Tales From St. Mary’s

Posted on February 28, 2016 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 27 February 2016.

I should dislike Southampton Football Club a lot more than I do. When I was a mere eight-year-old boy, they stole my childhood hero Peter Osgood away from Stamford Bridge a mere couple of weeks before my very first Chelsea match.

That is reason enough to carry a lifetime of dislike for them – hatred would, of course, be far too strong – surely?

Looking back at this event some forty-two years later, although I can well remember the sense of pain that I felt at the time, my memories are rather sketchy, not surprisingly. But here are the facts :

My first ever Chelsea game was on Saturday 16 March 1974. Peter Osgood’s last ever Chelsea game was on Saturday 29 December 1973, although he appeared in a friendly at Aberdeen on Friday 16 February 1974.

He left Chelsea a couple of weeks before my first-ever game.

How cruel.

In those formative years of my fledgling support for Chelsea, Peter Osgood was my favourite player, my hero and my idol. He was our charismatic goal scorer and the focus of my adoration. I’ve told the story before of how some family friends, who worked alongside Peter Osgood’s sister Mandy at an office in Windsor, managed to obtain a signed 8” by 10” black and white photograph of Ossie in around 1971 or 1972, and that the excitement of opening up that brown buff envelope containing the photograph was one of the most wonderful moments of my childhood. I still have the autograph of course. It is a treasured memento to this day. Incidentally, I recently spotted a photograph of Ossie’s sister Mandy planting an oak tree in a park in Windsor in memory of her brother, and it brought my childhood memories racing back.

http://www.windsorexpress.co.uk/News/Areas/Windsor/Oak-tree-planted-in-memory-of-England-footballer-Peter-Osgood-08022016.htm

I once spoke to Peter Osgood about the signed photograph and he explained that Mandy was a fine footballer in her own right, and an England international to boot. He laughed when I suggested that she used to sport a fine pair of sideburns, too.

But in 1974, Southampton – and Peter Osgood – broke my heart.

I can vaguely remember the stories in the ‘papers and on the TV about the infamous fall out between our manager David Sexton, and a few of our star players – most notably Alan Hudson and Peter Osgood – and as the day of my first ever game approached, there was this horrible gnawing realisation that I would not be seeing Ossie play. Hudson’s last game for Chelsea was also against Liverpool in December 1973, and he was sold to Stoke City in the first few weeks of 1974. The 1970 and 1971 cup winning team was falling apart in front of my eyes, and – to my sadness – my hero Peter Osgood would be the next to leave. There are hints of an olive branch being pointed towards Ossie with his appearance in the Aberdeen friendly at Pittodrie and possibly a chance of reconciliation, but my idol was sold to Southampton for £275,000 in the first few days of March 1974.

I would never see Ossie play for Chelsea.

Although Chelsea’s 1973/1974 was far from impressive – we only just staved off relegation – it is with a certain amount of melancholy that I note that Ossie’s new club were duly relegated in the May. I am sure that this must have been a huge blow to Ossie, and I am sure that he wistfully looked on as Chelsea stayed up. With a cruel twist, I saw him play against us in March 1976 in a Second Division game, and can sadly remember the furore in the media about The Shed chanting an unsavoury song towards our former hero, and Ossie “flicking some Vs” back at them.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

When Ossie returned for some games in 1979, our paths sadly never crossed, and his time as a Chelsea player ended with me never seeing him play in our club colours.

It is one of the few regrets that I have as a Chelsea supporter.

As we approached the tenth anniversary of Peter Osgood’s sad passing, how fitting that the Premier League fixture list should pair Southampton and Chelsea together.

For the first-ever time, we had decided to take the train to Southampton. The four of us – Parky, PD, Glenn and myself – met up at Westbury station and caught the 9.01am train down to Southampton Central. Other local blues Les and Graham were on the train too. Opposite us were four Bristolian Chelsea supporters. Throughout the day, we would bump in to many West Country Blues. It is one of the nicest attributes of Chelsea fans that Londoners very rarely take umbrage to Chelsea fans coming from other areas, unlike a couple of Northern teams that I could mention.

Soon into the trip, through rolling countryside, and then the spired city of Salisbury, Parky and PD opened up a couple of cans. I was just happy to share a few laughs as the day unfolded. It was time for me to relax. Leaving work on Friday, I was able to look forward to two fine away games within the space of just four days.

We rolled in to Southampton, breakfasted at a local café, and then joined up with many familiar Chelsea fans in “Yates’s” in the city centre. I am not particularly smitten with Southampton. Right outside the train station, there are a couple of brutal concrete tower blocks, more akin to those on show in the former communist cities of Eastern Europe, which hardly create a welcoming impression. The civic buildings and the Guildhall are fine, but the city centre seems jumbled.

As I worked my way through six pints of San Miguel, such matters disappeared from my mind.

I was able to relax, to chill out, to unwind.

It was important for me to just sit upstairs with Glenn, chatting and relaxing, rather than join in with others in the crowded ground floor, packed to the rafters, and scene of a Chelsea karaoke.

On the previous day, I had silently marked the first anniversary of my mother’s passing by taking some flowers to my parents’ grave, and I was in no mood for too much ribaldry before the game.

I remembered the time in 1981, when my mother and I watched a Southampton vs. Nottingham Forest game from the lower tier of the cramped bench seats in the East Stand at The Dell, lured by the chance to see another hero of my youth, Kevin Keegan, when a work colleague of my father gave us their two season tickets for the day.

Outside the weather looked cold. There seemed to be a biting wind. More than a few of the local police force were watching us. Only two of the central pubs allow away fans.

“Yates’s” was heaving. The lagers were going down well. Good times.

On the walk to St. Mary’s, I joked with Mick that it was lovely to see him holding hands with Pauline.

“It’s not romantic, Chris. I just needed to prise her out of the pub.”

We laughed.

St. Mary’s, positioned next to the River Itchen to the east, but hemmed in by industrial units to the south and two rusty gasometers to the north, is a rather bland stadium. It is no Dell.

There was not a lot of time to spare and I joined up with Alan and Gary in our seats just in time.

All of a sudden, among the beers, and the laughter and the song, it was time to pay attention to the actual match. Guus Hiddink, quietly going about his business and without the squealing histrionics of our previous manager, had chosen the same starting eleven that had defeated Manchester City the previous weekend. In the home team were former blues Ryan Bertrand and Oriel Romeu, both involved to varying degrees on a certain night in Munich in May 2012.

Southampton, winners at The Bridge earlier in the season, and finding their feet again under Ronald Koeman would be a tough proposition.

The Chelsea support, rising up from the darkened concourse in to the light of the stadium, were in fine voice from the start. However, an early injury to Pedro – improving of late – caused Hiddink to reconfigure. On came Oscar.

Chelsea seemed to control much of the possession during a rather tame first-half, yet Southampton were able to carve out the clearer goal scoring chances.

Thibaut Courtois seemed to be a little unsure of himself on a couple of occasions, and dithered once too often for my liking. Shane Long, the journeyman striker, headed over with our ‘keeper stranded. At the other end, the masked marksman Diego Costa went close. Southampton just seemed a little more dynamic in the final third. Whereas we passed the ball without a lot of purpose, the Saints seemed more clinical. Charlie Austin, the steal of the season, struck a firm shot past our post.

Sadly, on forty-two minutes, two defensive blunders resulted in us conceding. A high ball was weakly headed square by Baba Rahman, and Shane Long pounced. His rather heavy touch seemed, to my eyes, to be within reach of Courtois to race out and clear, but the tall Belgian seemed to react slowly. As he raced off his line, Long delicately clipped it in.

Our ten game unbeaten run in the league was under threat against a capable Southampton team. Our attempts on goal were minimal. It was a deserved lead for the home team at the break. At the interval, the ruthless Hiddink replaced Baba with Kenedy.

We slowly improved. Cheered on by the loyal three thousand, who have taken to singing about Frankie Lampard’s goal against West Ham in 2013 with ever-increasing zeal, we began stretching the Saints’ defence.

Mikel headed over.

Diego volleyed wide.

I said to Gary : “Although we have players in wide positions, we don’t really have wingers any more.”

A few tackles resulted in Martin Atkinson brandishing some yellows. Diego Costa looked like a man “in the mood” and some of his industry seemed to inspire others.

At the other end, a rare Southampton attack ended with a robust challenge on Austin by Cahill. From my position some one hundred yards away, it was clearly not a penalty.

Cough, cough.

Eden Hazard, finding pockets of space, played the ball out to a rampaging Diego Costa. He managed to pull the ball back to Cesc Fabregas, who advanced. He played the ball – almost lazily – in to the box, and I was right behind the course of the ball as it avoided a lunge by Hazard and a late reaction by Forster. It nestled inside the net and the Chelsea support screamed.

What a strange, odd, easy goal.

It had was a fine reward for our increasing urgency in the last portion of the game.

In the eighty-ninth minute, we won a corner and Willian – often unable to get his corners past the first man – sent over a fine ball with pace. The warhorse Ivanovic timed his jump to perfection and his thundering header crashed down past Forster.

Get in.

The Chelsea support again screamed.

Hiddink shored things up with the late addition of Nemanja Matic, and the game was safe.

On a day of late goals, we were more than grateful to hear that Leicester City had grabbed an 89 minute winner of their own.

Get in.

There were songs as we walked back towards the train station. This doesn’t happen too often. It seemed to underline the new sense of belief and happiness within our ranks at the moment.

We had time to relax before catching the train home. There was time for two more pints, and a lovely assessment of our resurgence, not only in the last quarter of the game, but over the past few months.

Back in Frome, Glenn and myself finished off the day with a few more drinks, with more reflections on our fine time among good friends, and then, finally, a late night curry.

It had been a wonderful away day.

On Tuesday evening, we reassemble at the home of Norwich City, another of Peter Osgood’s clubs, and our most famous number nine will again be in our thoughts once more.

See you there.

Tales From My Football Timeline

Posted on April 19, 2015 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 18 April 2015.

For the first time in ages, I spent a Saturday morning at work in Chippenham. However, with the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game not kicking off until 5.30pm, I was still able to finish at midday and reach London in good time. Glenn had collected PD and Parky en route. I then took over and headed in to London.

If I am honest, I was slightly nervous about the early-evening game. Without Diego Costa to cause panic and concern in the United ranks, and with a few key players hitting a dry spell, I was very wary that we just might be catching an in-form United at the wrong time. I soon commented to my three companions that a draw would suffice. A win would be lovely, of course, but I was aware that we were not, collectively, setting the bar too high. We were becoming as pragmatic as our manager.

“A draw against United this weekend and a draw at Arsenal next weekend and we can start thinking that the league really is ours.”

The game at Stamford Bridge, however, was not the only football match troubling me. My local team Frome Town had lost on the previous Wednesday to a gut-wrenching last minute goal at local rivals Paulton Rovers and with two games left of the season, were only three points clear of relegation from the Southern League. A little part of me toyed with the notion of watching the first-half of the Slough Town vs. Frome Town game before heading in to London.

I decided against it. Who the hell watches halves of football games? Not me.

Heading east along the M4, the weather was magnificent. It was a lovely day for football. I spotted a few Reading scarves and immediately dismissed the afternoon’s FA Cup Final as unimportant, and not worthy of further thought. This, in a nutshell, shows how the importance of that once revered competition has decreased.

The game at 5.30pm would be my thirty-third Chelsea vs. Manchester United match at Stamford Bridge, dating back to a Saturday just after Christmas in 1984 – Glenn was with me on the benches, and I am sure many readers were there too – when I set eyes on those famous red shirts for the very first time.

Thirty-three games. It’s quite a number. I have only seen the reds of Liverpool more often than the reds of Manchester at The Bridge. Interestingly – or not, as the case may be – a split of the first sixteen games and the second sixteen games against United reveals a seismic shift in results.

1984 to 2002.

Chelsea wins : 3

Draws : 5

Manchester United wins : 8

2002 to 2014.

