Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 September 2022.
Due to the timings of games and thus match reports this season, my personal recollection of 1982/83 in this edition encompasses two consecutive home games at Stamford Bridge.
On the evening of Tuesday 31 August 1982, Chelsea played Wolverhampton Wanderers at Stamford Bridge. After winning the Football League Cup in 1980 against the then European Champions Nottingham Forest, Wolves suffered relegation just two years later. They dropped down into the Second Division alongside Leeds United and Middlesbrough. I suppose that they must have been one of the favourites for promotion that season. Our team was the same one that had played at Cambridge United on the Saturday. The game finished 0-0. The gate of 14,192 was a pretty decent one considering our predicament at the time. In the previous season we had averaged 13,133.
Next up was a match with Leicester City on Saturday 4 September. I was seventeen and just back at school. I was now in the Upper Sixth, with a worrying year ahead with A Levels in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing on some hideous distant horizon. It was a horrible time. At Frome College, everywhere I looked I saw Julie’s face but she was now living in a little village to the east of Reading. At the time, Reading seemed like being a thousand miles away. A few years ago, I had a little sigh to myself when I heard that a mate’s schoolgirl daughter was seeing a boy in Reading. Distances seem to be squashed these days. It didn’t really help matters that the Westbury to London Paddington line took me to within half a mile of Julie’s house on that trip up to see Chelsea play Leicester. As the train whizzed past Charvil, I peered out of the window with a lump in my throat and a pain in my heart.
In those days, my school mates rarely went to football, proper football. My pal Steve often used to go to see his Bristol City play on their nosedive through the divisions. He also watched many Frome Town games. Steve would have been with me at the Wellington game the previous Saturday, just as he is alongside me at Frome games forty years later. He is currently the club’s official historian. Another mate, Francis, saw his Liverpool team at Ashton Gate in 1980. Another mate, Kev, went to see his Tottenham team around 1980 too, but that was it. I was one of a very few who used to go to league football. The Leicester City game would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea match. I didn’t have a part-time job in those distant days. I just saved my pennies to watch my team. Chelsea was my life.
Living over a hundred miles away, I could only afford a few games each season. From 1981/82, I started going up alone by train. The independence that I gained on those trips to London put me in good stead for further travelling adventures in the future. But in 1981/82 and 1982/83, I became closer to the club by subscribing to the club programme. I loved the small programmes of that era, nicely designed, they had a stylish look about them I thought. I used to love the arrival of the postman in those days. I have no idea why I stopped in 1983/84 when the programme became larger but lost a little of its style in my opinion.
My father would have dropped me at Westbury train station to catch an 8am train to The Smoke. It would arrive in Paddington at about 9.45am from memory. In those days, with no spare money and plenty of time to kill I usually walked over to Hyde Park and sat beside The Serpentine on a park bench – it became a superstition in 1981/82 – and I probably did the same on this occasion. Then a walk to Lancaster Gate tube and the journey down to Stamford Bridge. In those days, I knew nobody at Stamford Bridge, not a soul. Before the game, I bought the newly published “The Chelsea Story” by John Moynihan with money that my mother had given me. The book cost £5.95, a costly sum in those days. I watched the game in The Shed, my usual place towards the tea bar, but under the roof.
I am not honestly sure if I bought a programme on the day of the game. It cost 50p. I have a feeling I would have waited until I received one through the post.
Times were hard.
On viewing that same programme forty years later, I am reminded of the perilous financial predicament that we were in. Although Ken Bates had bought the club for “only a pound” in the Spring of 1982, we were still struggling to balance the books. On the rear cover of the programme, in a space reserved for sponsors, there is a stark message against a black, and blank, page :
“We’re known by the company we keep, we’d welcome your company on this full colour back page. For full details please contact the Club’s Marketing Department.”
It’s hard to believe I support the same club in 2022 where every square inch of the club’s body and soul is sold for profit.
The team was almost unchanged again, but with debutante Tony McAndrew replacing Clive Walker, although not by position. The game ended 1-1 with Micky Droy scoring for us in the fiftieth minute and then Gary Lineker equalising in the last five minutes. The gate was another respectable one of 14,127.
The old joke about the crowd changes being announced to the players at Stamford Bridge did appear in this case to be spot on.
