Tales From A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Match

Chelsea vs. Ajax : 5 November 2019.

I was born in 1965. I was therefore alive when England won the World Cup in 1966, and even though I am well known for my memory, it would be impressive if I could recollect seeing that one. 1970 seemed to pass me by, and I have no recall of that tournament nor that final. The first one that I can fully remember seeing – and being part of, which is what it is all about – is the 1974 World Cup in West Germany. We were used to just one club football match per year on TV in those days – the FA Cup Final – and also the yearly England vs. Scotland match in The Home Internationals. But there was the odd international game too. I can certainly remember watching the England vs West Germany qualifier for the European Championships on 29 April 1972. I am positive that this is the first football match that I can ever remember seeing on TV. This narrowly beats the 1972 FA Cup Final between Leeds United and Arsenal on 6 May 1972.

The 1974 World Cup Finals – England failed to qualify after memorably, and infamously, drawing 1-1 with Poland on 17 October 1973, I remember seeing that one too – were shown on TV at reasonable viewing times and I loved every minute of it. It was a magnificent time. In those days, it seemed OK to want Scotland to do well. They were the United Kingdom’s only qualifiers. I remember that they were drawn against Brazil and The Netherlands in their group. Although I had heard of the Ajax team of around that time – European Champions in 1971, 1972 and 1973 – I had not been exposed to many of their actual games on TV. So, the World Cup in 1974 would open my eyes to Dutch football, and to the many Ajax players involved. A quick scan of the Dutch players who lost the 1974 final to West Germany brings back some rich memories.

Jan Joengblood – FC Amsterdam

Wim Suurbier – Ajax

Wim Rijsbergen – Feyenoord

Arie Haan – Ajax

Ruud Krol – Ajax

Wim Jansen – Feyenoord

Johan Neeskens – Ajax

Wim Van Hanegem – Feyenoord

Johnny Rep – Ajax

Rob Rensenbrink – Anderlecht

Johan Cruyff – Ajax

The venerated Ajax Amsterdam therefore provided six of the starting eleven, with their arch rivals Feyenoord three. I always thought it odd that the wonderful winger Rensenbrink plied his football in Belgium and it is only through research for this report that I found out that the ‘keeper Joengblood played for a lesser team.

But they were a magical team. The World was bowled over by them in 1974, and in my village school their players captivated us all. How ironic that there were six Ajax players, and four called Wim.

[Shit joke coming up. You know it’s coming.]

No wonder they wiped the floor with most teams.

And now, at long last, the famous Ajax were playing at Stamford Bridge for the very first time.

I could not wait.

On the drive to London in PD’s car I mentioned that I really hoped that they would show up in their famous red and white kit. Of all the sporting kits in the world, none can be more – and I am sorry for using an overworked word – iconic than that of Ajax. Back in the early ‘seventies it really captured my imagination.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at about 7.45pm ahead of the 8pm kick-off. There had been an emergency scare, with an ambulance, outside the West Stand and so I was asked to walk all of the way around Stamford Bridge and access the Matthew Harding from right behind the stand rather than the usual entrance on the corner of the West Stand. I was worried that the delay would make me late, but all was well. I walked under the illuminated Shed Wall, and past “the away entrance” to The Shed near the East Stand. Except there would be no away fans on this night. They had been banned, en masse,  from attending. We had even been warned, via email, that we needed to bring photo ID to the game to ensure that we were valid spectators. Quite how this might have affected my pals Mark, Paul and Mick who live in The Netherlands is not known.

Anyway, I was in.

The Shed was all Chelsea, save for a gap in the lower tier where around eight hundred seats that had originally been set aside for Ajax were left unused.

Kick-off was approaching.

The team was the same as against Watford, apart from Alonso for Emerson.

Arrizabalaga

Apilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Alonso

Jorginho – Mount – Kovacic

Pulisic – Abraham – Willian

Thankfully I spotted the famous red and white Ajax kit as the players emerged from the tunnel. I honestly felt cheated in 2009 when Juventus showed up in SW6 wearing a bronze shirt.

Over in The Shed, somewhere, was my friend Dennis and his wife Kazuko, who live in Virginia. They had met us for a few drinks in “The Goose” and had followed us down to “Simmons” where we treated them to a Chuckle Brothers pre-match. On the walk down the North End Road, the night fizzed with fireworks on Bonfire Night. I assured Dennis that this didn’t happen every night, nor was it a special Chuckle Brothers welcome for them both. I met Dennis on the 2015 US Tour and this was his first-ever visit to England, to London, to Stamford Bridge. Thankfully he didn’t follow Chelsea because of playing FIFA.  Top marks to Dennis who didn’t seem to have a problem, unlike some US visitors – no names, no pack drill – in understanding the concept of “rounds.”

My pre-match beers went down well, a rare treat these days.

Just before kick-off, I spoke to PD.

“Part two, mate.”

The game began, and how. I had just finished uploading one of my customary photographs on to Facebook –

“Ajax. In their classic kit. Priceless. Let’s go to work. Chelsea Football Club, 8.01pm, London.”

And then the bastards scored. After one poxy minute. Ajax had taken a free-kick down below me in The Sleepy Hollow. I had just slipped my ‘phone back in my pocket to see the ball crashing towards the net. As the Ajax players celebrated right below us, the stadium was eerily quiet. But it annoyed me that there was a little knot of around two-hundred Ajax fans in the corporate tier of the West Stand. It was a real metaphor for modern football. The normal rank and file were banned, but their Executive Club were allowed in. I can understand club officials being allowed in; directors, squad players, doctors. But not two-hundred of them. Shameful really.

Anyway, we had succumbed to a Tammy Abraham own goal, apparently.

Bollocks.

We’ll have to go at them now.

Thankfully, just a few minutes later, we worked the ball through to Christian Pulisic and he was clipped just inside the box (pictured) by Joel Veltman. It looked a sure penalty.

It was.

“Jorginho. Jorginho. Jorginho, Jorginho, Jorginho.”

We waited.

A hop on his approach, and a fine penalty (pictured).

It was 1-1 after just five minutes.

…little did we know.

In the Matthew Harding, an attempt at humour.

“Your support is fucking shit.”

I spotted that one of the electronic hoardings behind The Shed mentioned the phrase “Intelligent Mobility” and it flashed-up right in front of where Parky was stood.

Good old Parky.

Highly intelligent. Highly mobile.

Cough, cough.

The images of the Heineken logo brought back memories of the away game.

Ajax looked more of a threat at Stamford Bridge than the away match. They certainly impressed me with their passing and movement in the first quarter of the game. They looked technically sound and they kept the ball with the minimum of fuss. But we were the next to threaten. Kovacic passed forward to Tammy, who looked offside (pictured) and he seemed to look across at the linesman such was his guilt. He finished impeccably but – yes – it was offside.

Bollocks.

Ajax continued to drift in to decent areas, and carved out some good chances. On twenty minutes, there was another free-kick in a wide position, this time on our left. Noussair Mazraoui (“what a fine assemblage of vowels”) whipped-in a sublime cross into the danger area. I always thought that a corridor of uncertainty was an ill-lit alleyway in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, but it could certainly be used to describe this cross. It was exceptional, played in with pace and curve between ‘keeper and stranded defenders. Quincy Promes stooped to conquer and then came over to celebrate below us, his shorts pulled up as he jigged away.

He was met with some abuse.

I said to PD : “well, we can’t concede again.”