Chelsea wins : 9

Draws : 5

Manchester United wins : 2

The two losses against United in that second period are quite recent too; a Champions League defeat in 2011 and a League defeat in 2012. For quite a while at Stamford Bridge, we have held the upper hand.

Among the wins, two stand out.

The 5-0 annihilation in 1999.

The 3-1 title-clincher in 2006.

Two of the happiest of days in almost forty-five years of supporting Chelsea.

Where does the time go?

Where did the time start?

I am sure that I am not the only Chelsea supporter who often thinks back upon the first few moments of our support and attempts to discover the defining moment when Chelsea became our team and our club. I’ve personally tied this down to a moment in my primary schoolyard in the first few weeks of spring term 1970 and those events have been detailed here before. As I have been coming to terms with the events of the past two months, there have been many hours spent thinking back on my childhood years.

Another trip down memory lane coming up everyone.

I am sure that I am not alone in my quest to attempt to assemble some sort of time-line of devotion, possibly involving memories of certain early games, conversations with friends, TV clips, pictures, favourite players and the like, which aid us to remember those critical moments when Chelsea became our team.

After my first game in 1974, it’s easy, remarkably easy. Before that, things get a little blurred.

Of course, some of my earliest memories involve Chelsea’s appearances on TV and of other games too. Knowing my parents, it is very likely that I was not allowed to stay up to watch “Match of the Day” on Saturday nights on BBC1 in the first few years of my growing love of football – let’s say 1970 to 1972 – because of the 10pm start. My TV-watching in these years was, I think, limited to watching ITV’s “The Big Match” on Sunday afternoons. Yes, the memories of this are clearer. I even have feint recollections of a sun-drenched Stamford Bridge in the days of the old East Stand, prior to its destruction in the summer of 1972. The earliest football game per se that I can ever remember seeing is the 1972 FA Cup Final, when an Alan Clarke header gave Leeds United a 1-0 win over Arsenal. Which is the first Chelsea game that I can remember watching? I’m pretty sure that it is the Chelsea vs. Leeds United home opener in August 1972 – with me, just over the age of seven – when 51,000 crammed in to a three-sided Stamford Bridge to see a 4-0 win, no doubt abetted by the fact that Leeds’ goalkeeper was injured and was replaced by Peter Lorimer. Typically, Peter Osgood scored. In that season, I can also remember the Chelsea vs. Arsenal FA Cup game in March 1973, when there was an incredible buzz in the village school leading up to the match. Peter Osgood’s screamer in that game won the goal of the season that year. I also remember seeing the highlights of the replay on the nine o’clock news the following midweek, after pleading with my parents to allow me to stay up later than normal to watch. I can remember the sadness of defeat from that evening forty-two years ago.

I also recollect the very last game of that season, which involved the visit of Manchester United to Stamford Bridge. After the scenes of chaos at the Leeds game – which must have involved trying to force 41,000 into two end terraces – it was decided to limit the attendance at Stamford Bridge to a more reasonable figure. From memory, 44,000 still assembled for the United game. I am sure that it was not the first time that I had seen United on TV, but it is the first United match that I can remember – which is the point here – seeing. Both teams were struggling that season, but the large attendance was mainly due to the fact that it would be Bobby Charlton’s last ever game for Manchester United. Although Chelsea won that afternoon – Peter Osgood again, scored – my abiding memory is of the hullabaloo surrounding Charlton. I can distinctly remember the Stamford Bridge crowd – no doubt bolstered by thousands of visiting United fans, maybe not all wearing red favours – singing “We all love you Bobby Charlton.”

I am sure that this song was sung at the village school on the Monday, possibly by the younger children watching us older boys playing football on the school yard. I am also positive that a few of us re-enacted Peter Osgood’s goal in that game too, when he almost stumbled as he forced the ball over the line. His “to camera” shrug of the shoulders, as he was kneeling in The Shed End goal, was impersonated by me for sure.

I was lucky enough to meet Peter Osgood on several occasions and I was very honoured to be able to shake Sir Bobby Charlton’s hand as he brushed past me at Old Trafford last season.

Two iconic players from my early football world remembered.

Bless them both.

A Chelsea vs. Manchester United match first appeared on my football timeline, then, in April 1973.

Incidentally, while at the Frome Town match on Wednesday, I was rather taken aback when my friend Steve announced that the very first Frome Town game that I had seen – with my mother – was neither in 1971 nor 1972 as I had first thought but, in all probability, as early as 1970, when I was just five. Let me explain. During a summer holiday at a Dorset caravan site, I often played football with a former Bristol Rovers player called Mike Brimble, who was now playing for Frome. My father didn’t tend to like kicking a ball around with me – I remember he often used to “toe poke” the ball, which I didn’t approve of – ha – but I spent many hours kicking the ball to-and-forth with this chap from the adjacent caravan. There is no doubt that, during the kick-abouts with Mike, on hearing that I was a Chelsea supporter, that he would have mentioned our cup win against Leeds United that spring. And there is no doubt that this would have left a lasting impression on me.

After a week or so, my mother took me to see Frome Town play…we lost heavily…and I can remember to this day the little conversation I had with Mike at the end of the game.

“Nice to see you could make it Chris.”

I was so happy that he remembered my name.

I always thought that it was in 1971 or 1972, but Steve told me on Wednesday that Mike’s last season for Frome was 1970-1971. So, that game – with my mother – was undoubtedly as early as early autumn 1970.

1970 was obviously a defining year in my life.

It was the year that I chose Chelsea Football Club and it was the year that I saw my very first football match.

My football timeline had begun.

While out in the full-to-overflowing beer garden of The Goose, Alan and I spoke about these early moments in our football, er Chelsea, life. The first game that Alan can remember seeing on TV was the 1970 FA Cup Final.

1970.

I’d bet that many Chelsea fans’ timelines began in this year.

1970 and Peter Osgood. One and the same.

I mentioned to Alan about the nervousness that I had with the Frome Town game. His local team, Bromley, were on the brink of promotion from the Conference South to the Conference. We hoped for a triple of wins during the next few hours; Bromley, Frome Town and Chelsea. A text from a Frome Town follower in California – yes, really – informed me that Slough were 1-0 up against Frome. I groaned. He then texted me to say that the team three points below Frome, Arlesey Town, were a goal up at the high-flying Truro Town. I groaned again. If it stayed like this, it would all go to the last game of the season and relegation would be a distinct possibility.

Elsewhere in the beer garden, there were mixed thoughts about the upcoming game. Some were positive, some were cautious. We prayed for a fit Loic Remy leading the line. When we heard that Didier Drogba had been chosen, our spirits sank a little. At 36, he is not the man of 2012. I reconfirmed my view that a draw would be good enough for me.

Then, better news…Frome town had equalised at Slough Town.

“Yes.”

Then, just after 4.30pm, came some wonderful news.

Truro City 2 Arlesey 1 .

I punched the air.

Fantastic. In the end, Frome drew 1-1 and Arlesey lost 3-1.

Safe, barring a deluge of goals next Saturday, for another season. Bromley, meanwhile, had beaten Weston-Super-Mare 3-0. Beautiful.

Outside the West stand, I took a long-overdue photograph of Alan in front of the Peter Osgood statue.

We were inside with fifteen minutes to spare. The United hordes were already in good voice. I noted two flags playing on the point of United fans being “Manchester Born & B(red)” as if they have to constantly state, to the point of tedium, about Manchester being their territory and not City’s. Anyway, the United fans always put on a good show and they didn’t disappoint, singing loudly, in the first-half especially.

There was nothing but pure blue skies overhead. Despite the bright sun, there was a cold wind which blew in and around Stamford Bridge throughout the game. As the sun lowered, changing shadows formed different geometric shapes across the pitch and the towering East Stand.

So, the team.

Courtois – Dave, JT, Cahill, Ivanovic – Zouma, Matic – Hazard, Fabregas, Oscar – Drogba.

The big news was King Kurt alongside Matic, with Fabregas pushed forward. We presumed Jose wanted to toughen up that area, with a nod towards the improving Fellaini.

The first-half was a mainly frustrating affair. We began well, but United soon started pushing the ball around, and I lost count of the number of times that our right flank was exposed. Ivanovic, the former centre-back, tends to drift inside too often for my liking. Ahead of him, Oscar provided little cover. United peppered our goal with a few long range efforts, but thankfully their shooting was amiss. I noted how deep Wayne Rooney was playing. We gave him, and others, too much time and space. I longed for our midfield to get closer. It was Rooney who struck a shot against the back stanchion of the goal, and it looked to me – and the away fans – that it was a goal. I looked at Alan in disbelief.

As Juan Mata, much loved during his relatively short spell with us, walked over to take a corner down below us, the Matthew Harding stood and clapped generously. It was a fantastic moment. I am trying hard to remember the last time we gave a former great a hard time.

A run by an energised Fabregas deep in to the penalty box at the Shed End raised our spirits. But, our chances were rare. Drogba battled on, but often his touch ran a yard too short or too long for the supporting midfielders. United continued their dominance of the ball, and only rarely did our midfielders bite at their heels. The atmosphere was good, though. The underperforming Chelsea team was thankfully not matched by the support in the stands.

We roared the boys on.

With the half-time interval in sight, John Terry broke up another United move and fed the ball to Fabregas, who in turn passed to Oscar, now central. As soon as Oscar adeptly back-heeled the ball in to the path of a raiding Hazard – a magnificent touch – I sensed a goal. Eden calmly advanced and slotted the ball in to the United goal.

Inside, my body buzzed. There was only one thing for it. There is a walkway right behind where I sit and I leapt up the three steps to my right, took off my sunglasses, and just jumped up in the air continually for a few seconds.

Joy unbounded.

…while thinking “I bet I look like a right twat, I’m almost fifty, not five, but what a bloody goal.”

There were smiles of relief everywhere and The Bridge boomed.

“We’re top of the league.”

At half-time I sent a text to a mate ;

“Bit lucky. Only got closer to them in the last quarter. Cesc looks a bit livelier. Great goal. Utd have too much space down our right. But…halfway to paradise.”

Into the second-half, the first big chance fell to us. Matic won the ball and played the ball on for Drogba. I immediately wished for a time machine that could send Didi back to his powerful and absurdly potent form of five years ago, fearing that Smalling would easily deal with him. To be fair, Didier assembled just enough strength to stab a ball at De Gea, despite Smalling’s attentions. The ball took a bizarre path towards goal, deflecting off both United players, but landing just too far past the far post for the on-rushing Hazard to control. In the end, he did so well to get any attempt in on goal. Bizarrely, his flick touched the ball up on to the bar.

Zouma grew throughout the game. His war of attrition with Fellaini was pure box office. Ramires replaced Oscar. Juan Mata did not create too much for United; good lad.

Falcao, not firing on all cylinders, cut in on goal in a similar to position to Hazard’s goal, but his powerful shot rose and hit the side netting. The atmosphere remained noisy throughout the second half, but there was incredible tension as the game grew older. United still dominated. Chelsea constantly defended well. It was, no doubt, a typical Mourinho performance. I would have liked to have seen more attacking verve, of course, but our time for that had passed. The salad days of autumn are over; it’s now all about putting meat on the plate.

Juan Mata received a fantastic and heartfelt round of sustained applause as he was substituted.

United continued to attack. Shots were dealt with. Nerves were continuing to be frayed.

The last meaningful moment caused immediate concern. Herrera and Cahill met in a corner of our penalty box. From over a hundred yards away, it looked a penalty, to Glenn, to Alan, to me. However, miracles happen and the referee Mike Dean – who had been the target of increasing levels of abuse from the home fans as the game continued – waved it away.

Four minutes of extra time.

We waited, but with fantastic noise continuing to boom around the packed stands.

The final whistle.

Euphoria.

I captured a few shots of players hugging, smiling, and enjoying the moment.

“One Step Beyond” boomed out.