I have one distinct memory from the game. I looked over to the Whitewall and the Middle and thought this :
“We may be in the Second Division with a slim chance of getting promotion, and this ground might look a third full but still around 15,000 supporters have gone out of their way to come and support the team today. There is something rather noble about that. It feels right that I am there.”
On the way back, I devoured the new book. I loved the introduction by athlete Seb Coe.
“Following the club could be as frustrating as chasing spilt mercury across a laboratory table.”
I was a quiet and world-shy teenager, but I remember a smile from within and me nodding in agreement, as if I was a footballing sage.
My diary for the day reports “probably one of the most boring games I have seen – a shame really after spending all that money.” There was talk of a party when I returned to Somerset although I am not sure where this was. My diary continues “enjoyed it, only slightly drunk, but soon sobered up.” It is probable that my father would have picked me up at the end of the night.
So there we have it. My twenty-fourth Chelsea game. My twenty-fourth Chelsea day. My Dad at the start of it. My Dad at the end of it. How I miss those times.
Forty Years Later.
The build-up to this game was way different. There was a drive to London with friends, a quick visit to Stamford Bridge to take some early scene-setting photographs, a spot of breakfast in the café and then my usual seat in the pub.
Outside Fulham Broadway, DJ had thrust a copy of “CFCUK” into my hands and I read a little of it in the café. While I waited for my food, I couldn’t help but notice the characters already sitting at tables. There was one loud voice, an American with the voice of a woman, sharing his thoughts a few tables away. Two English chaps close to me were deep in conversation and one appeared to be re-writing a script or manuscript of some description in between bites of a bacon sandwich. A group of younger folk were behind me, gregarious and chatty. The café owner, foreign by birth, my guess was Italian, bellowed orders and chivied his staff as if he was the conductor in an orchestra.
I devoured a piece in “CFCUK” by Walter Otton who wrote about his experiences of the Tottenham game which he watched in a pub after a tortuous day spent walking for miles and miles in the hinterlands of suburbia with friends. He detailed the people he observed while waiting for a train at Worcester Park, a station that I know well after parking at a mate’s near there for football between 1991 and 1993. I loved these words :
“To my right, I study a haunted young man with high cheekbones as he stares directly at his feet. He’s got the regretful face of man who last night had a vacancy sign up, but then he went and let the wrong person in.”
I messaged Walts to say how much I loved this. I had seen him briefly after the debacle at St. Mary’s on Tuesday.
I spent two-and-a-half hours in the cosy “Eight Bells” and I was surprised how quiet it all was at 11.30am. It took an hour to fully reach respectable figures. The Norwegians called in again, this time with an extra fan from Bergen, the wonderfully nicknamed Einstein. The Kent lads were close by, as were three young lads from Ilminster in Somerset who we had not seen before, but were dead chatty about the current malaise in the team. Steve from Salisbury appeared alongside Simon from Andover, another new face.
Andy and Sophie arrived and I spent some quality time at their table.
Andy and I raised a glass to “Ginger Terry.”
With a great deal of sadness, I learned on Thursday that Terry O’Callaghan had passed away that day. He was a lovely man, softly spoken, a true gent and was well-loved by those at Chelsea who knew him. I would bump into him at all sorts of odd, and far-flung, locations. He always stopped to say hello. Ironically, I first met Terry on a coach from Gothenberg in Sweden to Oslo in Norway alongside Andy for our match against Valerenga in 1999.
During the summer, I was shocked to hear of the passing of another of life’s good guys. I first met Henry Hughes Davies out in New York on a trip to see the New York Mets play a baseball game alongside around ten other Chelsea supporters. Unfortunately the game was rained-off but I remember how pleasant he was on that occasion and during the two or three other times I met him in “The Goose” with other US-based Chelsea fans. From London, Henry was killed in a road accident out in South-East Asia and it hit me hard.
I also, sadly, need to mention the passing of Depeche Mode member and life-long Chelsea supporter Andy Fletcher. During the summer, I attended a lecture by Chelsea Communications Director Steve Atkins at his former school in Warminster – he came across well – but the night was soured when, immediately after, I heard that “Fletch” had suffered a heart-attack and had passed away at the age of just sixty.
The music of Depeche Mode first thrilled me in 1982 – that year again – and has been a constant companion to me over the years. I have seen the band in 1993, 2001, 2006 and 2017.