However, this was becoming a good tussle with both teams moving the ball well. I did feel that, despite our midfield trio seeing much of the ball, we were missing some killer passes in the final third. Sadly, with ten minutes of the first-half remaining, we became unstuck once again. Another delivery from wide – on our left again – caused our undoing. A free-kick, not far from the corner flag, was whipped in towards the goal. With painful precision, I captured the ball just before it cannoned off the far post and Kepa’s face before making the net bulge.

Fuck.

Chelsea 1 Ajax 3.

At the time, nobody realised that the ball had hit Kepa.

But the madness was starting.

Two Chelsea own goals.

We kept prodding away with shots at the Ajax ‘keeper, playing in front of banners which said “Keep The Blue Flag Flying High” over the empty seats in the Shed Lower. Willian and Alonso tested him.

I said to PD, and Big John at half-time, “it’ll be 5-5 tonight” and I was only half-joking. To be honest, despite our pitiful defending, I had enjoyed the first-half. I thought that Ajax were good – very good – and it felt like a traditional European game, despite the lop-sided support. Big John and I chatted about Tammy. We both love him to bits, but we agreed that – constructive criticism here, not moans for the sake of it – Tammy needs to toughen up still, be more physical. I used the phrase about him using his body as a shield. John said that he needed to learn “the dark arts.”

“Yep. Agreed.”

So, two goals to the worse at half-time, but Ajax had not completely dominated the game. I hoped that another goal in our favour would help to turn the tide.

Reece James replaced Marcos Alonso, with Dave swapping flanks to allow the substitute a run at the Ajax left. Soon after the re-start we were treated to a ridiculous run from deep from Kurt “Total Football” Zouma. He raced through, striding like a mad man, right into the heart of the Ajax defensive half, then third. A couple of ridiculously good step overs had us all wondering if we were about to witness the best goal ever at Stamford Bridge from a central defender. He took aim and the ball ended up in the MHU. As shots go, it was a great defensive clearance.

But the madness had started.

And the noise too,

The volume kept going up and up and up.

I was rightly proud.

Tammy twice threatened the Ajax goal as we looked a far more decent team. A header down (pictured) was an easy save. And he then forced a one-handed save from Andre Onana in the Ajax goal but really should have done better. The raiding of Reece James on our right certainly added a fresh dimension to our play. The crowd were invigorated.

But ten minutes into the second-half, the game took another twist. Ajax, against the run of play, broke away and a cross from our left was turned in with the minimum of fuss by Donny Van de Beek.

Chelsea 1 Ajax 4.

“This will be our heaviest home defeat in Europe. Bollocks.”

In the other game, Valencia were creeping ahead of Lille.

This was going pear-shaped.

But we kept going and the crowd too.

Frank made another positive change.

Callum Hudson-Odoi replaced Mason Mount.

On sixty-three minutes, a fine run into the box from Pulisic – in and out of the game, but always dangerous – resulted in a low cross into the danger area. The course of the ball was deflected slightly by Tammy, and Captain Dave pounced to touch the ball over the line (pictured).

There was a slight delay for a VAR moment.

Offside? Surely not.

The goal stood.

Was the comeback on?

The crowd seemed to think so.

We roared the boys on.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

On seventy-minutes, the night turned into one of pure drama. Fireworks had been lighting up the sky all over the UK, but nowhere was filled with more wide-eyed excitement and awe than at Stamford Bridge. Daley Blind was adjudged to have tackled late on Tammy but the referee – fair play – let play continue. He then spotted that a shot from Callum hit a defender’s hand inside the box. In a surreal moment, the referee blew up, raced over to red card Blind, and then pointed at the spot.

By now the place was electric.

But it got so much better. The referee brandished a red card again and in that nano-second, I just thought that he was re-emphasising the Blind sending-off. But no, Veltman was sent packing too. For dissent? We did not have a fucking clue but we did not fucking care.

Ajax were down to nine men, we had a penalty to make it 4-3 and there were still twenty-minutes on the clock.

Fackinell.

“Jorginho. Jorginho. Jorginho, Jorginho, Jorginho.”

We waited.

A hop on his approach, and a fine penalty (pictured).

Chelsea 3 Ajax 4.

GET IN.

“Fasten your seat belts, lads.”

More MHumour : “you’re not singing anymore.”

Just three minutes later, a corner from our right was met with a high leap under pressure from Zouma (pictured) and his powerful header rebounded back off the bar. With our hearts in our mouths – and other cliches – we watched, mesmirised, as substitute James slotted the ball in with consummate ease.

Chelsea 4 Ajax 4.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

My head was boiling over but I managed – heaven knows how – to capture Reece’ run and slide on film, although only a few photographs are of sufficient quality to share.

Stamford Bridge had rarely seen a night like it.

I leaned forward and spoke to Albert.

“Remember the 4-4 with Liverpool in the Champions League? That was a mad one. But not many people talk about that. I guess because it followed that 3-1 win at Anfield. There was always a cushion.”

I spoke to the bloke beside me.

“My 5-5 might still might happen.”

It seemed that, unbelievably, we were now favourites to win. Fifteen minutes, plus stoppage time, were still to be played. Understandably, the noise was the best all season.

It was just beautiful.

Heaven knows what was going through Dennis’ mind.

In the pub, he had spoken about future travel plans for the next year and probable trips to Mexico City and back to Japan where he met his wife while serving for the US Marines. I replied “nah, after one game at Chelsea, you’ll scrub those plans and be back at Stamford Bridge within six months.”

Just four minutes after the equaliser, an attack developed down the Chelsea left. I shouted “spare man.” Callum received the ball and ran. He played in Dave, the spare man, overlapping and not spotted, with a deft flick. A near-post cross. The ball was pushed towards goal. There was a scramble and the ball was booted away. Jorginho let fly outside the box. A headed clearance. The ball flew back out. Dave pounced. A shot. Pictured.

FUCKING PANDEMONUM IN SOUTH-WEST LONDON.

The next few moments were mad, mental, mesmerising, magnificent.

The photographs tell the story

But they are greyed-out because, alas, VAR stopped our celebrations and after a horrible wait…tick tock, tick tock…the referee ruled that there had been a handball somewhere.

I have thought long and hard about including these photographs. My rule is usually to not bother if a photographed goal is disallowed. But I have to include these. They are a huge part of the night’s story.

The minutes, sadly, raced past.

Ajax, to their credit, kept attacking and Kepa repeated his heroics at Vicarage Road with another fine save to his left to deny the Dutch masters a horrible fifth.

I lost count of the chances that we had in the final minutes. Michy Batshuayi replaced the excellent Kovacic on eight-seven minutes as Frank went for a top-heavy formation. And it was Michy who, undoubtedly, had the best chance, turning to shoot low, but Onana dropped to his left and saved magnificently. I remember a lame header from Tammy that went well wide, but it was all a blur.

Scandalously, the referee decided that only four extra minutes were to be added to the night’s play.

How? Why? What? Who? When?

This was plainly wrong.

If we have to endure VAR…sigh…OK.

But don’t fucking short-change us.

I hate modern football.

At the final whistle, I was light-headed. It was no surprise. It had indeed been mad, mental, mesmerising, magnificent and more.

This game had it all.

PD shot off to get a head start on the walk back to the car. I gathered my thoughts, let the crowds disperse and shook hands with a few mates. I packed away my camera.

“I got a few tonight.”

Down in the basement of the Matthew Harding Stand, I heard a bloke dissing Tammy but, alas, with a little bit more venom and nastiness than Big John and I had chosen to use at half-time, but I thought to myself “I’ll hear him out.” But I then had the misfortune to float past – it honestly felt like I was floating – the same bloke a few minutes later and I heard the same geezer moaning about another player.