After clapping us, they began to walk away, but John Terry dragged them back and, in a tight line facing the Matthew Harding, they stood.

Their joy was our joy. United in triumph.

One step closer. Ten points clear. Mind the gap.

There was another notch on my football time line.

Tales From The Garden Of Eden

Posted on February 11, 2014 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 8 February 2014.

After our monumental and, possibly, season-defining triumph at Manchester City on Monday, I was chomping at the bit to see us play Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge. However, for the first part of this particular Football Saturday, my focus was again elsewhere. I shot in to Bath in order to pay a visit to my rapidly-improving mother at the hospital. At 11.30am, I collected His Lordship from Parky Towers. However, our short trip over to Trowbridge to collect Young Jake was beset with flood-induced traffic congestion at Bradford-on-Avon; I have never seen the river so high. We were held up for quite some time. This was not good. Eventually, Jake was collected and we were on our way. However, more slow-moving traffic in Westbury caused me to momentarily wonder if we’d be able to make the kick-off.

It was 12.20pm and I still had a hundred mile drive ahead of me.

Thankfully, once I veered around Warminster on the A36, and then shot past Stonehenge, I was eating up the miles. London was reached in good time; at 2.20pm I was parked-up and we were on our walk to The Bridge.

A Chelsea vs. Newcastle United fixture is a common one for me. Allowing for Newcastle’s one recent relegation season, I have seen every single one of their games at Stamford Bridge since they re-joined the top-flight, under Kevin Keegan, in 1993.

This game, therefore, would be the twentieth consecutive league fixture between the two teams at Stamford Bridge that I would have seen. I always enjoy the visit of the black and whites from Tyneside. It’s always a special fixture for me. I am rapidly approaching the fortieth anniversary of my very first Chelsea game. That too, was against Newcastle United.

…let’s go back.

…way back.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. From that moment on, what are my memories? They are, not surprisingly, vague. I began looking out for Chelsea’s results, but my recollections are not particularly great about individual games, on TV or otherwise. I certainly can’t remember the 1971 Final in Athens for example. To be honest, my parents were not particularly big sport fans…I think that my football genes came from my maternal grandfather who had played football and cricket for the village in his youth (and incidentally, visited Stamford Bridge when he was a young man, the only ground he ever visited). Additionally, I am sure that he said on a few occasions that he favoured Newcastle and Aston Villa for some reason.

In those first few years of the ‘seventies, in my small Somerset school classroom, the alliances were starting to emerge. Leeds United led the way with three supporters in David, Tony and Wayne, while Andy was Arsenal and Paul was Liverpool. However, as far as I can recall, I alone was Chelsea, out on my own, on a limb. I wonder if there was any peer pressure to choose one of the other teams. Looking back – and I haven’t thought long and hard about this ever before – I’m rather proud of myself to pick a team which had garnered no other support at school. There was, however, a vague memory of some neighbours who lived opposite – a family, who soon disappeared to live in Gloucestershire. There was a son, also called Christopher, quite a few years older than me – maybe a teenager – who I think favoured Chelsea too. Maybe it’s in the name.

An important event happened around 1971 or 1972. A friend of ours in Windsor worked with Peter Osgood’s sister Mandy at a factory making Caterpillar vehicles and he said that he could obtain Ossie’s autograph for me. Once my father had explained what an “autograph” was, I was so excited and couldn’t wait for it to arrive. The only two names that I knew at Chelsea at the time were the two Peters, Osgood and Bonetti. I still have that signed photograph and it really cemented my affection for Peter Osgood and Chelsea Football Club.

I have no recollection of the 1972 League Cup Final loss to Stoke, but I do remember hearing “Blue Is The Colour” on the radio at around that time and that really affected me too. Just to hear the name “Chelsea” sent me dizzy. I obviously saw Chelsea on TV on Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoon highlight programmes but I only have vague recollections of the old East stand which came down in the summer of 1972. Incidentally, the first F.A. Cup Final that I can remember was the 1972 one; Leeds United beating Arsenal in the Centenary Final.

The first Chelsea game that I can honestly remember seeing on TV was the 1972 opener against mighty Leeds. Their goalie was injured and Peter Lorimer replaced him; Chelsea won 4-0. Peter Osgood, my hero, scored.

What other memories do I have in those nascent years? I remember – specifically – the build-up to the March 1973 F.A. Cup game with Arsenal. I remember Ossie’s goal in the first game and then watching the action on the 9.30pm news of the replay at Highbury. The sadness from that night still lives with me. I remember Bobby Charlton’s last ever game – at Chelsea – being shown on TV highlights in May 1973.

Anyway – you get the picture…I loved playing football at school break times, on Saturdays at the village recreation ground (“the rec”) and in the street. I was a football fan and Chelsea was my team. My first Chelsea kit was purchased – with a number nine sewn on shirt and shorts – and then football boots and a leather football. Football was taking over. Every Saturday morning, I would walk down to the village shop to collect a loaf of bread and then spend a few pennies on packets of football cards. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling almost forty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on March 16^th against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother wrote to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived…priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

Looking back, I don’t think that any of my school pals could actually believe I was going to see Chelsea play. This was unheard of amongst the village kids. I was only eight remember. At last the great day arrived and it is amazing that I remember so much. My father was a local shopkeeper and so he pulled a few strings with his co-owner to get the Saturday off. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in great health at the time. He had been diagnosed with throat cancer and was due radiation treatment in the May. Thankfully, this was eventually successful, but he was feeling a bit under-the-weather throughout the journey to and from London.

One small memory; on trips to London, my father always drove north and joined the M4 at Bath. After consultation with others, it was decided that an alternative would be used on that particular day. Instead, Dad would drive east on the A4 and picked the M4 at Hungerford. There was a little part of me – the worrier – that hoped that this new itinerary wouldn’t backfire and we’d end up getting lost.

“Not on my first trip to Chelsea, surely Dad!”

Leading up to the game, there had been a pitch invasion at Newcastle United’s F.A. Cup game at home to Nottingham Forest on the previous Saturday and, during the week at school the hooliganism – or at least, over-exuberance and a little vandalism – had been the talk of the classroom.

This heightened the frisson for my first-ever Chelsea game.

We had arranged to park our car at a nursing home at Park Royal, where an uncle had recently been staying. I suppose we reached there at around 12.30pm. We then walked the short distance to Park Royal tube station and caught the train to Fulham Broadway. I visited Park Royal station recently and it did bring back some memories…I recalled walking over the footbridge over the tracks and the art deco façade of the station. In March 1974, my heart must have been beating fast as we boarded the eastbound train. I had been on a tube train before, but this felt so exciting – doing what thousands of Chelsea fans do each week…this is what stuck with me the most I think; a small boy from Somerset being a Londoner for the day.

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood. We bought a match programme, which I still have. I remember that the smudge from my mother’s wet leather glove is still visible…strange, though, I remember the day as being sunny.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still mid-construction on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team included such players as Ron Harris, John Phillips, John Hollins, Steve Kember, Dave Webb, Ian Hutchinson and Charlie Cooke. Newcastle United fielded Malcolm Macdonald, Stewart Barrowclough, Terry McDermott and Terry Hibbitt amongst others.

The gate was 24,207 on that day in March 1974.

What do I remember of the actual game? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minutes…a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember actually thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there was to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. Of course, a second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed.

I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final and then in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Fulham Broadway Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) – the site of a café to this day. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

Back to 2014…

Despite fine weather on the approach to London, there was a sudden shower as we started our walk towards The Bridge. Up above the Empress State Building, a striking rainbow lit up the grey sky. I wondered if a pot of goals would be at the end of it. Very often the visit of the Geordies has resulted in a heavy loss for them in SW6. Their team would be depleted. They have had a tough time of it recently. I was supremely confident that a Chelsea win would be forthcoming. We bypassed The Goose and reached the turnstiles for the MHU in good time. This was a strange pre-match for sure, though. When was the last time I had attended a home game on a Saturday and had not set foot in a pub? Maybe 1984.

The half-and-half scarves on sale next to the CFCUK stall were matched overhead by a half-and-half sky. One part was brilliant blue, one part was grey cloud. The rainbow had disappeared. I quickly bought a programme and flicked through it as I waited in line at the turnstiles. Club historian Rick Glanvill had written a piece on the Newcastle game in 1980 which I had attended with a couple of school friends and, ironically, my father and his then retired co-owner at the shop. A 6-0 win that day is fondly remembered.

Over in the corner, Newcastle had brought 2,000 away fans; the same as West Ham United. It seems there is a change in Chelsea’s policy on away tickets. It used to be solidly set at either 3,000 or 1,500. The away fans began singing about a fat cockney bastard leaving their club alone, but other, more rousing, songs were not forthcoming. Back in 1974, I thought it implausible that Newcastle fans could travel such a distance to see their team play; I remember being suitably impressed. These days, the friction of distance seems to be of little importance.

John Terry wasn’t in the line-up. Mourinho still fancied Dave ahead of Ashley, so the defence was rejigged with David Luiz alongside Gary Cahill and Branislav Ivanovic at right-back. Frank Lampard returned alongside the impressive Nemanja Matic. The midfield “attacking three” were Oscar, Willian and the new all-conquering idol Eden Hazard. Samuel Eto’o led the line. As expected, the visitors’ line-up was depleted and contained a couple of players of whom I knew nothing.

Chelsea began on the front foot and dominated the first part of the game. However, Ben Arfa found space but fired at Petr Cech to sound out a warning to a perhaps complacent home crowd. The atmosphere seemed to be one of expectation, with the home support unwilling to provide a noisy backdrop, despite our early dominance. The half-chances continued for Chelsea.

Eden Hazard advanced with the ball and played it out wide to Ivanovic. The Belgian dynamo continued his run and when Brana returned the ball, he whipped it low past Krul into the far corner. It was as simple as that.

Eden ran away to the far corner to celebrate and The Bridge rejoiced. I hoped for a little pay-back for our defeat up at St. James’ Park in November; our second-half performance that day was quite shocking in its lack of desire.

A lone Newcastle effort at the Matthew Harding was abated by Cech, but we were soon on the attack again. Eden Hazard, the crowd buzzing whenever he touched the ball, ran deep into the Geordie penalty box. He played the ball in to a heavily marked Eto’o, who charmed us with an exquisite back heel into Eden’s path. A simple stroke of the ball into the goal gave us a 2-0 lead. A slide on his knees, right in front of Parky, then another gathering of players down in the corner. We love our corners at Chelsea. Does any other team always celebrate with a run to the corners after almost every goal? I can’t think of any.

In the after-goal glow, the spectators in the Matthew Harding took a moment to honour our manager, under a little criticism before Christmas, but now lauded by the loyalists –

“Stand Up For The Special One.”

At the break, Tommy Baldwin appeared on the pitch alongside Neil Barnett. I only ever saw The Sponge play once for Chelsea; not in game number one in 1974, but against Tottenham in game two in 1974. He was the leader of the team…

While Alan and I joked about 20,000 spectators not knowing who he was, sadly it seems Chelsea Football Club didn’t either. Alongside Tommy’s career stats on the TV screen was a picture of Charlie Cooke.

Oh boy.

Soon into the second-half, the Newcastle ‘keeper rushed out to meet a Luiz high ball, slipped, but was relieved to watch the ball speed away past the post before Oscar could reach it. Then a whipped Frank Lampard free-kick from an acute angle brought a fine save from Krul. A corner was swung in by Willian and the ball was knocked away. Although I didn’t spot the offence, the wonderfully-named Mapou Yanga-Mbiwa was adjudged to have pulled down Eto’o inside the box. The much-maligned Howard Webb pointed to the spot. It didn’t even occur to me that Frank Lampard would normally take it; all thoughts were on Eden Hazard and his opportunity to score his first-ever Chelsea hat-trick. While I remonstrated with an over-zealous steward about using my camera, the penalty was easily dispatched.

Chelsea 3 Newcastle United 0.

