen police outside. We walked on, and made it to the away turnstiles with around ten minutes to spare. Like most English stadia, Carrow Road has been overhauled since the ‘eighties. It’s a neat enough stadium. It has a hotel wedged up against one of its corners, with some rooms overlooking the pitch. Our section, as ever, was along the side of the stadium, in its newest structure, a single-tiered stand opposite the tunnel. I looked around. The place was almost full. A section of seats in a corner stand were empty, not sure why. I soon joined the others in the front row, where there was a stretch of around twelve unused seats. Unlike at The Emirates on Wednesday, where my vantage point was down low but behind the goal, I really enjoyed the view from the front row at Norwich. We really were in prime seats. The teams entered the pitch and as the players warmed up, I scanned the team.

Caballero

Rudiger – Luiz – Cahill

Zappacosta – Drinkwater – Bakayoko – Kenedy

Willian – Batshuayi – Pedro

Norwich City were in their usual yellow and green. Chelsea, for reasons known only to those who drew up the sponsorship deal with Nike, were in the grey of the third kit. Am I the only person who thought that it was ridiculous for us to be playing a night game alongside the misty banks of the River Wensum in not only a mid-grey kit, but one which had a vague camouflage pattern hideously stenciled into its weave? If the players then found it difficult to spot team mates, it is hardly bloody surprising.

The First-Half.

We were soon treated to a few rousing choruses of “On The Ball, City” by the home fans, and the Chelsea support rallied a loud rendition of “Antonio.” Over on the far side, the Chelsea manager, bedecked in the bright blue of a Chelsea tracksuit, was easily spotted. His players, in a turgid first-half, encountered problems in spotting each other, camouflage or not. A Danny Drinkwater shot was hardly worthy of the name as both sides struggled to get much cohesion. After almost half-an-hour came the game’s first real shot of note, with Alex Pritchard, the liveliest player on the pitch, striking after a mishap by David Luiz.  Fair play to the home team; all of their players were covering ground, tracking back, and closing space as if their lives depended on it. Down in the front row, I was in a little world of my own, trying to encourage the players with individual shouts to those within earshot, while thankfully not being restrained by the stewards as I took many a photo. Down low, yards away, you really get an appreciation of the pace of the game these days.

And then, I was confused as to why some of the Chelsea support behind me were “ironically” cheering each consecutive pass. I knew I had enjoyed a few beers in the pre-match pre-amble, but what was all that about? I was to later learn that this pathetic sarcasm was aimed at Tiemoue Bakayoko.

That is just shocking.

I thought that the whole point of being a supporter was to support the team. Or is that a notion that is highly camouflaged these days too?

At the half-time whistle, there was much wailing. This had been, I hate to say it, a tepid game of football. Frustration among our support had increased as the game had continued. Willian and Pedro had tried their best to inject a little urgency into our game, but our play was so slow. Service to the isolated Batshuayi had been almost non-existent.

1984 And All That.

The highlight of the half-time break took place in the gents.

Let me rephrase that.

While everyone was grumbling about the ineffective performance on the pitch, I recognised a face from the past and the far-distant past at that.

“You’re Dave, aren’t you?”

“Hello, mate!”

Dave used to sit alongside Alan, Glenn, Leggo, Swan, Stamford, Rich, Simon, Mark and little old me in the back row of The Benches in 1983/1984 and 1984/1985. As memory serves, I last saw him at the away game in Barcelona in 2000, and – certainly – before that at the Luton Town semi-final at Wembley in 1994. It was fantastic to see him again. I walked him up to see Alan, who was sat a few yards away from us. We planned a get-together at the Leicester City game the following weekend. Be prepared for some “then and now” photographs.

The Second-Half.

The game continued. A few half-chances came and went, but our spirits were not flying high up in the sky. Norwich themselves threatened but Caballero’s goal was not really troubled. To his credit, Willian kept plugging away in that way of his, and although our general standard of play increased, we found it impossible to break through the massed ranks of yellow and green. The frustration was certainly growing with each passing minute and each failed attempt on goal. There was little creativity in our side without Cesc and Eden. I wondered if Danny and Tiemoue alongside each other was ever going to be conducive to wave after wave of Chelsea attacks. I wondered why Ampadu was on the bench. Questions, questions.

Antonio Conte made some late changes. On came Alvaro Morata for the luckless and listless Batshuayi. No doubt in the rows behind me, thankfully out of earshot, the moaners were up to their tricks. Charley Musonda took the place of Kenedy, who had struggled all game. The youngster injected some much needed enthusiasm to our play. I like the look of him. Zappacosta, of all people, went close as the game entered its death throes. In the last minute, Dujon Sterling made his debut in place of Pedro.

At the home of Colman’s, there was simply not enough time to see if Dujon looked mustard.

And on that note, I will call it a day.

The Post-Mortem.

We shuffled out of the stadium and into the night. Everyone around us had grim faces. We stopped off for a pint and a chat about the game that we had just endured. None of us like digging players out, but it had – no doubts – been a very poor game. It meant, of course, that there was yet another midweek game on the horizon. This should not be the cause of disapproval, but maybe – just maybe – all of these midweek flits to London are starting to take their toll. I am sure that I am not alone with these thoughts.

Maybe I should move to Pimlico.

The Drive South And West.

On the long drive home on Sunday morning – the skies clear of clouds, the weather magnificent – I inadvertently missed the turning for the M25 and ended-up on the North Circular, which added a few extra minutes to my travel time. To be honest, it was fine, and gave the passengers of The Chuckle Bus the chance to spot the new Tottenham stadium from a distance, and also Wembley – sitting proud and quite stunning on the top of that incline – and I wondered if my FA Cup journey would reach from Tavistock to the national stadium come May.