Sigh.

Some people are never bloody happy, eh?

We are going through a rather enjoyable learning experience at the moment – it has taken everyone by surprise, and how wonderful it all is – yet some in our midst seem to avidly enjoy the negatives.

Does my nut.

I thought this season was all about giving everyone time and space…to let Frank bed all this down.

Seems not.

Among the overjoyed at Fulham Broadway, I treated myself to a cheeseburger and onions at “Chubby’s Grill” to cap off a bloody magnificent evening in SW6. I know how to live.

Next up Crystal Palace.

See you there.

 

Tales From Wet Watford

Watford vs. Chelsea : 2 November 2019.

…although I did not watch a single second of the game, I soon learned that England Rugby had mirrored Chelsea Football Club in failing to become World Champions in Yokohama.

There. That’s my first rugby reference for a few years out of the way.

This weekend was all about football. It was all about Watford away. This was an early evening kick-off at 5.30pm. This meant that I didn’t really need to leave at the crack of dawn or the crack of anything for that matter. I picked up PD at 11am and then made my way to collect Parky. All evidence suggested a stunning autumnal morning. For a while – over an hour – the fine weather continued. It was one of those mornings that made driving a pleasure. Bright skies, a sky bursting with differing cloud formations, the fields rimmed with various autumnal hues, leaves on the change. A perfect football day. The slip-up against Manchester United during the week had been confined to the past. The immediate future was all about league points, and away points, which we have regularly amassed since the loss at Old Trafford. We were looking for our fifth consecutive away win in the league.

I stopped for a coffee at the halfway point, Reading Services, but then the rain started. It was a horrible reminder of the previous weekend’s drive to Burnley.

Nevertheless, I was parked-up in our usual spot in Watford at just before 2pm. Unlike the mighty seventy-five games against Manchester United, this was only game number nineteen against Watford, and only my seventh away game, all since 2007, at Vicarage Road. I am a late bloomer when it comes to Watford.

As far as I have worked out thus far, the Hertfordshire town does not offer too much to the football visitor aside from the ridiculously well stocked High Street; many bars and restaurants, cafes and nightclubs sit cheek-by-jowl on this pedestrianised road and we have noted a new shopping centre that has risen at the southern end during our past few visits. We have generally fared well at Vicarage Road but the 4-1 shellacking in 2017/18 still hurts.

Our most famous match at Vicarage Road was – possibly – in 1981/82 (and my match day companion Alan would mention it during the game) when Chelsea supporters were on an away ban yet around three thousand Chelsea showed up, and the local police decided that it would be far wiser to let them all in to the stadium than have them roam around the town centre – pubs closed at three o’clock in those days – for hours on end.

On Tuesday night, it has been decided that Ajax will not be allowed in to Stamford Bridge after previous misbehaviour, but the Watford policy of 1982 will not be followed. We have all been warned to bring along photographic identification with our match ticket prior to entering Stamford Bridge.

They – the Dutch –  shall not enter.

It all seems a bit draconian to me. And with no away fans to stir up some energy and emotion in the stadium, we will probably witness the flattest ever atmosphere for a Champions League home game.

The Watford High Street might well have been crammed with pubs and bars, but we chose our usual hostelry right on the northern boundary. It would be our third visit to “The Horns” and two good friends were waiting for us.

Ollie and Julien, two proud Frenchmen from Normandy, had been in the pub since midday. As soon as I walked in, I welcomed them.

“Bonjour, mes amis.”

They were last with us for a pre-match drink at home to – ironically – Watford last Spring. In fact, the first time that I ever met Ollie, after being Facebook friends for quite a while, was before the Watford away game in 2016/17, just before Antonio Conte got it together with his 3-4-3.

We spent a fine hour and a half in their good company before they had to head off to sort out Julien’s match ticket. We delved back in to Ollie’s personal Chelsea story. I am always pleased to hear from our many overseas’ supporters about their individual journeys. They can be wide and varied. Ollie’s story began in around 1984, listening in to our football on the old Radio Two in his home village in Northern France. He was drawn in with talk of the atmosphere in and around our games, but also he hinted that the rowdier nature of our support beguiled him, as it did many at that time.

I agreed.

“There was an edge to football. It made for a raw atmosphere. But it was also pretty scary at times.”

Olllie’s first Chelsea match was at home to Sheffield Wednesday in August 1989. He just loves the club. And he has some fine credentials. He comes over three or four times every year. He is a familiar passenger on the crossings between Dieppe and Newhaven. We listened intently as he spoke of his deep passion for our club.

I joked with him.

“You are our most famous French fan.”

Tattoos were shown. PD and LP joined in.

Shirts were taken off.

I stepped nervously from one foot to the other.

“OK. Moving on.”

Regardless, it was magical to hear of his Chelsea past.

Conversely, any journey that begins “I started playing as Chelsea on FIFA” is not so well received.

Outside the weather had deteriorated significantly. We watched aghast as new customers entered the busy pub with their outer layers completely drenched. On the twenty-minute walk to Vicarage Road, past pubs teeming with people, we were drenched too. It was as bleak an afternoon that I can remember.

At about 4.45pm we met up with friends from Yeovil and PD’s match ticket was sorted. There were ridiculous rumours floating around about Aston Villa beating Liverpool at home and Southampton winning at Manchester City. Sadly, these games ended up being won by the usual suspects. At least Arsenal dropped points at home to Wolves.

We were inside Vicarage Road good and early for a change. In the same way that it had not seemed possible that it had been ten full months that I had sat at the bar in “The Horns” – on Boxing Day 2018, hanging my coat on the “fighting octopus” beneath the bar, supping a lager – neither did it seem wholly believable that it was ten months that we had all last visited this now familiar away stadium, these same seats too, more or less. It seemed closer, maybe a few months back, not almost a whole year ago. All of these games, these away games, getting joined up – dot to dot – and I wondered how long all of these dots would continue to be joined. If Watford didn’t buck their ideas up, this sequence might not be continued next season.

Out in the ridiculously packed concourse at the top of the away seats, four fans were singing a previously unheard of song that referenced – painfully – David Luiz, Fikayo Tomori and the size of the latter’s manhood.

Good grief.

Thank heavens I never heard it during the game.

The minutes ticked by. Familiar faces everywhere.

“Z Cars” played on the PA, but it seemed out of place. Everton, yes. Watford, no.

The rain was still lashing down as the teams emerged from the Elton John Stand. There were considerable numbers of unoccupied seats in all home areas. As this was the nearest Watford home game to Remembrance Day, we observed a minute of silent appreciation, all players with their arms linked.

I bowed my head.

Sadly, some late arrivals in the away concourse needed to be “shushed.”

Our team lined up as below –

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Zouma – Tomori – Emerson

Jorginho – Kovacic – Mount

Pulisic – Abraham – Willian

Watford have ditched the yellow and black stripes of last season and now wear yellow and black halves. I like neither.

We began attacking the home end. After just five minutes, we were in rapture. The ball was played back to Jorginho, quite deep, and without so much as a blink of an eye or a break in step, he played a curling, sweeping ball over the heads of a few Watford defenders and – right on the money – in to the path of Tammy Abraham, who was in a dead central location inside the box. Tammy met the ball just before it became within Ben Foster’s reach and he guided it over the Watford ‘keeper and into the now vacated goal. The net rippled. We roared. Tammy raced over to the goal-line in front of the home fans and slid on his knees.

What a bloody pass. What a bloody goal.

The away end roared some more.