After a relatively quiet start to this season under Mourinho, despite a steady supply of goals, Eden Hazard is now the darling of the Chelsea support. I am mesmerized every time Eden has the ball at his mercy. I get a lovely rush of adrenalin as I watch him run at defenders, scuttling back to try to annul his threat. I love his sudden acceleration. I admire his tenacity. Above all, I love his confidence with the ball at his feet. When he is at the top of his game, Eden has the ability to turn any moment into a great moment.

Let all of us stand up and enjoy it.

Back in 1980, Colin Lee had scored a hat-trick in the 6-0 rout. With almost half-an-hour remaining, I hoped for a similar score line. In reality, we eased off a little. Newcastle instead managed to carve out a couple of half-chances but their finishing was poor. Mourinho rang the changes; Ba for Eto’o, then new buy Mohamed Salah for Willian and then Andre Schurrle for the magical Hazard. Within a few minutes of his Chelsea debut, Salah had one half-chance and one fine chance in which to score, but failed to hit the target. He impressed me in the games against Basel in 2013; I’m sure he will prove to be a fine addition to our squad.

As the game wore on, all eyes and ears were focussed on score updates from Carrow Road where, amazingly, Norwich City were managing to hold Manchester City to a 0-0 score-line. Howard Webb signalled the end of our match and the crowd applauded the players off. It immediately felt like an easy win. In fact, it felt like a typical Chelsea versus Newcastle United result; a few Chelsea goals and a clean sheet. As I packed away my camera, it was announced on the PA that Manchester City had indeed dropped two points at Norwich.

It meant that Chelsea were top.

Get in.

We’ve all seen a list of our remaining league games. We will have a tough one at a resurgent Liverpool, plus a couple of home derbies against the North London teams might stretch us, but all of the others seem…whisper it…”winnable.”

Maybe, just maybe…

…with Eden Hazard in our team, we have a chance.

Tales From The Black And The Blue

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Barcelona : 18 April 2012.

There is a delicious irony in Chelsea’s recent love affair with the Champions League over the past ten years. Way back in 1955, just after our first ever Football League Championship, Chelsea could have been the very first winners of the inaugural European Cup which was played during the 1955-1956 season. However, for whatever reason, the out-of-touch octogenarians in the English F.A. strongly advised the club to forego participation. Instead, Real Madrid won the first ever European Cup (and the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth) in 1956 and Chelsea had to wait until 1999-2000 to participate again. There have been few games which have produced the same “buzz” of anticipation than that first ever game against Milan in September 1999; a pulsating 0-0 draw at The Bridge was a classic.

If only we knew then what we know now; we have since taken to the competition like the proverbial duck to aqueous solution. We reached the quarter-finals in that first season before losing to (guess who?) Barcelona. Since then, we have been one of European football’s top performers in the World’s premier cup competition. Our semi-final against Barcelona this season would be our sixth since 2003-2004. These have been heady days. Spring time at Chelsea has recently involved football on multiple fronts. It’s a beautiful period in our history; breath it in, let it fill up your senses, these days will not last for ever.

…but oh, the memories.

2004 – a defeat by AS Monaco, fresh on the heels of that game at Highbury in the previous round. Claudio Ranieri at his infuriating worst, tinkering to distraction, just to prove a point to the club management who had already hinted he would be leaving the following season.

2005 – a nauseating defeat to Liverpool. The result of Mourinho not “going for it” in the home leg, the result of the Luis Garcia “ghost” goal at Anfield. We were the best team in Europe that season, having discarded FCB in the quarters.

2007 – another hateful defeat to Liverpool, this time on penalties at Anfield after Joe Cole and Daniel Agger goals gave both teams 1-0 home wins. Again, Mourinho failed to attack Liverpool sufficiently. Would we ever get to the final?

2008 – joy unbounded as we drew 1-1 at Anfield and then won 3-2 at a pulsating Stamford Bridge on one of the most emotional nights that English football has ever witnessed. Frank Lampard inspired us and we were on our way to Moscow.

2009 – a resolute performance by Chelsea at Camp Nou and a 0-0 draw. A despicable performance by a certain Norwegian referee at The Bridge. Michael Essien scored his best ever goal, but Iniesta equalised with virtually Barca’s only shot on goal. Pure, unadulterated sadness.

Our record in the Champions League semi-finals is therefore 1-4. Throw in our ridiculously close defeat in the final in 2008 and has ever a team come closer to winning the World’s greatest club competition, yet failing, than Chelsea?

During the day, I pondered our chances for 2012 against the mesmeric talisman Lionel Messi and his Barcelona team mates. Not even our stupendous win against Tottenham on Sunday could dispel many of my very real worries and concerns. My biggest fear was that of humiliation. This has been a strange old season; our team was creaking under Villas-Boas, but has been rejuvenated under Roberto di Matteo. Our form has returned, yet we are still an old team in transition. In my mind, there was a real chance that this would turn out to be one game too far for the battle-scarred veterans. After our fortuitous refereeing decisions against Wigan and Spurs, I was also aware that all of our Lady Luck Tokens had been used for this season. And yet, I can easily recall a conversation that a few friends and I had in The Goose before that 2000 game against Barcelona; we had performed miracles during that CL season and we decided that we were realistically not going to progress further. That Barcelona team, including Figo and the like, was a class act. What did we know? On that incredible night we stormed into a 3-0 lead and produced a breath-taking performance. A late Figo goal took the edge off the night, but it had taught me not to write off Chelsea Football Club.

I hoped for a similar response in 2012. However, I was still uneasy. In an email to some friends, I summed-up our chances on the night as follows –

Barcelona win 50%
Chelsea win 25%
Draw 25%

I added that I thought that we had a 20% chance to progress to the final over both legs.

These were my thoughts before the trip to London.

I pulled out of Chippenham at 4pm. Parky and I were headed east once more. It was a drizzle-filled Wiltshire evening. I wondered if the extra zip to the pitch in London would assist Barcelona’s quick passing.

As I approached Reading, my thoughts on the night’s game were waylaid; my friend Rob, who had been tasked to collect my ticket for the away game in Catalonia, called me on my phone. He was very agitated and told me that the Chelsea box office had no record of my purchase.

“What?”

Surely I applied for my ticket last week?

“Oh fcuk.”

For thirty minutes, I tried to recollect if I had bought the £73.50 ticket. It has been a busy old spell, with many match tickets needing to be purchased; maybe I had, indeed, forgotten to get one? I tried to call the box office, but they were closed. I mulled over my options. I realised that I could pop into the internet café opposite The Goose and apply there. Rob confirmed that the box office would be open for thirty minutes after the evening’s game for collections. I could relax.

Phew.

I parked up at 6.45pm. By 6.55pm, I had purchased my away ticket and Parky had bought me a pint of Peroni in The Goose. I thanked Rob for his efforts and he handed me back the form I had filled out detailing my travel details; I would need that to claim my ticket. I met up with Alex, a work colleague, who had asked me if I had the chance of getting him a ticket as soon as we had beaten Benfica. Alex works for one of the hauliers that my company uses to move our client’s products in Europe; he is from Vienna and has been working in England for a year or so. We had spoken on the ‘phone, but had never met before. He has no team in Austria; Chelsea is his team. He is typical of the new type of supporter our club has attracted of late; not from Ashford, but Austria, not from Cheam, but from California, not from Gravesend, but from Germany. He was clearly ecstatic to be able to see only his second ever Chelsea game. He was off back to Vienna in May. It was great to see him so happy.

I was in a rush to head down to The Bridge as I wanted to get some banners up in good time. I was in so much of a rush that I sped off with Parky’s match ticket still in my bag. He caught up with me, but then disappeared into The Maltsters for “just one more pint.”

Alex and I rushed down to The Bridge; the half-and-half scarves sellers had been busy. I can understand the allure of a friendship scarf for European games; in fact, Parky often gets one for Jill. The St. George flag on the FCB badge always looks great in my mind. Monday is St. George’s Day, of course, and a few Chelsea fans will be celebrating our patron saint’s day deep in the heart of Catalonia.

We reached our seats at 7.35pm just as Neil Barnett announced “the anthem”; the recording of “Blue Is The Colour” by an opera singer. I personally wish they would stick with the original 1972 recording to be honest; this new version is slightly too slow, slightly too forced. Alex and I scrambled up to the back row of the MHU and we pinned my two banners up.

“Vinci Per Noi” dates from the summer of 1996.

“Peter Osgood” dates from March 2006.

The blue and white flags had been handed out once again and were being waved furiously as the last few bars of “Blue Is The Colour” gave way to “The Liquidator.” Then, the two teams strode out onto the wet turf, past the Champions League flag, on to the west side of the pitch.

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

What a rushed pre-match. However, as I took my seat next to Alan and Tom, I took off my jacket and tried to settle down just for a few moments. I worked out who was playing for Chelsea a few moments into the game. The only surprise was Meireles; this just signifies how far Michael Essien is off his game.

Chelsea were in blue, Barcelona were in black.

In the far corner, the 3,000 away fans presented a vivid and varied scene. Not only were the FCB colours of blue and claret represented, but also the Catalonia colours of red and yellow. Lots of replica shirts, lots of scarves, lots of colourful banners draped over the balcony wall.

Let battle commence. Let the nerves be tested. Let us play. Let us pray.

Despite our wishful thoughts about us “taking it” to Barcelona, it soon became apparent that the away team simply took over the game, strangling us with possession, for us to enjoy any real periods of dominance. All eyes were on Lionel Messi, the World’s greatest footballer, who was there in person, no more than twenty yards away from me at times. I was transfixed by this little man – quiet, unobtrusive, walking around the pitch, head low. How could such a benign looking figure have the potential to cause us so much heartache? It all seemed to be about him. I followed his movement in and amongst our players, his movement at times no more than a slow walk. We would have to stifle his every move. Elsewhere, there were familiar faces, all equally-placed to cause anxiety to defenders and fans alike. Xavi, Iniesta, Fabregas.

The Barcelona players pushed the ball around at will and the passes were usually inch perfect. Short passes were common, but even cross-field balls were inch perfect. In contrast, Chelsea chased and harried, closing down space, avoiding rough tackles. I got the impression that we were being slightly too reverential. I longed for a 50-50 challenge – not a dirty foul, no need to draw a booking – but a hard, strong tackle that would let Barca know we were serious. It would also help to involve the crowd. When I play five-a-side, I am not great a great tackler – I am more a nibbler, someone who can get a toe in to rob the opponent of the ball, someone who can read a pass and intercept.

However, when the need arises and I can sense a pure 50-50, there is no greater feeling that hitting the ball and player’s leading foot together with a strong tackle.

Slam.

I longed for Chelsea to do the same.

The first chance of the game fell to the men in black. Andres Iniesta picked out the on-rushing Sanchez, who nimbly beat the offside trap and delicately lobbed the ball over the ghostly figure of Petr Cech.

“Here we go” I thought.

We waited to see where the ball would end up – time stood still, that old cliché – and were mighty relieved to see the ball drop against the bar. Soon after, Messi’s first real involvement took him in to the penalty area with one of his breath-taking runs, the ball seemingly no more than six inches from his toes throughout. A Chelsea challenge could easily have sent another Barcelona player tumbling, but to his enormous credit, the little Argentinian stayed on his feet. He passed to Iniesta but his close-range shot was wonderfully parried by Cech. The rebound seemed to take Fabregas by surprise and we sighed again.

On 19 minutes, a rare Chelsea chance resulted in Juan Mata slashing over the bar.

Soon after, Barcelona were awarded a corner down below me. As Messi slowly walked towards the corner flag and stooped to collect the ball, more than a few Chelsea fans in the MHU clapped his appearance and I was suitably impressed. We don’t usually do this sort of thing in England – apart from inside cricket grounds where opposing “boundaries” are often clapped by opposing fans – and this was a sure sign that the Chelsea public recognised talent when they saw it. Messi – so young, but so great – is already knocking on the door of Pele and Maradona.