Andy, Sophie and I had a very enlightening “state of the nation” chat about Chelsea Football Club and other clubs.
How sometimes it can be a bit hard to get “up” for some games for example.
“I woke with the alarm at 5.45am this morning. I know exactly what you mean.”
How we have 22 million followers on Twitter yet we were outnumbered by Arsenal in Baku in 2019.
“They, Arsenal, are still the biggest club in London.”
How we only sold six-hundred for Dinamo Zagreb.
“Too early for me, for sure.”
How we might struggle to pack in 60,000 at a refurbished Stamford Bridge in light of Tottenham playing to capacity crowds at their new stadium.
“Saw some Tottenham at Fleet Services and also some at Putney Bridge tube, no doubt on their way to the Fulham game. Admittedly, there is the “wow” factor of a superb new stadium but their crowds have been constantly full-houses. They have a huge support in the home counties.”
How the pricing structure at West Ham is paying dividends.
“After a dodgy first season, they seem to have got it right. Full houses now, eh?”
How some Chelsea fans want Thomas Tuchel gone.
“But come on. We have only played five bloody games.”
How Sophie was looking for a spare for Crystal Palace in a few weeks.
“Might have one. Will let you know.”
We marched off to the tube station together and I spotted ex-England cricketer Alex Stewart chatting at Fulham Broadway.
I was inside with around fifteen minutes to go.
It was time to focus on the team.
Alas, a fleeting look at Billy Gilmour pre-match at Southampton on Tuesday would be the last that I would see of him in Chelsea colours. His permanent move to Brighton disappointed me. But at least this sad news was tempered by the fact that Armando Broja had signed a new multi-year deal. But, to our annoyance, Thomas Tuchel still went with the “after you Claude” false nine with Broja on the bench. A debut for Wesley Fofana in defence. We had all tried to remember if he had played against us in the 2021 FA Cup Final. I hoped for a more successful career for Wesley Fofana than Tony McAndrew. Mason Mount and Kai Havertz were both dropped and I was OK with that. It was generally accepted that in Southampton they were sinners, no saints.
No Jorginho, either.
A brave Tuchel?
Here we were :
Fofana – Silva – Koulibaly
James – Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Gallagher – Cucarella
Sterling – Pulisic
I had to laugh when Clive appeared in a claret-colured Stone Roses T-Shirt. Both PD and I were wearing light blue T-Shirts; Paul, Lambretta, me, Paul & Shark.
“Bloody West Ham.”
I thought back to a photo that I had taken in the hotel bar looking out onto the forecourt earlier in the day. The plastic flowers on show there were shades of purple in light blue vases.
Good job, I’m not superstitious, cough, cough.
West Ham kicked off and a high ball was pumped forward. After four seconds, the new boy Fofana had his first touch as a Chelsea player, a strong header putting the ball back whence it came.
Alan : “I hope Fofana is more Kante than Drinkwater.”
Clive : “Drinkwater had one good season for Leicester.”
Chris : “I had one good season. Summer 1982.”
It wasn’t much of a first-half. And the atmosphere was very poor for a London derby.
How about the lowlight first?
Marc Cucarella failed to beat the first man on two early corners down in Parkyville.
“Bloody shite, should be fined for that. No excuses.”
Despite our almost total domination of possession – it was absolutely all us in the first fifteen minutes – West Ham packed their defence solid and we soon seemed to look flat.
There was a shimmying run from Raheem Sterling into the box but the resulting corner was a Cucarella special.
Reece James out on the right fizzed a low ball into the danger area, pinball ensued, but Christian Pulisic’ effort was blocked for another corner.
Finally, we were treated to a flowing move with passes hitting runners into space.
Then, a low shot from Mateo Kovacic but he drove the ball just wide.
It wasn’t as bad as Southampton, but it was all pretty dire stuff.
I suspect that the first-half against Leicester City in 1982 was no better.
At the half-time break, the three of us posed in our claret and blue shirts, the shame.
For the record, during the first-half Kurt Zouma was neither clapped nor booed. It was if he had never played for us.
The second-half begun with a still woeful atmosphere in the stadium. I was surprised how quiet the three thousand West Ham fans were. I wasn’t surprised how quiet we were.
There was a clash between James and Michail Antonio; both booked. This stirred some emotions within the stadium.
At last, the atmosphere improved and it felt like a proper game of football rather than some computer-generated monstrosity.