The assist from Jorginho, utterly perfect in strength and trajectory, was the pass of the season thus far. And it was warmly appreciated by all. In the Norwich match report, I noted how our passes into the final third were much more varied than the claustrophobic monotony of last season. Here was proof. A ball swung in from deep, the defenders unable to cope, a striker waiting to pounce.

Boom.

It was some goal.

“Oh Tammy, Tammy. Tammy, Tammy, Tammy, Tammy Abraham.”

So, we were 1-0 up early on. Before the game, I had joked with a few mates how we were likely to be treated to another 4-1 or 4-2 away day goal fest. We dominated possession, but on the rare instances that Watford summoned up enough courage to attack us our defence looked in control. In fact, at times our defence looked too calm. I know we like to smother the ball and pass it out, but sometimes our tendency for Kepa, especially, to play balls to defenders who have opponents breathing the same air as them is inviting trouble. Sometimes an agricultural “hoof” up field is quite acceptable.

It really is.

I turned to Alan :

“This new rule about goal kicks being allowed to be played to defenders inside our box. It doesn’t mean that they have to every single time.”

There was a rare Watford poke at goal which was easily saved by Kepa.

Still the rain came down.

“Jorginho. Jorginho. Jorginho, Jorginho, Jorginho.”

Watford are not known for their support and I noted that I had not heard a single shout from their fans all game. Watford are such an inoffensive club. They are the chicken korma of the Premier League.  I waited and waited for a song from them.

I love to see Mason Mount running at defenders – he is so natural – and one such run resulted in a shot on goal. From the block, Tammy pestered the Watford goalkeeper but Foster saved well again. From a corner, a fine leap from Christian Pulisic forced a very fine acrobatic save from a back-peddling Foster.

All this before twenty minutes.

We were loving it.

Out of nowhere came a loud chant from within the travelling two thousand supporters in support of Gianluca Vialli, who is battling cancer. We all joined in.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

He was, of course, manager at Watford for a while after he left us in 2000.

Just in front of us, down towards the corner flag, there was a ridiculous few seconds of showboating between Kovacic and Jorginho. The ball was kept alive with a tantalising medley of flicks and kicks. It paid off, but I had to wonder if that sort of stuff should best be saved for when we are 4-0 or 5-0 up. Regardless, we got away with it.

There was another rare Watford attack, and a low shot from Gerard Deulofeu that whizzed past the far post. In truth, Kepa had been rarely tested.

We watched as Mount wriggled in from the left-wing, hopscotched past challenges, and then whacked a fine shot at goal. But the resolute Watford goalkeeper thwarted us once more, leaping high and touching the goal bound shot onto the bar. He had been, undoubtedly, our first-half nemesis.

I wished that Foster had fucked off to Gloucester in this shower of rain.

Reaching my seat at the end of the interval, I spotted Ollie and he came over to join us in row HH for twenty minutes or so.

Still the rain fell.

Deulofeu ran at our defence early in the second-half and he rolled the ball square to Andre Gray but a brave block by Kurt Zouma – no longer the nervous wretch of the first few games of the season – came to the rescue.

As the game developed along similar lines as the first-half, it seemed that Mateo Kovacic was everywhere; twisting and turning out of trouble, striding confidently with the ball, allowing others to move before passing to their feet. The away crowd soon rewarded this very fine masterclass in midfield dominance.

“Kovacic. In the middle of our pitch.”

Willian burst through the midfield and set up Mount with a perfect pass. Doctor Foster clinically removed the threat with yet another fine save.

Just after, a very similar run from Willian in the same area and the ball was dispatched out to Tammy right in front of us. His low cross into the six-yard box was prodded home by Pulisic. It was another lovely move. Tammy waited for his team mates to celebrate with him. I was pretty lucky to be able to snap away as the players swarmed a mere thirty-feet or so away.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”

Lovely.

Fun and games in the way end were then abruptly halted.

“USA. USA. USA. USA.”

No. Just no.

Kovacic, in the middle of his pitch, dribbled forward and set up Pulisic. Another great stop from Foster. We were attacking at will now, with Kovacic himself and then Tammy – twice – going close.

I was still – honestly – waiting for the first Watford chant of the day, as indeed were many more in our support.

“Watford – give us a song. Watford, Watford – give us a song.”

(a quick reality check. I am a fifty-four-year-old man detailing how one set of football supporters were goading another set of football fans into singing support of their team. Is this a reasonable thing to do? All a bit childish, innit? Yep. Guilty.)

With a quarter of an hour to go, how we all wished that Kovacic or Jorginho had “hoofed” the ball away, but instead the “to me, to you” nonsense inside the Chelsea box resulted in a challenge between Jorginho and Deulofeu.

The referee firstly seemed to signal a goal-kick.

Then, a delay.

Then, VAR.

Then, a delay.

It is of my opinion that there should be a twenty-second-time limit on VAR decisions. If nothing can be decided within twenty seconds, nothing is clear, therefore the original decision stands.

We waited.

And waited.

A cure for cancer was found, Parky bought a round, Brexit negotiations reached a conclusion, World poverty was no more, oil companies acknowledged climate change, Lenny Henry was funny again, Israelis and Palestinians signed a peace-pact, Donald Trump said something insightful and Tottenham won a trophy.

Then, a penalty.

A replay – just once – of the “challenge” was shown on the TV screen in the stadium.

The Chelsea crowd were incandescent.

“FUCK VAR. FUCK VAR. FUCK VAR, FUCK VAR, FUCK VAR.”

(a quick reality check…I am a fifty-four-year-old man…is this a reasonable thing to do? All a bit childish, innit? Yep. Guilty.)

Deulofeu rolled it home.

Game…as they say…on.

Despite this lifeline, many Watford fans decided to join those that had already left at 0-2.

Morons.

There was an instance, not long after the Watford goal, when some – many – in our section were shouting for VAR after a decision went against us.

For.

Fuck.

Sake.

The world is full of fucking idiots.

Michy Batshuayi came on for Tammy with two minutes to go, and spun himself in to space, but was thwarted.

Deep in injury-time, a free-kick to Watford was awarded around thirty-five yards out. Foster joined the attackers inside the box. Our nerves were being tested. I was tempted to use my sports-mode setting on my camera, but – always so superstitious – I remembered the United goal last Wednesday.

“Nah.”

The ball was sent in. The ball was flicked on. It found a Watford head – Foster, it had to be him – and the ball was, in my mind, goal bound.

We had fucked it up.

But no. We saw the jade green of Kepa lunge to the left and the ball was spooned away.

Phew.

With that, the referee blew the final whistle.

We had consolidated our place in the top four on top of a pretty pleasing performance.

And then we witnessed one of the highlights of the day. The players came over to thank us for our support and there were smiles aplenty. But all eyes were on Frank Lampard. He walked over, sedately at first, but with each photograph that I took, his emotions took over.

He smiled, he clapped, his eyes twinkled, his smile grew wider, his face was one of pride and joy.

It was – I’ll be honest – quite wonderful.

How good did this all feel?

It felt Franktastic.

NB : No trophies were won by Tottenham.

Tales From Harry Potts Way

Burnley vs. Chelsea : 26 October 2019.

After Amsterdam, Burnley. The life of a football fan is certainly varied. With the game kicking-off at 5.30pm, there was the chance of a slight lie-in, but only slight. Burnley away is still a gargantuan trip. We did think about staying the night, especially after the exertions of the European soiree to Ajax, but nothing seemed to fit the bill location-wise nor price-wise. In the end, I decided to bite the bullet and drive up and back in one day.

Deepest Somerset to deepest Lancashire.

A round trip of four hundred and eighty miles.