As Barcelona’s possession mounted, I really wondered if we could keep up this constant defending for ninety minutes. Barcelona’s away support was relatively quiet; the only three chants I heard were “Bartha, Bartha, Batha”, “Meeeeee-si” and the club anthem which ends “ Bartha, Bar-tha, Baaaaaaaar-tha.”

Drogba was putting in a typical performance; strong in the air and winning defensive headers one minute, rolling around like he was the victim of a sniper’s bullet the next. He was clearly disrupting Barca’s flow, though whether he had been told to do this by club management is a moot point. I suspect not; I suspect it comes natural to him. I had hoped he could channel the frustration he felt after the 2009 “it’s a fcuking disgrace” game in the right way. However, despite his physical strength, he wasn’t a threat offensively and we were getting a little annoyed with his antics during the game.

The sky filled with misty rain as Barca passed the ball at will. The otherwise dependable Mikel lost possession amidst growls of discontent and the mercurial Messi set up Fabregas. His goal bound effort flew past Cech but slowed slightly, allowing the excellent Ashley Cole to back-pedal, re-adjust at the last minute, and hack the ball to safety with his favoured left peg.

Phew.

At 8.30pm, I received this text from Del, a Liverpool fan from work –

“Be nice to see you nick one. Reckon your boys have set up pretty well, great shape and rode your luck a couple of times. Only downside is that useless prick up front – twenty two and a half minutes on the deck, the other twenty two and a half offside.”

Within twenty seconds of receiving this text, Lampard robbed Messi on the half-way line and quickly pushed the ball to the rampaging Ramires. This was our chance and we knew it. I snapped a photo as the little Brazilian switched feet to play in a ball towards the six yard box. That man Didier arrived to sweep the ball in to the net, just missing the despairing dive of Valdes and we were 1-0 up. Despite a rush of blood, I remained calm enough for five seconds to snap the ensuing huddle down near where Parky resides. After, I bellowed a euphoric “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSS!”

And then, at 8.32pm – a text to Del.

“You were saying?”

Oh boy…one shot on goal, one goal, one delirious Stamford Bridge.

At the break, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was on the pitch, and Journey were on the PA.

“Don’t Stop Believing” is a totally incongruous song to be played at a football ground in England; it certainly says nothing at all about our life as UK Chelsea fans. But I can understand why the club chose to play it.

“Don’t Stop Believing” indeed.

The second-half performance by Chelsea will go down in the annals of our club as one of the most resolute and brave performances the spectators at Stamford Bridge has ever seen.

Barcelona began again strongly. Adriano drew a superb save from Cech. Sanchez shot inexplicably wide of Cech’s post. Alves blasted over. Block after block – Cahill, Terry, Mikel – stopped Barcelona’s goal-bound efforts. Despite his detractors, even Meireles was putting in a solid shift. The only player under-performing was Juan Mata, but he is not built for defensive duties and can hardly be blamed for the game passing him by. Barcelona enjoyed several centrally-placed free-kicks, but shots were either blocked (Messi) or ballooned over (Xavi). This was proving to be almost too difficult to watch; it was certainly too tense to enjoy. I was still in my shirt-sleeves. I avoided putting my jacket on as I superstitiously thought it would jinx things.

“We scored with my jacket off, let’s leave it off.”

When I was a kid, watching games with my parents, I had the same superstition with chewing gum. If we were winning, I’d keep the same piece of gum in my mouth. If we were losing, I’d discard it.

Old habits die hard.

The noise levels grew throughout the match as the crowd sensed that the boys needed our help. “Amazing Grace” was re-worked once again and this Proper Chelsea classic provided the backdrop to the second-half master class in defending –

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

The crowd did the boys proud. We didn’t neglect the watching Tottenham fans at home, either –

“We won 5-1,Wembley.”

“Harry For Tottenham.”

I was amazed how quickly I felt the time was going…60 minutes, 65 minutes, 70 minutes. The manager replaced Kalou for Mata – fresh legs. The Barcelona pressure continued. Our only chances in the second period involved a Frank Lampard corner, whipped in, but avoiding the trio of Chelsea players at the far post and a break involving a great pass from Drogba finding Kalou who dinked over Valdes’ bar.

Tick…tick…tick…

Another Messi free-kick with five minutes remaining. He chipped the ball in towards Puyol, who flicked the ball on with the deftest of touches. I was right in line with the flight of the ball as it bounced up towards the goal. It was surely the equaliser. Out of nowhere, Cech scrambled across to turn the ball away for a corner.

Superb. The save of the match.

Bosingwa on for the magnificent Ramires – more fresh legs.

The assistant linesman signaled just three minutes of time to be added on. I looked at my phone and it was 9.33pm.

9.36pm and we’re halfway to paradise.

Time for one last agonising moment as Messi moved the ball out to Pedro. He was well outside the box, at an angle, but his low drive avoided all players in the packed penalty area and struck Cech’s far post with a dull thud. The ball rebounded out to Busquets, who ballooned it high into the Chelsea fans in The Shed Upper.

It was 9.36pm.

The referee blew.

The Bridge roared and Alan, Alex and I smacked each other’s backs. I, for one, could not believe it. I had just witnessed a miracle. Of course, we had ridden our luck, but what a gutsy performance. I lost count of the number of blocks which our defenders used to thwart Barca. I was breathless and almost light-headed as the players clapped the crowd from the centre-circle. There was no overblown triumphalism from the team at the end. They knew we were only half-way there. But we have a foothold in this tie and we will, I am sure, go out to Barcelona with a plausible reason to be optimistic of our chances.

“One Step beyond” got us all bouncing.

I skipped past the Peter Osgood statue – I made the point of touching his leg as I passed – and quickly joined the line of around 100 fans collecting Barcelona away tickets. With great relief, I was handed my ticket. I met up with Steve from the NYBs, who was close to tears with emotion.

“That’s the best noise I’ve ever heard at Chelsea.”

The London night was now dirty and wet with rain, but inside our heads we were drugged-up with Chelsea. We met up with Parky and Jesus in The Goose to let the traffic subside. Rob and Les from nearby Melksham were enjoying “one last pint” and these two scallywags will be on the same 6.55am flight from Bristol as me on Tuesday.

What a beautiful night in Catalonia that could be.

Tales From The Rainbow Stand In 1986 And The Smethwick End In 2012

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2012.

I peered out of my window at 8am and it was overcast and grey. By the time I had reached Lord Porky’s village at 9am, the sun had appeared from behind the low-lying clouds. It was going to be a fine day. I had a quick chat with Porky’s partner Jill, who was babysitting her granddaughter Kayla, just turned two and a lifetime of Chelsea heartache ahead of her. Kayla has just started talking and I have no doubt that some of her first words will be Chelsea-related.

“Pass, Sturridge, pass!”

I mentioned to Jill that I have been suffering, for the first time in my life, with eczema for the past three months. Both hands are affected, though only slightly. She mentioned that eczema is a sign of stress and this surprised me; I haven’t felt under duress the past few months. I slapped some Nivea hand crème on and departed, stopping at McMelksham for a breakfast on the hoof. We drove north on the Fosse Way once more; slightly longer, compared to the going via the Almondsbury M4/M5 intersection, but a lot more scenic and rewarding. The away jaunt to The Hawthorns represents one of the shortest away trips for me at the moment. Swansea is the nearest at a mere 102 miles.

This would be my seventh trip to the home of West Bromwich Albion. We had won all previous six encounters and there have been some pretty good memories amongst those games. My first visit was in January 1986 when I was studying for my geography degree at North Staffordshire Poly in nearby Stoke-on Trent. In 1985-1986, we were flying. The much-loved John Neal had guided us to promotion and First Division respectability during the previous two seasons and we had launched a full-on attack on the league title over the Christmas 1985 period. A 2-0 win over Tottenham in front of a mammoth 37,000 was a formality. Newspaper articles proclaimed that we were genuine contenders and I, aged just twenty, was lapping it up. Here are a few notes from my diary entry of Saturday 18th. January 1986.

“Caught the 10.39am to Wolverhampton and then the 12.05pm to Smethwick Rolfe Street. The fare was just £1.95. Found the ground relatively easily. Popped into the ticket office and bought a ticket for £5. Waited outside until the Chelsea coach arrived at 2pm. Had a coffee and a pie. Sat down and took in the atmosphere, looking out for faces. Went to briefly chat to Al. Their end filled up slowly. A dull day, a little cold, rain at times. We had about 2,000 in the seats…between 4,000 and 5,000 in total anyway. I guess at a gate of around 10,000. Got off to a good start, playing well. After 20 minutes, Nevin headed-on for Speedie to race in from the right wing. He approached Grew in goal and pushed it past him at the far post. Brilliant. Good celebration. “We’re gonna win the League.” I guess we had a few more chances, Nevin had a few raids. Mickey Thomas was pretty lively for WBA, probing Colin Lee at full back with through balls. We gave Thomas a brilliant reception. After 55 minutes, a move found Dixon; he flicked it on for Murphy to stab the ball to the left of Grew. Yet more celebration. In the last ten minutes, Joe was alleged to have fouled Garth Crooks just below me. A penalty. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” I think it was taken by Hunt. Eddie dived to his left and easily saved it on the floor. Brilliant. A Chelsea move found Dixon. He took on the defender, beat him, rounded Grew, was hauled down but the ball broke to Nevin, who tapped it in from 12 yards. “We’re gonna win the League.” Not a bad match really. Chelsea were in quite good voice. Better than WBA. “Come on you Baggies.” A little kid next to me kept shouting “You’re blind ref.” Once he shouted “You’re as blind…as…a blind ref!” Out straight away and a police escort all of the way to Smethwick Rolfe Street. Met up with Alan again. If we win games in hand…we will be TOP OF THE LEAGUE.”

Twenty-six years on, a few more things to add. We played in all red that day; one of the last times we were to do so, in fact. There was always a certain cachet to take over the seats at away games in the mid-‘eighties; this activity was especially favoured by London clubs, whose fans always seemed to have a little more money spare on match days. For a few, there was always a greater chance to meet and greet certain sections of the home fans in these areas too. I’m not condoning this by the way – just reporting it. Of course, having a few thousand in the seats, always made the mass singing of “One Man Went To Mow” that more enjoyable when we all stood on “10.” The home fans, cowering alongside, often watched on in silent bemusement. On exiting the steps down from the Rainbow Stand after the final whistle, the Chelsea choir began singing “We’re gonna win it all.” And I remember that this felt quite possible. We were in all four competitions (the League, the FA Cup, the Milk Cup, the Full Members’ Cup) and we were on fire. Sadly, this proud boast went up in flames as Liverpool beat us at home in the FA cup and Kerry Dixon, our superb young striker, pulled up with a torn calf-muscle after only ten minutes. Kerry was out for quite a while and, although he made England’s World Cup squad for Mexico in the summer, he would never be quite the same player. His absence from the team was certainly a major reason why our challenge for all of the honours soon fell away over the next two months of that memorable 1985-1986 season. On the Wednesday after that Liverpool defeat, we lost at home to QPR in the Milk Cup and a few defeats in the League meant that we were soon out of the running of the title, too. In fact, the high water mark of that great Chelsea team (1983 to 1986) was arguably that afternoon at The Hawthorns.

In the end, our 5-4 victory over Manchester City in the final of the inaugural, and much derided, Full Members’ Cup was our only silver wear from 1985-1986. But that, as they say, is another story.

At 12.30pm, I pulled into the car park of the Park Inn, located alongside the busy M5 motorway. The two of us spent an enjoyable pre-match in the hotel bar, which is always a pleasant pre-curser to the afternoon’s entertainment at West Brom. We chatted with Big John, who sits a few rows in front of me at Chelsea, and a few others. Long Tall Pete and Liz arrived. More beers, more chat. The Liverpool vs. Arsenal game was on TV and I hoped for a draw. Big John stayed in the same hotel as the Chelsea team in Naples and was able to observe the team at close quarters as they assembled after the tumultuous team meeting on the day of the game. The body language was atrocious apparently; no smiles, no laughter, no bonding. John said that the team had appeared to be beaten before they boarded the coach. We agreed that if the players – and any player…we named names – didn’t want to play for the club and the manager, they could “do one.”