There was a very loud and piercing “Amazing Grace” :
“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea.”
Exactly on the hour, Tuchel changed it around.
Armando Broja for Gallagher.
Mason Mount for Pulisic.
At the Shed End, a corner to West Ham.
Chris : “You know what’s coming.”
It was hoofed away by Reece James.
A second corner was fisted high and away by Mendy. The ball was then volleyed back at goal by Jarrod Bowen. This effort from distance was nervously palmed away by Mendy again. This was the first real scare for us, but also the only meaningful shot on target for either side. However, from the corner that followed, there was an almighty scramble with Mendy not exactly covering himself in glory. His jump and save from under the bar only kept the ball alive. The ball landed at the feet of a West Ham player who prodded the ball back into the six-yard box. That man Antonio slammed it in from close range.
Thomas Tuchel’s doubters were sharpening their pencils.
The new man Broja was soon sniffing inside the box, and I was purring with his intent. We now had a natural striker up front, a physical presence, a predator. Whereas Sterling was like an eel, slithering into space, Broja was shark-like, ready to snap at anything.
On seventy-two minutes, another double-switch.
Kai Havertz for Kovacic.
Chilwell for Cucarella.
The noise levels were ever-increasing now. We prayed for an equaliser.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
Havertz almost had an immediate impact, trying to reach a through-ball but Lucasz Fabianski foiled him with a brave challenge on the edge of the six-yard box.
Just after, a lofted chip from the cultured boot of Thiago Silva from deep found the on-rushing Chilwell down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. His head beat the rather stunted leap of two defenders and the ball dropped nicely for him to run onto. In the blink of an eye, he had touched the ball through the legs of a star-jumping Fabianski and I could hardly believe my eyes as the ball continued over the line.
GET IN YOU BASTARD.
Chilwell’s leap was perfect for me.
Snap, snap, snap.
He celebrated with Broja but I was impressed that nobody else joined in. There was business to be done. Top marks.
This was a real game now and the Chelsea hordes had now found their voices.
With four minutes to go, a huge scare and a massive “get out of jail card.”
Alan and I were actually mired in the middle of a pun fest.
Alan : “Surprised Cornet ain’t wearing number 99.”
Chris : “That’s a flaky comment.”
Alan : “Saucy.”
Chris : “You got hundreds and thousands of these, mate?”
With that, a cross from the West Ham left found the leap of that man Cornet but his free header hit the post.
The game continued.
Broja was up against Vladimir Coufal down below us. He teased and cajoled the West Ham defender before finding some space with some fine control. His pass to Chilwell on the overlap was perfect. The ball was drilled into a packed box. Havertz was waiting to pounce.
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1.
I caught the celebrations on film too. Havertz brought his finger up to his mouth, no doubt a reaction to some doubters among the Chelsea support. I found it a little odd, a little disrespectful.
Was he right to do so?
Answers on a postcard.
But, directly after, West Ham broke and I watched aghast. This all happened so quickly. Mendy rushed out, went down, the ball ran to Cornet. He lashed it home.
West Ham screamed :
“You’re not singing anymore.”
Back to 2-2, bloody hell.
But then, a delay, and it slowly became apparent that VAR was being summonsed. Yet again, the spectators in the stadium – no commentary for us of course, as if it needs to be stated – seemed to be the last to know what on Earth was happening.
The referee Andrew Madley eventually walked over to the pitch-side monitor. I didn’t like the way that he was being hounded by players of both teams.
After an age – but with each passing second, I felt more positive – he signalled “no goal.”
I was relieved but honestly did not feel like celebrating.
Bollocks to VAR.
Elsewhere, the Chelsea support was howling :
“YOU’RE NOT SINGING ANYMORE.”
We hung on.
This wasn’t a great game of football, but we kept going which is all you can ask for. The stupor of the first-half gave way to a far more entertaining spectacle in the second-half as we loosened the shackles and played, what I am going to term, a more emotional type of football.
There were relieved smiles at the end, but only at the end.
I am not going to Zagreb, but Alan is going. He is one of the six-hundred. As he wriggled past me, I said.
“Have a great time in Croatia. You’d best split.”
Immediately after the game, we received texts from others…
It looked like we got away with murder.
Next up for me, our home away from home.
Little old Fulham.
See you there.