Bolstered by a strong cup of coffee before I left home, I felt surprisingly fresh. After returning from Amsterdam late on Thursday evening, Friday at work was just horrific. It wasn’t particularly busy, it just seemed to drag on and on. But I slept reasonably well on Friday night. I was on the road at just before 9am. I collected PD and then Parky. It would be His Lordship’s first away game since Norwich City on that blissful summer’s day in August.

Burnley in late October was a different proposition.

For the first four hours or so, the rain lashed down under sombre grey skies. But there were reports of it brightening up later in the day. My pragmatic view was that I would rather have the rain and spray when I was fresh in the morning than when I was driving home, tired, after the game and long in to the night.

We stopped at Frankley Services on the M5 and Charnock Richard Services on the M6 just north of Wigan. At the first, we got soaked getting out of the car. At the second, the day suddenly became brighter and a lot more pleasant.

I turned east onto the M65 and headed up over the ridge of land that separates the M6 from the towns of Blackburn, Darwen, Accrington and Burnley.

At Clayton Le Moors, we settled in at a pub called “The Albion” for an hour or so. The City vs. Villa game was coming to an end, and there were a few locals gathered. Two lads wearing Burnley shirts were playing darts, while one Blackburn Rovers fan, wearing a replica shirt too, chatted to PD at the bar. There is certainly no love lost between Blackburn and Burnley yet the fans were sharing the same space with no issues. Clayton Le Moors is right on the boundary between the catchment areas of the two teams’ support. It felt that we were right in the middle of this very private and local Civil War in central Lancashire. Blackburn were playing locally themselves on this day of football; a derby of sorts at Preston North End.

We enjoyed our time in this large and welcoming pub. The prices were a lot more agreeable than those in Amsterdam. Here, two pints of lager and a pint of Coke came to just £8.10.

At about 4.15pm, I got back in the saddle. Ten minutes later, after relishing the wild and unrelentingly Northern landscape ahead of me, we were parked close to the Burnley bus station, itself only a fifteen-minute walk from Turf Moor.

By a strange quirk of fate, our game at Burnley in 2019 came just two days under a year since our game at the same venue in 2018.

At Charnock Richard and at Clayton Le Moors, the weather seemed fine. Once we exited my car in Burnley, it felt a whole lot colder.

“It’s always bloody freezing in Burnley.”

But it was great to be back. The town is a throwback to a different era, and without wishing to drown in worn out clichés, walking a few of its streets helped me escape back to a simpler age when football was at the very heart of this old mill town.

I love walking under the main stand at Goodison Park, my favourite away day experience these days. But a close second is the five-minute walk under the canal bridge on Yorkshire Street, along Harry Potts Way (named after the 1960 League Championship winning manager) to the unpretentious stands of Burnley Football Club. There are grafters selling scarves and badges. There are fast food shops. Many shops have signs in claret and blue. Fans rush past. Police on horseback cast an eye over the match day scene. Pubs overflow with claret and blue clad locals. Northern accents cut into the afternoon air. The faces of the locals seem to radiate a warmth for their club.

While PD and LP made a bee-line for the bar area inside the ground, I went off on a detour. I knew that I would only be allowed to take photographs using my ‘phone, and that the resultant match photographs would be quite poor, so I wanted to capture as much of the colour – or lack of it, this was Burnley after all – of the stadium. So my phone whirred into action. Every few yards, along the perimeter of three of the stands, I stopped to gaze at photographs of some key players in the football club’s history. I didn’t stop and look at every single one, but bizarrely all of the ones that I did stop to look at, I managed to name.

Jimmy McIlroy, Jimmy Adamson, Leighton James, Peter Noble, Steve Kindon, Billy Hamilton, Trevor Steven, Ian Britton.

I stopped my circumnavigation at Ian Britton. It is what I wanted to see. Ian Britton was my favourite Chelsea player from 1974 to 1981 and he famously went on to play for Burnley, scoring a key goal against Orient to keep them in the Football League in 1987. He sadly passed away in 2016 and I went to his funeral at Burnley Crematorium. It was only right that I paid my respects to him on this day.

Ironically, I had briefly chatted to his son Callum at half-time at the Southampton away game.

RIP.

Inside the cramped stands, I was met up with many friends and acquaintances. I still felt fresh despite the long day. I soon took my place, not far from where I watched the game the previous season, and alongside Gary, Parky and Alan. My seat was right on the aisle, right next to the home fans.

Since our last visit, the infill of the corners of the home end has been completed. However, there were gaps in the seats throughout the stadium.

The team?

Arrizabalaga.

Azpilicueta.

Zouma.

Tomori.

Alonso.

Jorginho.

Kovacic.

Pulisic.

Mount.

Willian.

Abraham.

No surprises really. Good to see Pulisic get the start after his excellent cameo performance in the Johan Cruyff Arena.

Did I expect us to win? Yes. There, I said it. There is a confidence about us at the moment and long may it continue.

Jack Cork, now thirty, started for Burnley. It seems only five minutes ago since I saw him play for Chelsea against Club America on a blistering day in Palo Alto in the summer of 2007. It was the only time I did see him play for us. How time flies.

Standing behind me was a chap who I first saw at Norwich. Memorably, both of us were wearing pink polos at the time. We, of course, won our first game of the season that day. Since then, he has worn the same pink shirt at all of our away games.

Three pinks, three wins.

Commendable.

In the first portion of the game, I thought Burnley looked quite capable of getting behind us and causing problems. Dwight McNeil, on their left, was often involved and carried a threat with his pace and movement. On a few occasions, our defence needed to be on their collective toes to snub out a few Burnley attacks. But we looked capable too, and the midfield duo of Jorginho and Kovacic were soon clicking their fingers and prompting others into moving into space, and then sliding balls forward. Without over-emphasising the change from last season, there was a pleasing economy of movement at all times.

A touch, control, a look, a pass, a move continued.

And there was variety too; the occasional long ball, a diagonal.

On twenty-one minutes, and with Chelsea now in the ascendancy, Pulisic raided centrally after robbing Matt Lowton. He sped on, urged on by us in the away stand, but it looked like he was forced too far to his left. Showing real strength, he shimmied, and gained an extra yard. To my eyes, the angle was just too wide. He stretched to meet the ball and rifled a shot low past Nick Pope. We howled like banshees as the ball nestled into the net.

GET IN.

I watched as the young American raced over to the corner flag and dropped to his knees to celebrate.

“Well,” I thought “that is the photograph I should be taking.”

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

This was the American’s first goal for us. And it was a blinder.

Burnley then made a spirited effort to get back in to the game. A header from Ashley Barnes went wide from a corner. And then Erik Pieters forced a fine save from Kepa, the ‘keeper reacting well after the initial shot was deflected. Chances were piling up and at  both ends. Pulisic slashed in a shot which Pope was able to deflect away. In front of us, Barnes wasted a good chance from close in, heading wide once more.

Barnes was the bête noire of the Burnley team and many in my midst were letting him have it.

Another shot from Christian, a shot from Tammy. This was good stuff. All of the way through this first-half, I was involved, watching the movement of the players, looking at their body language, utterly part of it. It is – sadly – not always the case.

Just before the break, Willian pick-pocketed a Burnley defender, and released Pulisic, who made a bee-line for goal – this area of the pitch was fast becoming his very own Interstate – and he drove on. He had a final quick burst and his shot from outside the box took a wicked deflection and we were 2-0 up.

Lovely stuff.

I was aware that there was a get-together of some Chelsea supporters in Austin, Texas for this match, and that they were being featured in some sort of interactive TV show. I just imagined the scenes. It was, to be honest, coming together rather nicely for our US fans.