And then we laughed at how the internet has turned post-game analysis into a deeply depressing experience of late. We both agreed that had the internet be around in the 1978-1978 season (and the 1982-1983 season too), several social network sites would be in meltdown with all of the negativity and bile being bounded around.

We smiled and agreed that, in some ways, we are past all of that. We both love Chelsea for all of the other stuff that goes with it…a broken record here, I know, but I don’t feel the need to apologise for it. Chelsea is so much more than the football. There, another of my favourite phrases. As soon as we all realise that, the better we will all be. I had commented to John that during the journey up from the West Country, Porky and I had spent around 15 seconds discussing the day’s game; “I suppose Drogba will get the nod over Torres. Wonder if Frank will get a start.”

Just as I stood up to get a round in, I bumped into TV presenter Adrian Chiles, who used to host “Match of the Day 2” and now presents an early morning show with Frank’s lady Christine Blakeley. He is, of course, a West Brom fan. I shook him by the hand and said –

“Good luck today. Of course, I don’t fcuking mean that.”

There were certain ribald comments made by Big John, Lord Porky and myself about me being – momentarily – one degree of separation from the luscious Ms. Bleakley. Let’s leave it there.

Jesus joined us for the last thirty minutes and we spoke about a few football-related topics. He explained a few things to me about the Mexican football scene and told me that he was present, in the Chelsea corner, at both the Bluewings and Galaxy games in LA in 2007. I said that I’d have to check my photos to see if I could spot him. At 2.30pm, we set off for the short walk to The Hawthorns. It was a typical Saturday scene with the onrushing fans heading off to the match, past the hot dog, burger and roast pork food stalls. At the corner, Jesus bought a small packet of pork scratchings for the three of us to share on the small walk down to the away entrance at the Smethwick End.

There was a longer than usual wait at the gates – enough time for Parky and I to be reunited with a gaggle of Chelsea from Trowbridge, who had travelled up by train. They had actually spent their pre-match, by chance, with Alan and Gary in Birmingham city centre pub. After a thorough search, I was in. I bumped into Fiona and Ronnie, who had been in The Vine; Fiona had sadly reported that a few members of “The Youth” had started throwing bottles around inside the pub, causing a window to be broken.

Only one word for that; pathetic.

The game had started by the time I eventually found myself alongside Alan (yes, the same Alan from 1986) and Gary, my away day companions. The team was as strong as I could have hoped for, with the two stalwarts Lampard and Essien alongside Ramires. I had a quick look around The Hawthorns. The old Rainbow Stand had been replaced around ten years ago by a single-tiered structure, with the corners enclosed by acres of dull grey steel. These areas cry out for a Chelsea style flag or emblem. The corners, though unsightly, at least keep the noise in. I noticed that a new row of executive boxes had been installed at the rear of this stand since the visit at the end of last season. Ah, last season; the day that we joyously celebrated the fact that we were “gonna win fcuk all.” How times change.

It was a relatively eventful first-half and half-chances came and went. The home team, with Fortune and Odemwingie at the heart of every attack, always appeared to be more cohesive, despite long periods of Chelsea possession. Chances were exchanged and Petr Cech was kept busy. Juan Mata and Michael Essien were having a lot of the ball, but the Chelsea support was getting very impatient with our lack of success in breaching the Baggies’ back line. The noisiest section of the home support shared the Birmingham End and they were in pretty good voice. There was the usual banter between us and them –

“Arse to a Russian. You’d sell your arse to a Russian. Arse to a Russian.”

“Speak fackin’ English. Why don’t you speak fackin’ English?”

“Speak fookin’ Russian. Why don’t you speak fookin’ Russian?”

It was odd to see the boys attacking us in the first-half. A fine strike from Michael Essien was headed for a top corner, but custodian Ben Foster tipped the effort over. With the half-time whistle approaching, a gorgeous ball from the otherwise quiet Didier Drogba found Daniel Sturridge. Studge had been his usual self; shooting at the earliest opportunity, much to the chagrin of us all. On this occasion, he lost his marker with a nice body sway, but annoyingly drilled his low shot wide of the left-hand post.

We howled.

The Chelsea support was spasmodic at best. However, one thing pleased me. With the sixth anniversary of the passing of Peter Osgood on Thursday, the away fans often sang the trademark song.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star.
Scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.
And Chelsea won – as we all knew they would.
And the star of that great team was Peter Osgood.
Osgood, Osgood, Osgood, Osgood.
Born is the King of Stamford Bridge.”

After Ossie’s death in 2006, our first game was at The Hawthorns of course. Always in our thoughts, Ossie…

I was expecting a marked improvement in the second half, but it got worse. The sun disappeared and the clouds returned. The Chelsea support grew more and more frustrated with each minute of lazy play and half-hearted effort. After around ten minutes, a ball from Mata was played into acres of space for Studge to run onto. For once, our opponents were caught out playing a high-line. However, Sturridge misread the path of the ball and Foster met it first and cleared. More derision was aimed at the hapless Sturridge. I am quite befuddled by Sturridge. At times, his reluctance to pass to a colleague reaches ridiculous levels. No doubting his self-confidence, which is usually seen as a massive plus when assessing an attacker’s abilities, but his selfishness will weigh him down.

In a surprising show of togetherness, we sang “Amazing Grace.”

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

There were more verses of “The King of Stamford Bridge.” However, West Brom were now in the ascendency and Petr Cech became the busier of the two ‘keepers. The away support wailed for the introduction of Fernando Torres. Overall, Drogba had been woeful, showing hardly any of his willingness to chase down balls and use his strength. However, Drogba stayed on and Nando replaced Essien. God bless him, Torres’ first action was met with roars of approval as he chased back and won the ball with a great tackle from behind. It was an abrupt wake-up call for us all; this is what we had been missing all bloody game. A player with passion.

With ten minutes to go, West Brom took the lead after a ball was not cleared. My heart sunk. A draw at West Brom was bad enough, but a defeat? The Hawthorns came to life again. The whole stadium “Boing boinged.” It was quite a sight for my sore, sore eyes. I stood in numbed silence. Then came the West Brom club song –

“The Lords’s my shepherd I’ll not want.
He lays me down to die.
In pasture’s green he leadeth me.
The quiet waters by.”

And then, of course, came the song which rocked us to our core –

“Sacked in the morning.
You’re getting sacked in the morning.
Sacked in the morning.”

Of course, a fair few hundred Chelsea supporters joined in, too. I felt Alan bristling to say something. I just turned around and glowered. It was always my opinion that supporters are there for the team. It seems that certain sections of our support do not believe that this is correct. In the final flurry of activity at the Birmingham Road End, a great Ashley Cole cross was met by a Frank Lampard prod, but the ball flew past the far post and then Mata flashed wide too. Petr Cech went up field for one last corner, but the chance did not amount to anything.

At the final whistle, I stood in more numbed silence.

On a very bleak afternoon, only Torres, Cech, Lampard, Mata, Luiz and Drogba came over to clap the away fans, who – surprisingly, in my eyes – stood and clapped them for quite some time. That, at least, made me very very proud. However, that feeling soon subsided.

Alan said “see you on Tuesday” but I could not speak. I simply nodded.

As I waited outside the stand, several friends walked past. There were lots of long faces and I am sure I was exhibiting a particularly effective 1982-1983 style frown. However, Andy from Trowbridge approached and made me smile.

“Keep your chin up, Chris” as he mimicked Mourinho at Arsenal in 2007.

On the walk back to the car at the hotel, we had hoped to buy several bags of pork scratchings, but we couldn’t see any stands which were selling them. Lord Porky was distraught.

A 1-0 defeat and no pork scratchings.

FCUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUK.

Back in the hotel bar, a beer for Porky and a cappuccino for me. A quick word with Jonesy from Nuneaton. We both agreed that we had begun the season relatively well, but we were now seemingly getting worse with each game. I was still adamant that AVB should stay and get to the summer before clearing out the players who clearly do not fancy playing for him.

Jonesy : “You going Tuesday, Chris?”

Chris : “See you there.”

We both smiled. We had seen worse and we both knew it. The same old Chelsea, the same old Chelsea…

…and I have a feeling that my bloody eczema is going to get a lot worse over the next few weeks.

Tales From Pastures Green

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 20 April 2011.

Just another Chelsea Saturday? I guess so.

Just another Saturday of pounding the roads, fun-filled conversations with mates, pre-match drinks, camaraderie with a cast of thousands, songs, junk food, goals, music on the car CD player, memories, triumph, pathos and self-deprecating humour.

Really: what else are you going to do on a Saturday?

The first decision of the day – what to wear? This can take ages, but I was in a hurry. I went dark. Navy blue Victorinox T-shirt, dark blue HL jeans and a pair of black Clarks Wallabees.

I had to zip into Frome first thing to get a few things done. The town is enjoying a little renaissance at the moment; bohemian shops, a thriving arts scene, regular bands at a few venues and a thriving café culture. I love it. My hair cut takes fewer and fewer minutes to finish these days; sigh. A little bit of shopping. Rush, rush, rush. With that all accomplished, I set off and collected Lord Parkins of Parkyshire just after 11am. For the record; a lovely white and muted olive green Fred Perry, jeans and a pair of Adidas.

Still after all these years, we’re football fashion obsessives. If anybody sees us giving in to the easy option of Samsung Wear, please give us both a slap.

The game at The Hawthorns was a special one for Lord Parky. On 15th. April 1961, he attended his first-ever Chelsea game. His father is an Arsenal fan and the Parkins family were living in North London at the time. Parky, as a six year old, was taken to Stamford Bridge and fell in love with the colour blue. Chelsea defeated Arsenal on that spring day some fifty years ago and a life of Chelsea support was borne.

50 Years – good on you, mate.

So, you all know the score by now…the road up to the West Midlands is so familiar. With no Pompey in the top flight, this 115 mile jaunt to West Brom is my nearest away game now. It’s an easy place to get to. I don’t mind West Brom. As I drove through Gloucestershire, we mulled over the sad fact that – unlike 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 – this season was not going to be rewarded with either a league title or a cup final appearance. In fact, we just have seven games left this season. We went over plans for each of those – there will be a big American invasion for the West Ham game, but Parky and I fancy something different for the Spurs game; we are looking at a pub-crawl up the Kings Road in the heart of trendy, glitzy, Sloaney Chelsea, rather than the more working class, football orientated North End Road.

As I drove north, there were a few incoming text messages from fellow fans, from near and far. We aimed for The Park Inn, just off the M5, and we reached there at around 1pm. It dawned on us that it was a case of “Lord Parkins parkin’ at The Park Inn.”

Mike from the NY Blues phoned me to say he was “just at the Park Inn” and we waited his arrival. It soon dawned on me that he was “just parkin” – at a nearby boozer – and our paths never crossed the entire day. Burger had been in touch, on the lookout for tickets. There were a few familiar Chelsea faces in the hotel bar area, mixed in with a smattering of home fans. It dawned on me that the current West Brom shirt is a classic. Simple and effective. The designers at Adidas should take note. I had a brief word with Big John – “a lot of Chelsea fans are wailing like spoilt brats at the moment” – and we then retired to a low sofa and finished off some pints of Becks Vier, some savoury nuts and some salt and vinegar crisps. The sun was slowly breaking through and a gaggle of Chelsea were perched on a grassy bank just outside the hotel.

Our season was over, our team are rubbish? Try telling that to the three thousand who had loyally driven up to sample the delights of West Bromwich.

A Chelsea game? We’ll be there.