At half-time, I battled the packed concourse and only got back just in time to see the teams return to the pitch.

After eleven minutes of play, a corner to my right from Mason Mount was headed out, and from the second cross, Pulisic leapt and “back-headed” the ball up and over Pope. It was a fine header.

And Pulisic’s third of the game.

I quickly turned to Mr. Pink and enquired “Is that a perfect hat-trick?”

A left, a right, a header.

It was.

Fantastic.

Well, by now, I could only imagine the “awesome shenanigans” taking place in Austin, TX – and elsewhere in the land of the free, plus six percent sales tax – as their boy shone on this cold day in Lancashire.

But then it got a little silly.

Possibly.

Here are my thoughts as a pragmatic and objective observer of all things Chelsea.

A large and noisy section of our support – which I would later learn included Suggs from Madness – spontaneously started chanting “USA USA USA USA.”

I didn’t join in.

But I am going to give the perpetrators the benefit of the doubt. My thoughts at the time were that this was all a bit ironic. A bit of a giggle. It was a typically English way of praising a player, a new addition, but also with a major dollop of sarcasm too.

If so, perfect.

The “USA” chant is such a dull and unimaginative addition to major sporting events, and I’d like to think that it was a side-swipe at that. If, however, there was no self-deprecation involved, no irony, no humour and that we are to be treated to “USA USA” every time our boy Pulisic performs then I fear for the future of mankind.

Only two minutes later, a lovely step-over from Willian in the inside-right channel on the edge of the box allowed an extra yard of space to shoot. His low effort was drilled low and found the far post perfectly. The net bulged.

GET IN.

Pulisic’ three goals had been – cough, cough, you know it is coming America – awesome.

Now this was just foursome.

FOUR BLOODY NIL.

Norwich : 3-2.

Wolves : 5-2.

Southampton : 4-1.

Burnley : 4-0.

Mr. Pink was beaming.

After the ludicrous 9-0 by Leicester City at Southampton the previous night, I wondered if we could get close. It seemed that it was one of those evenings where everything we hit resulted in goals.

Some substitutions, keeping it fresh.

Reece James for Marcos Alonso.

Olivier Giroud for Tammy Abraham.

Callum Hudson-Odoi for Willian.

Myself and everyone around me thought that Callum had been clipped and expected goal five to come our way from the resulting penalty. Of course, there was the usual tedious wait, the match-going fans out on a limb, left stranded. Jorginho picked up the ball and walked purposefully to the spot.

“Just give the pen, and let’s get on with it.”

But no. No penalty. And Callum booked for simulation.

Oh well.

Bizarrely, in a repeat of the Wolves game, we let in two late goals. First, a dipping smash from distance from Jay Rodriguez on eighty-six minutes. Then a deflected effort, not dissimilar to Pulisic’ second, from McNeil.

Burnley 2 Chelsea 4.

Oh crazy day.

I looked at Gary.

“It was 4-0 last season. We’ve got worse.”

We serenaded the management team as they all came over to clap us. It is lovely to be a Chelsea fan, right here, right now. May these times continue.

We headed back to the car and I was soon driving home on the long road south. We stopped at Charnock Richard again. To honour our boy Pulisic, we devoured some “Burger King” fast food, just as he would have wanted. Via two further stops for petrol and “Red Bull”, I kept driving and driving while the others slept intermittently.

I reached my house, eventually, at around 1am on Sunday morning.

It had been a fine morning, afternoon, evening and night.

On Wednesday, another magical evening under the Stamford Bridge lights is in the offing. It might only be the League Cup but it is Manchester United.

This will be the seventy-fifth time that I will have seen them play Chelsea, the most of any opposing team.

It is potentially a cracker.

I hope to see some of you there.

 

Tales From Game One Repeated

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 October 2019.

The international break was over. Thank the Lord. I had found it a particularly tough fortnight; I had missed Chelsea much more than usual. Thankfully there is always “Chelsea stuff” to keep me as buoyant as possible. I have realised for a while that my brain must crave “Chelsea activity” of one sort or another to keep me as upbeat as possible, whether it is the planning of upcoming trips, away trips especially, or the sometimes difficult process of trying to procure match tickets, or even thoughts about where I can take the next match few reports. If I am feeling a little low – work, life’s problems or other serious stuff – I can often rely on Chelsea to lift my spirits.

As the preparations and plans for the home game with Newcastle United became overlaid with the dramas of getting Ajax away tickets, clarifying the final travel plans for Amsterdam, booking up – ironically – a weekend away on Tyneside in mid-January, and sorting out a few other Chelsea plans, it became a busy few days.

I had been working lates for the first time in almost two years, as holiday cover, and at 10pm on Friday, I was able to leave for home with thoughts of a fine week ahead; games in London, in Amsterdam, in Burnley.

But I’d need to be up at 6.30am on the day of the Newcastle United game; a long and busy day lay ahead, with plans to meet two sets of friends from the US, two sets of friends from Canada and one set of friends from Australia before the match.

I woke, typically – was it excitement? – early at 6am.

The day was beginning.

The most important news was that Parky was back among us for the first time since the cracking away trip to Norwich in late August, a gap of eight whole weeks. He had been missed by all of us. His hip-operation had resulted in a long, slow rehabilitation period. Parky will, unfortunately, be unable to join us in Amsterdam.

I collected PD and his son Scott at eight o’clock and Parky soon after.

London beckoned.

It was a cracking autumnal morning.

I live for mornings like these.

Because PD and Parky are unable to walk long distances, and because the District Line was closed, I drove right to the bottom end of the North End Road to drop them off. Their pre-match would be spent close to the ground at “The Oyster Rooms” at Fulham Broadway. I then drove back to park up at my usual spot off Lillee Road and then hot-footed back to reach Stamford Bridge at 11.30am.

I walked past The Shed Wall, topped with autumnal leaves, past the photographs and tributes of all our former legends. It is quite a sight.

I was really looking forward to meeting, for the first time at Chelsea, my mate Jaro from Washington DC, who was to see a Chelsea game at Stamford Bridge for the very first time. I got to know Jaro when we contributed to the much loved, and much-missed, bulletin board on the old Chelsea In America website, and where these match reports started to appear, on an ad hoc basis at first, in around 2006/7, and then regularly from 2008/9.

Jaro is originally from Poland – Legia Warsaw his team – but has been living in the US for over twenty years. I have bumped into him on a few tour stops in the US over the past few seasons – New York, Philadelphia, DC – and he has always been accompanied by his football-daft son Alex, who is well known by a few of the old-school US fans (in relative terms, I refer to those of c. 2006 vintage).

We met on the forecourt and I soon whisked them up to the foyer of the Copthorne Hotel, where they both met Ron Harris, although – sadly – most of the other ex-players had just left. But we sat in a quiet corner and chewed the fat, reminiscing on our respective childhoods in England and Poland, and how the working class sport of football was seamlessly woven into our respective cultures, along with the other staples of our youth, music and clothes.

Ah, clothes.

Clobber.

It may have started on the Scotland Road in Liverpool in 1977, but by the mid-‘eighties, it was to be found in little pockets all over Europe.

Jaro confirmed this.

“In Poland, it was Lascoste. Lacoste everywhere.”

There was little surprise that we were both wearing the little green crocodile on this sunny day in SW6. Alex was wearing a DSquared2 top. A relatively new addition. Something for the youth. But Alex also spoke of how fashionable it was in the more austere and isolationist era of those times for foreign football shirts and scarves to be worn at Legia games. He mentioned one fellow fan, who gained a few fashion points and added credibility, by wearing a jacquard Chelsea scarf at matches. I mentioned some Verona fans who I saw at a UEFA game in 1988 wearing a “You can’t ban a Chelsea fan” T-shirt. And I mentioned that I occasionally, maybe no more than once or twice, wore a Juventus shirt at Chelsea in the ‘eighties.

It was part of the scene in those days.

Rare clothes. Rare labels.

Good times.

We then, probably to Alex’ disgust, had a “Moaners Five Minutes” as we vented about the ailments of modern football, VAR, the 29th Game and all that bollocks.

Jaro and Alex had, unknown to me, called in to Stamford Bridge – a squeezed visit on a brief layover from Poland back to the US – in the summer. They had managed to do an official tour of the stadium. It was hearing the two tunes – the pre-cursors to the match itself these days – “Park Life” and “Liquidator” being streamed through his headset that really hit a chord with Jaro.

“We had to come back. To experience the atmosphere. The steepness of the stands. We had to.”

They had arrived Friday morning and would be leaving Sunday morning. Let’s not all tar “foreign fans” with the same brush please. Some of the most devoted and inspirational Chelsea supporters that I have had the pleasure to meet do not live in SW6, London, the Home Counties, nor the UK.

We trotted over to “The Butcher’s Hook.” Sadly, the disruption of the tube during the day meant that the other friends from various places were severely delayed. Not to worry, they will all be back at some stage. The day was really all about Jaro and Alex.

Of course, there is a nice little bit of serendipity here. My first game at Stamford Bridge was against Newcastle United too.

I took Jaro and Alex down to meet Mark and Dave at “the stall” and the intention was then to have a drink with Parky, PD and Scott – you had forgotten about them, right? – but there was a strict “no kids” policy being enforced. Damn.

Jaro and Alex wanted to get inside to sample every last second out of their first game at HQ. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

“Hope to see you again soon.”

I meandered around the two forecourts, chatted to a few match day friends, and then took my seat inside The Bridge at a very early time, maybe about 2.15pm. It’s amazing how empty the place is until around 2.45pm these days. In the ‘eighties – “here he fucking goes again” – the terraces often used to be jammed for big matches by 2.30pm. This added to the atmosphere, the sense of anticipation, the sense of occasion.

These days, there is nothing warming about getting into a stadium full of empty seats at 2.30pm.

The stadium eventually filled.

My “missing friends” eventually made it in; Neil and Sammy from Adelaide down below me in the MHL, probably quite near Leigh-Anne and John from Toronto. Al and his son from Toronto were in the West Lower, the poor bastards, and Kim from Florida was, I think, in The Shed.

It would take me a while, but Jaro and Alex were spotted in the East Lower. It would be a section of SB where I watched all games from 1974 to 1980 with my parents.

The team news came through.

It was almost unchanged from the last match against Southampton, but with Ross Barkley in for N’Golo Kante.

Arrizabalaga.

Azpilicueta.

Zouma.

Tomori.

Alonso.

Jorginho.

Barkley.

Mount.

Willian.

Hudson-Odoi.

Abraham.

Overhead, a changing mix of clear skies, clouds, dark clouds, intermittent rain, bright sun.

A typical London autumn afternoon.

Newcastle United, with the two Longstaff brothers the talk of the toon since their lovely defeat of Manchester United, were wearing broad stripes this time, as opposed to thin stripes the previous year. Both look wrong to me. The away team didn’t create a great deal in the first part of the game, but neither did we. They caught us on the break a few times, but never really threatened. There were a couple of shots from the twin strikers Allan Saint-Maximin (not really a footballer, more a type of thermometer) and Joelinton, but Kepa was not troubled. He would be able to complete a few more pages from Thibaut Courtois’ Word Search book from 2016/17 as the game progressed.

The first real chance was created by some trickery from Callum Hudson-Odoi in front of the black and white hordes, but a weak Willian header was well wide.

It took until a few minutes after this chance for me to notice the first real, loud, chant of the game from the home supporters.

“CAN ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We noted that Marcos Alonso was getting dog’s abuse every time he ventured into the final third, right in front of the away fans.

Quick feet from Callum set up Mason Mount, but his quick turn was followed by a shot which was straight at Martin Dubravka.

As Newcastle attacked, Gary shouted abuse at Saint-Maximin.

“It’s Davey Crockett.”

The play deteriorated a little. Joelinton headed, stretching, wide.

The atmosphere was pretty dire. I felt for Jaro and Alex. I so wanted it to be a cracking atmosphere for them. The Geordies, unable to completely fill their allocation for the first time in ages, with a section of around two hundred in the Shed Upper unsold, were making all the noise. Willian cut in from the right but his shot missed the near post.

It was far from encouraging stuff.

It seemed to me that players and fans alike needed to be roused from the lethargy of the international break. There was a spell of stern challenges, free-kicks and the game did not flow. Tammy seemed to go too easily for our liking, but it is a part of his game he will hopefully improve upon. A free-kick from Willian failed to clear the wall. A few groans.

Just before the break, an injured Ross Barkley was replaced by Mateo Kovacic.

Ho hum.

It had hardly been a scintillating forty-five minutes.

I turned to PD.

“Well, that was shite.”

At half-time, I looked over to the front row of the East Upper, just above where a “Philly Blues” banner has been positioned for a while.

One seat was empty, and there looked to be a floral display – a wreath – instead. This was to mark the memory of Trizia Fiorellino, who so sadly passed away recently. Trizia worked steadfastly with the club on a matter of issues as chair of the Chelsea Supporters Group, and as a member of the often-derided Fans Forum, and often wrote Chelsea reviews in “The Observer.” Trizia always smiled and said hello when our paths crossed so many times in recent years. I always remember sitting next to her on the coach which took us to the San Paolo Stadium in Naples in 2012 and we excitedly swapped stories about football and specifically Italy. Trizia was a discerning and perceptive supporter of Chelsea Football Club. There was a lovely full page obituary, penned by Bruce Buck, on page nine of the match day programme.

She will be sorely missed by all those who knew her.

RIP.

At the half-time break, Ron Harris – playing in my first match in 1974 and at Jaro and Alex’ first match in 2019 – came down to the pitch and said a few words about how the team is playing at half-time.

Thankfully, the lethargy and lack of invention seemed to subside as the second-half began. Kovacic, the substitute, seemed to be one of the catalysts, driving on and playing in others. A lovely jinking run from Callum down below me created space but his shot was blocked. This stirred those around me and the noise started to, thankfully, increase. A weak Zouma header from a corner was soon followed by a thundering header from Tammy which crashed against the bar.

“Oh God, please not a 0-0 for Jaro and Alex.”

But we continued our improvement. There were a few lovely through-balls from Jorginho and our runners were being hit. Our pressure mounted.

Christian Pulisic replaced Mason.

More jinking runs from Callum. A free header from Tammy sailed over. He knew that he should have done much better. A deflected shot ended up at the feet of Pulisic, right in front of goal, but the young starlet appeared stage struck. His effort was swatted away by Dubravka, a fine save. A Willian shot saved at the near post.

Andy Carroll – “he always scores against us” – emerged from the bench.

Time was racing past.

Come on Chelsea.

With a quarter of an hour to play, Callum touched a ball out towards Marcos Alonso. A low angled drive followed. His shot was to perfection. My shot was blurred. But I caught his exultant run down towards us on film.

GET IN.

After the hysteria had died down.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now, but.”

Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds.”

Phew.

1974 all over again? Just maybe.