For the West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea game in March 2006– the first Chelsea game since the passing of Peter Osgood – there was a pre-planned meet at this hotel and there were hundreds of Chelsea there. At the game, we all held up photographs of the iconic Peter Osgood header versus Leeds United and there was a beautifully respected minute silence before the game for Peter Osgood and also a young West Brom fan that had recently been killed in a car accident. During the game, referee Mark Halsey sent off our flying Dutchman Arjen Robben. Back in the hotel bar after the game, we spotted Halsey walking through a room of Chelsea fans (he had obviously stayed there the night before) and we roundly booed him. Although he had a smile on his face, he flicked a “V” at us and said “F Off!”

Not the behaviour we expected to be honest. Alan and I always think Halsey has had it in for us since that day!

I seem to remember Ron Harris saying that Chelsea used to stay at this hotel back in the ‘seventies when playing at venues in that West Midlands area.

On the 15 minute walk to the stadium, we passed a cricket game in progress and then a little group of teenagers sharing a jumbo spliff. A few vans were selling hot dogs, burgers, steak sandwiches and bags of pork scratchings. At the stadium, we turned right past the main stand and we were soon in the Chelsea area.

This was my sixth visit to The Hawthorns with Chelsea. I had a lovely seat, a third of the way back, just behind the goal. The stadium has changed over the years, but has kept the same cosy feel. It’s odd that the club has decided to “do an Ibrox” and enclose the corners with unsightly grey steel, but I guess they have attempted to keep the noise in. A throstle – the club symbol – is perched in the north-east corner against all that steel. It was almost camouflaged.

The West Brom fans, sharing that south end…the Smethwick End…were in full voice and I was impressed with a couple of new songs in their repertoire, including a club song which was based on the famous “The Lord Is My Shepherd” hymn. I couldn’t decipher all the lyrics, but I heard

“The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want.
He makes me down to lie.
In pastures green; he leadeth me.
The quiet waters by.”

Maybe I have heard this before, but I certainly can’t remember it. After a few shouts of the surely surreal “Hodgson’s Barmy Army”, they asked us the age old question “WWYWYWS?” and I turned towards them and pointed “here.”

I then mentioned to Gal, stood alongside me, a game in January 1986 when a crowd of only 10,300 saw Chelsea (in all red) defeat West Bromwich Albion in a top flight game. I well remember us leaving the ground that day – we had seats in the old Rainbow Stand – singing “We’re Gonna Win It All!” and actually believing it…we were in contention in all of the three major trophies and the team was playing some super football, with Dixon, Speedie and Nevin at their zenith. A week later, Kerry was injured against Liverpool in an F.A. Cup tie that we lost and we were soon defeated by QPR in the League Cup too. I always class that game at The Hawthorns as the high water mark of that iconic 1983 to 1986 Chelsea team.

So, West Brom…where were you in January 1986?

The Chelsea team began rather sluggishly despite buoyant support from the travelling hordes. In my mind, we were back playing a 4-3-3 with Florent Malouda upfront with Drogba and Kalou. I really wasn’t sure, though. A Malouda effort whistled wide after just two minutes, but West Brom then enjoyed a period which caused us harm. Our midfield trio were giving up too much space and West Brom broke and Morrison prompted Mulumbu to hit over.

On 16 minutes, our worst fears were realised. A fine move from the home team and the ball was played in to their player of the moment Odemwingie. Our defence was caught rather flat-footed and Odemwingie sublimely chipped an advancing Cech. With that, the home fans to my left were bouncing like fools and the stadium was rocking.

“Oh God – here we go again.”

Not to worry. Our midfield got more involved and we were soon asking questions. On 21 minutes, a lovely ball from Ashley Cole was played inside the full-back and Florent Malouda crossed into the danger area. A scramble in the West Brom defence and the ball broke to Drogba who crashed the ball in.

Soon after, Drogba made a trademark run from deep, fending off Baggy challenges, and shot from distance. Carson could only parry the shot into the path of the much-maligned Kalou who expertly despatched the rebound into the far corner. It really was a fine finish. Gal, to my left, had been giving Kalou a predictably tough time and, amid bouncing, I just gave him a big old hug. With this, 3,000 home fans to my left sat down.

A Frank Lampard free-kick was whipped in with pace and swerve, but Carson reacted well and palmed the shot over. We were now rampant and our support was rocking. Just before half-time, Frank broke and calmly despatched the ball into the goal just inside the left-post. Straight after, the more buoyant support towards the rear of the stand began a lovely, self-deprecating chant and we all soon joined in:

“And now you’re gonna believe us, and now you’re gonna believe us, and now you’re gonna believe us, we’re gonna win F-All.”

Proper Chelsea.

We were buoyant at the break and fully expected more goals and even…whisper it…one from “you-know-who.” I briefly met a clearly jet-lagged Beth during the interval.

As the game restarted, the away fans baited the home club with a song in honour of the much-loved and respected hero of our 1997 and 2000 F.A. Cup triumphs –

“One Di Matteo, there’s only one Di Matteo – one Di Matteo!”

Two quick offsides soon into the second-half set the tone. A Drogba lob from way out was just over. I lost count of the number of times that we broke at will down that left flank. The interplay between Malouda and Cole was excellent and, again, I had to admire the unharnessed energy of The World’s Best Left-Back.

To be honest, the second-half was a blur. It was all Chelsea. Prompted by an excellent Mikel and Essien, plus a rejuvenated Lampard, we broke at will and had numerous chances to further our 3-1 lead. We were guilty of over-elaboration at times and I bellowed “come on – we’re not Arsenal.” A deflected Kalou shot, after a fine dribble and shimmy inside the box, was deflected up onto the bar.

Torres was warming up and we yelled for his introduction. Instead, Carlo reverted to type and the first substitution was very safe; Bosingwa for Ivanovic. Come on Carlo, get Torres on…give him a run. I still have faith in the manager but he does himself no favours at times. Two stooping Kalou headers went wide. Chance after chance. Tons of possession.

At The Hawthorns, there is a large bakery opposite the north stand (the company I work for once did the transport for them and I parked on their site at a game in 2003). Throughout the second half, they must have been baking a massive batch of hot-cross buns, because there was a sweet aroma of dough, orange peel and cinnamon which wafted around the stadium. It was quite lovely, in fact. It sure beat the usual aromas associated with football matches…’orse**** and ‘amburgers.

Yossi was introduced for Frank Lampard and we presumed that Torres wouldn’t be far behind. The Torres chants continued. It was plain for all to see that we are still with him.

At last, but with just eight minutes remaining, Carlo brought on Torres for the excellent Drogba.

What followed was car crash football, with the home fans mocking Torres’ price tag, and two or three moments of pure anguish.

On 88 minutes, a lovely ball in to Torres on the edge of the box. A sidestep past Carson and the Spaniard slotted the ball in.

Oh boy – at last – the draught is over – let’s celebrate!

No! A linesman’s flag and offside. I had lost count of the number of offsides during that second-half and this was the killer. What bad luck.

Torres then slipped – or was he fouled? – in the box and the West Brom fans howled.

Then, a free-kick and John Terry had a close chat with Torres. I kept my photo focussed on Torres as he spun away from his marker. Oh, how I wanted to capture his first Chelsea goal on film. The ball was played to the edge of the box. I snapped just as Torres kicked and missed – a football air shot – and the entire Chelsea support groaned.

The groan could be heard in Pakistan, Australia, Kenya and the USA.

At the other end, West Brom had a couple of late chances, but they had been totally overrun. A cross was met with a header which Cech easily saved. The last Chelsea attempt on goal was from an unlikely source. John Terry juggled the ball and unleashed a great volley which Carson did well to save. One of these days, JT will score a blinder.

I just can’t believe we didn’t score any goals in that rampant second-half.

The players came over to thank us for our support. JT took off his lime green shirt and, despite the protestations of an overzealous steward, gave it to a fan at the front. I slowly made my way out. As I waited for Parky to emerge, I chatted to a few mates. Parky, full of smiles, said that David Luiz had given his shirt to one of our disabled fans and the fan was overcome with joy.

On the walk back to the hotel, we devoured a bag of pork scratchings and apple sauce.

Such decadence.

We watched the first-half of the Mancunian semi-final in the hotel bar, but then headed south. We avoided the radio – if we listened, we would jinx it. Instead, we listened to The Style Council, Sex Pistols and Soft Cell. The cloudy skies over Worcestershire soon brightened up as I drove past Tewkesbury, Cheltenham and Gloucester. The Malvern Hills to my west were simply stunning.

I had packed a couple of bottles of Peroni as a mark of celebration for Parky’s 50th anniversary. As I drove, he drank. A familiar scenario.

The F.A. Cup semi-final result was not known to us until I got back to Parky’s village at about 8pm.

It was the end to a perfect Chelsea Saturday.

Tales From The Only Team In London

Posted on July 25, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 3 October 2010.

This was another manic whirl-wind of a match day at Stamford Bridge – a frantic twelve hours overflowing with travel, chat, laughter, friends and football.

It was a wet and windy Sunday morning and there was considerable “debris” on the road into Frome, following a rough old Saturday night, with small branches and leaves littering the roads. The leaves have started to turn colour over the past week and this felt like a proper autumn day. I collected Glenn and his first words were –

“Yep, it’s a day for the big jackets.”

We picked up Lord Parky and we headed east on the M4, the spray on the motorway making driving a little tiresome. The pre-match vibes were good. We didn’t exactly dismiss Arsenal’s threat out of hand, but we all agreed that we had enough in our collective locker to win the day’s game. Two words alone would strike fear into the Arsenal psyche –

Didier Drogba

It was a very busy pre-match. After a quick breakfast, we left Parky to head into The Goose when it opened at midday, but Glenn and myself hot-footed it down to The Bridge where the clans were gathering. As I turned the corner and headed towards the West Stand, I was able to spot the Peter Osgood statue for the first time. It certainly dominates the West Stand forecourt and quite right too. The statue stands centrally, beneath the club crest, looking out. Initially I thought the body was spot-on, but the face wasn’t that great. However, as I looked at it later, I realised that it was a pretty reasonable likeness. The most important person to judge is The King’s widow Lynn and her praise has been well documented. That’s good enough for me. We met Jules and Steve outside the West Stand, cowering from the rain, then four NYBs soon appeared in the mist – Mike, Stan, Pat and Linda. We then collected the brothers John and George and headed up to spend thirty minutes or so in the Copthorne Hotel. “Kent Blues Gill” was there too…handshakes all round. I acted as cameraman as several group photos were taken of everyone with Ron Harris, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling. Most of “the guests” got to speak with the three Chelsea legends, if only for a few seconds. John especially was bowled over by being able to chat to these former players. A slight glitch with a ticket for John was eventually sorted via a few transatlantic phone calls and all was good.

However, one sight in the hotel bar made me see red ( and blue. )

Two numpties were stood across the way, each wearing Chelsea leisurewear, but with Chelsea / Arsenal friendship scarves tied around their necks. I am not a violent person ( and for those of a delicate disposition, please look away now ), but I was sorely tempted to march over and bang their two heads together, causing severe and lasting pain to them both for the rest of their sad lives.

Instead, I glowered at them as I descended the elevator.

We all heard The Goose calling. I popped back to take a few snaps of the Peter Osgood statue and John and George took photos by the new Chelsea Collage on the perimeter wall. By the time we reached the pub, the place was unsurprisingly rammed, but still offering the best value for pre-match tipples at Chelsea for miles around. I spent my time flitting between the bar, The Bing in the pub and the US guests in the beer garden. The Bing were awash with the usual assortment of Henri Lloyd, Lacoste, CP, North Face, Barbour and the like and I noted that we had all made a “special effort” for Arsenal. The City vs. Newcastle game was on TV, but I gave it a wide berth. In the far corner of the beer garden, we were discussing the rivalry between the Red Sox and the Yankees ( friendship scarves anyone? ), the Ossie statue, the phenomenon of UK-based JCLs, the predilection of Americans to annoyingly quote complete passages of “Monty Python”, John and George’s overuse of the word “Dude”, a host of various Chelsea games from the past and – for a brief moment – Shakespeare.

“Two nil or not two-nil, that is the question.”

All of the NY guests were over for just this one game – a fine effort! Linda’s one previous game at The Bridge was the Wigan 8-0 game last May. I probably said something like “you lucky so-and-so.” Glenn and myself spoke about or friendship which goes back to 1977 and John was lapping up our stories from the past. Parky and his Famous Crutches appeared on the scene and I feared for the two girls who were in our little group. He didn’t disappoint –

“I’m Parky – kiss, kiss.”

As we left, I realised that the rain had stopped and the sun was trying hard to break through. I walked down to the ground with Daryl and we spoke about Bobby Tambling, who scored some 52 more goals than Ossie, but is not well known outside the Chelsea support. He was a fine player in his own right. But it just goes to show how highly Peter Osgood was regarded by us all that Ossie was “the star of that great team,” as the song goes, by quite some margin.

There were a couple of articles about Peter Osgood’s involvement in Chelsea vs. Arsenal games in the match programme, but the game I always remember was the 1973 F.A. Cup quarter-final between the two teams. This is the very first game that I can remember being excited about before it took place. I was seven…my friend Andy Cox ( who I bumped into last week, the first time since about 1992 ) was an Arsenal fan and I was Chelsea. Not sure about the quantity nor quality of the banter in the week before, but I can remember that Arsenal went 1-0 and 2-1 up, only for Hollins ( I think ) and Peter Osgood to equalise. It ended 2-2 and I well remember watching the highlights on TV that evening. Then, on the following Wednesday, I can remember being allowed to stay up to watch the BBC News at 9pm to see brief glimpses of the replay at Highbury. We lost 2-1 and I was heartbroken. But Ossie had the last laugh. On Cup Final day ( when Sunderland beat Leeds United 1-0 ), I can vividly remember that Peter Osgood’s volley at The Bridge was voted “Goal Of The Season.” And there he was – my hero – standing in the TV studio amidst a massive pile of envelopes and postcards with the correct answer and it was Ossie’s job to pick a winner.

I got to hear my hero speak – this was all too much!

We love you Ossie.

There was the usual scrum to get in to the Matthew Harding, but I reached my seat just as the teams came onto the well-watered pitch. Alan and myself quickly scrambled down to the front of the upper tier and held by hand-made Peter Osgood banner aloft for a minute or two. I was hoping that Sky might spot it, but I think it went unnoticed. The US guests were huddled together in the Shed Lower, by the SW corner flag and Mike soon texted me to say he had snapped the banner as it was held aloft.

We weren’t sure if Zhirkov or Ramires would complete the midfield, but Carlo Ancelotti chose the latter. I noted just two Arsenal flags – pathetic.

Within thirty seconds, a Chamakh header flew at Cech’s goal and, from the resultant corner, another header was put over the bar. This seemed to set the tone for the early exchanges. Arsenal – as they do – moved the ball around at will and we seemed to be content to give them space. An Arshavin screamer was saved by Cech, at full stretch, but Arsenal were generally reluctant to shoot. A Nasri shot went narrowly wide, but Cech was largely untroubled.

Didier bore down on the Arsenal goal in the inside-right channel on 34 minutes, but could only force a save at the near post. However, we were getting in to the game and five minutes later, Ramires won a tackle, then slid in Ashley Cole with a perfect pass behind the full back. In front of the Arsenal support, Ashley slid a ball in. Didier arrived and I’ll be honest – I didn’t know how he did it, but I soon saw the ball nestling inside the far post.

We erupted – and I immediately thought of our trans-Atlantic guests being able to see the players celebrate right down in the SW corner.

With the news that Blackpool had won at fellow relegation strugglers Liverpool, the place was buoyant at the break. Lynn and Darren Osgood came on to the pitch to a warm reception and then Neil Barnett walked Erland “Moon Man” Johnsen around the pitch to an equally fine show of affection.

It was more of the same in the second period. Lots of Arsenal possession and mounting nervousness all around me. Arsenal were again goal-shy though and it was Chelsea who managed to carve out the more clear cut chances. Ramires was growing with each passing minute, but Mikel and Essien were the real stars in my eyes. The destructor Mikel, so strong and determined and looking more and more settled in our midfield. The rampaging Essien, no tackle too hard, no challenge too tough, no foraging run too difficult. Ramires set Didier Drogba off with the ball of the game, a delightfully paced pass using the outside of his foot, curving beautifully into Drogba’s run on the left.

Anelka sensed frailty in the centre of the Arsenal defence and pestered the defender into losing the ball. He calmly approached Fabianski, rounded him but then inexplicably hit the side netting. Anelka then lofted the ball into the path of Cole, but his shot into the net was ruled offside. It looked level in our eyes, but maybe we are biased. Chamakh had another clear header, but headed over.

Then, a free kick about thirty yards out. Drogba had taken a few free-kicks during the game, to no avail. The crowd were again bellowing for Alex. I pulled my camera up to my eyes and focussed on the ball. I widened the lens a little to spot Alex’ advance and waited.

A blur of blue – snap! – and I pulled the camera away from my eyes.

The ball flew.

It was a bludgeoning hammer, a swerving thunderbolt, a screaming torpedo. I gasped at its ferocity and, as the back of the net bulged, Stamford Bridge roared like hardly ever before.

A roar from me too, then I honed in on Alex on his run towards the West Lower.

Snap, snap, snap, snap. The look on John Terry’s face as he jumped on top of the huddle of players was really fantastic…one of absolute pleasure. I looked up and the Arsenal fans were leaving and it was another beautiful sight. The Chelsea fans, I felt, had been too nervous to fully get behind the team in the way I would have liked, but we soon made up for it. With the Arsenal support speeding for the exits we bellowed –

“One Team In London, There’s Only One Team In London – One Team In London, There’s Only One Team In London.”

I’m sure you all heard us.

We even had time for a few more good goalscoring chances in the dieing embers of the game, but 2-0 would be enough. What a fantastic result.

As we drifted past the Peter Osgood statue, the fans serenaded him once more and a Chelsea tradition was surely borne there and then. After every game – win, lose or draw – let’s do the same.

We sat in traffic for ages and ages, listening to the moaning Gooners on “606” – but we could almost share their frustration. They do play some good stuff, up until the penalty box, but they desperately need a 25-goal per season striker. They miss Thierry Henry and the current team is a pale shadow of the 2003-2004 team. Why Wenger doesn’t spend is a real mystery and I can sense that the Arsenal fans are losing their patience. The three of us, maybe typically underestimating our performance, had recognised Arsenal’s superior possession and were pleasantly surprised by the radio commentator’s praise of both our strength and Arsenal’s weaknesses.

Parky made a comment that we had “chiselled out a win” and I think this was a fine summation. We had defended deep, content with our defensive abilities – JT’s positioning was superb all game – and were far more direct when we attacked. With that, Parky slumped and fell asleep, his exertions taking its toll. Glenn soon joined him, leaving me to steer the ship home.

Tales From A Wet And Windy London Town

Posted on July 21, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 1 November 2008.

So – Game Number 701.

The weather was pretty miserable on the drive up from Frome…or “Dodge” ( as in Dodge City ) as a few people now call it…a bit of a Wild West town, we like to think.

It’s the usual drive up to London – through the rugby heartland of SW London, past Twickenham ( England play there ) and the home grounds of Harlequins and London Scottish. As we approach Chelsea, we drive past Queens Club, home of the pre-Wimbledon tennis tournament. We drive along Lillee Road, too – one of the original sites of the F.A.Cup final, way back in the nineteenth century.

I had arranged to rendezvous at the Chelsea Hotel with Bob from Fremont, CA and Jamie from Richmond, VA. We arrived at 11.30am – and I soon spotted Bob outside the Megastore. I had arranged a little treat for Bob and Jamie – Ron Harris used to live near us in the West Country and we got to know him over the last 14 years. I had spoken to him on Tuesday and he was happy to meet them in the hotel bar area. Bob was “in” on this, but Jamie ( this was her first ever Chelsea game ) wasn’t. I waived to Jamie for her to come upstairs to join us.

A “proper” Chelsea welcome!

Glenn and myself chatted to Ron, catching up on a few things, and Bob and Jamie were photographed with Ron. As luck would have it, Bob was able to purchase a Ron Harris testimonial programme from one of the stalls on the Fulham Road – which was duly signed. Ron signed Jamie’s match programme. With these formalities finished, Glenn disappeared off to The Goose, while I popped into the lovely Fox & Pheasant pub, just over the railway bridge. I usually take visitors on a circumnavigation of the ground, pointing out various things, but as the weather was so poor, we headed inside. I did have time to point over to The Butcher’s Hook pub, opposite the main gates, where our club was formed in 1905.

I was kinda falling over myself with “Chelsea Facts” – trying to make Jamie, especially, feel at home. Maybe I should think about pre-printed fact sheets to hand out!

Then the long march down the Fulham Road to Fulham Broadway, then up the North End Road to The Goose. It was packed, everyone squashed together, chatting and drinking. There really is no better place to be. I rentroduced Bob to the members of the Bada Bing Firm, as we humourously ( ? ) call ourselves…Bob had met all of the boys before the ill-fated Carling Cup Final last season. Jamie stayed for one drink, but – not surprisingly – wanted to get inside the ground nice and early. I will be seeing Jamie again at Blackburn and so will be able to bombard her with more Chelsea trivia then!

Bob had been present at the Paul Canoville book signing on Friday and very kindly bought me a signed book. I was well-pleased! I am relishing reading this book – it was shortlisted for the Sports Book Of The Year, but I heard it missed out on the final six. A shame.

Anyway, needless to say that there was the usual barrage of blokey, jokey banter during the two hours ” pre-match.” Bob secured a ticket for the game in Rome on Tuesday – he is travelling out ahead of Alan, Gary and myself, but we are all staying in the same hotel.

Alas, it was soon time to leave the warm confines of the pub. We did up our coats and battled against the elements as we re-traced our steps back towards the ground. I bought Bob the latest copy of CFCUK – an article by Clint Steele struck a chord with me…he requested that we petition the club for a different Chelsea pensioner to lead the team out each week. A fine idea.

As Bob and myself went our seperate ways – “see you in Rome” – he commented that it seemed almost wrong for people to be allowed to have this much fun. I knew exactly what he meant.

I guess you all saw the game. We overpowered Sunderland and completely dominated. Has there ever been a game in which all five Chelsea goals came from virtually inside the six yard box? I have to say, though, after watching the highlights on TV, we did ride our luck…the second goal was offside.

The Shed definitely won the singing – the Matthew Harding seemed quite subdued. I noted a fantastic new banner draped over the Shed balcony…an image of Peter Osgood with the simple message…

“BORN IS THE KING.”

Classy and a lovely tribute.

From a personal perspective, and Alan agreed with me, this game ( once we were 3-0 up ), this seemed like an appetiser ( an anti-pasto ) for the mammoth game in Rome.

Good to see Drogba return.

I took a series of photographs of Frank celebrating his 100th league goal right in front of us. Keep a look out for those on my Facebook page.

Bob texted me ‘training session” and I knew exactly what he meant.

We had heard that the Goons had lost at Stoke – STOKE! As Karen battled against the driving rain on the drive home, Glenn and myself fell asleep in the back seat. I was awoken by the commotion of a Spurs equaliser against Liverpool…only to be bettered by the late winner. Good old Tottenham!

I texted everyone –

“CHELSEA – TOPOTHELEAGUE.”

A lovely result – our goal difference is now superb – and I’m off to Rome on Monday morning.

Life is good. Life is very good.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Peter Osgood

Tales From St. Mary’s

Tales From My Football Timeline

Tales From The Garden Of Eden

Tales From The Black And The Blue

Tales From The Rainbow Stand In 1986 And The Smethwick End In 2012

Tales From Pastures Green

Tales From The Only Team In London

Tales From A Wet And Windy London Town