Kovacic set up Pulisic but as we were all expecting a shot on goal, the American right winger snowflaked it and instead played the ball to Tammy instead. His fumbled effort flew over.

Bollocks.

Virtually Newcastle’s first effort on goal in the second-half resulted in a shot from Willems ending up in The Shed Upper. A weak Geordie header soon flowed but floated over.

Reece James replaced Callum late on and we held on.

This was a much improved second-half and our win was deserved. I liked Kurt Zouma, who I thought played a little better than Tomori, who has been a little error-ridden of late. Callum was fantastic at times. Kepa was hardly tested at all. We solidified our place in the top four. There were Chelsea smiles all round at the end, and these will be remembered rather than the looks of concern at the break.

Jaro and I swapped messages at the end. They had loved it.

It had been 1-0 for me in 1974 and it had been 1-0 for them in 2019, too.

That just seemed right.

So. Thoughts turn to Wednesday.

Ajax away.

Europe.

The Champions league.

Makes everything tingle doesn’t it?

See you there.

RIP

Tales From Our Chelsea

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2019.

The Saturday afternoon encounter with Brighton was our third home game of the week and our fourth consecutive home match. When did that last happen? I am struggling to remember.

Glenn, PD and little old me were seated in our favourite corner of our favourite Chelsea pub. We first walked in to “The Eight Bells” down in deepest Fulham almost a complete year earlier; it was the starting point of our “SW6 Pub Crawl” before the Liverpool game on Saturday 29 September 2018. And we immediately fell in love with it, as have many.

In the previous week or so, I had been in contact with my friend Mac, who spends half his life in England and half his life in the Czech Republic, or Czechia as it likes to be called these days, and he was planning to meet us at some stage. While we waited, some other friends and acquaintances had decided to visit the cosy boozer too. First, Alex and Pat – Stafford and London – and a few of their mates arrived. Then, Mark – now living in Zoetermeer in The Netherlands – and Kelly – High Wycombe – arrived and sat down beside us for a chat. Seeing Mark always evokes a special memory for Glenn and I. We first met Mark on the last U-bahn train back into the centre of Munich on that special night in 2012. Gary, mentioned in dispatches in the Grimsby Town report – from Perth in Australia –  joined us, and soon launched into a plate of bangers and mash. At some stage in the proceedings, Brian – Northampton – sat close by too. It was a real gathering of the clans. There had been plans to meet up with Dale – Chicago – and Ollie – Normandy – but they never made it.

At about 11.30am or so, Mac burst into the pub.

“The Seagulls have landed.”

Yes, dear reader, Mac is a Brighton supporter. I have already detailed how Mac and I became friends in these match reports, but a brief summary.

May 2013, “Foley’s”, West 33 Street, Manhattan. I was in New York for the Manchester City friendly, and Brighton had just lost to Crystal Palace in the play-offs. It was me hearing Mac talking about those games that initiated a reaction from me – partial smile, partial grimace – which in turn lead to this from his then girlfriend.

“You’re not Palace, are you?”

“Chelsea.”

We immediately clicked. Two football-mad blokes in a foreign city. Sometimes distance from England makes the memories of the game and the impact of the game on our lives stronger, clearer, more profound. Or was that just the beer? Regardless, we just loved chatting about the game and we shared some laughs.

It was lovely to see him again; the last time was before our game in December 2017 in “The Goose.” Mac was with some fellow Brighton followers Gary and Barry, and a couple more of his friends joined later.

While I chatted to the three Brighton supporters, Glenn and PD were chatting away to Mark and Kelly and at times they were making so much noise that I had trouble concentrating. The cosy corner was becoming our very own Chuckle Land.

Good times.

We did our usual flit along to the “King’s Arms” and spotted a fair few Brighton fans drinking in this much larger pub. The Sheffield United vs. Liverpool game was on TV. Despite a screen only ten feet away, we gave it scant attention. But we certainly howled when the Blades’ ‘keeper let a shot slither through his legs to give Liverpool a late win. We talked football, we talked about VAR, we spoke about the good old bad old days. We made plans to meet up in Lewes ahead of the return game on New Year’s Day in deepest Sussex.

It was soon time to head off to Stamford Bridge. We hopped on the northbound District Line at Putney Bridge and soon alighted at good old Fulham Broadway. For the fourth time in just twelve days, I was home.

After the odd, and obviously embarrassing, appearance of the Eden Hazard banner at the Liverpool game, it was reassuring to see the correct Frank Lampard one being carried over the heads of those down below us in the lower tier.

It was neither warm nor cold, neither overcast nor sunny. There were three thousand away fans at The Shed End. We had heard that, sadly, N’Golo Kante was out for us.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Tomori – Alonso

Jorginho – Barkley

Willian – Pedro – Mount

Abraham

No huge thoughts about the line-up. In Frank We Trust and all that. But I was a little surprised that Ross Barkley started again. It is interesting how Mason Mount has been played in a wide berth this season; I expected him to join the log-jam in the centre. Maybe Frank rates him that highly that he needs to shoe-horn him into the starting eleven regardless. No problems with Fikayo Tomori starting. He has really impressed of late. I can hardly remember any serious errors at all. More of the same please.

The game began. The away team were in all black, the default colour for alternate kits these days in the same way that yellow shirts seemed to be de rigueur in the ‘seventies.

In the pub beforehand, Mac was rather effusive about Graham Potter, the new Albion manager, and his new way of playing, which seems to be a lot more attack-minded and entertaining than that of Chris Houghton. So, the three of us that had been privy to these comments expected that the away team might have a go at us. In the first-half, for starters, how wrong we were. The first period was totally dominated by ourselves. Brighton rarely entered our half. However, despite all of our possession, at half-time the mood among the home sections was of quiet frustration.

In the first part of the game, there were shots from Jorginho, Abraham and Willian. Typically, a couple of these were blocked. On a quarter of an hour, a sweet cross from Mason Mount was met by Tammy Abraham, but the effort touched the goal frame and the chance was gone.

As Brighton began to be more adventurous, I really enjoyed seeing Mason Mount make an energetic burst down below me in the corner when he spotted that a Brighton player had miss-controlled slightly. He immediately sniffed out the chance to make a challenge, a tackle, and we applauded him as he won a throw-in. The run-down was indicative of his energy and enthusiasm. Some of our more established players please take note.

Neal Maupay caused us the first moment of concern, bursting through the middle, but Kepa read the situation well and ran to block on the edge of his box, using his chest rather than attempting to thwart the attack with his hands.

All of our attempts seemed to be fastidiously blocked. Willian had his usual three or four shots on goal. The best chance came from a cross on the Chelsea left from Marcos Alonso. He carefully picked out Ross Barkley and – cliché coming up – put it on a plate for him. His perfect cross towards the six yard box was met first time by Barkley, but the volley was straight at Brighton ‘keeper Mat Ryan.

The home fans howled in agony.

It was the story of the first-half.

Pedro was set free but fluffed his lines, and Alonso skied another late chance. We had peppered the Brighton goal all half, but the game was scoreless. Throughout the first period, the noise was hardly great, it was hardly average. The away fans provided most of the noise, as per usual. Ross Barkley endured a poor half with little real impact.

As the second-half began, we hoped for better things.

Thankfully, after just five minutes of play, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, defender Adam Webster made a hash of an intended back pass to his ‘keeper. Mount pounced, and Webster clumsily tried to rob our raiding midfielder. The penalty was nailed on.

Surely?

Not these days.

VAR. We waited. Brighton players stood around the referee. The penalty decision was upheld. Shocker.

Annoyingly, some Brighton players still kept chattering away to the referee. Under the circumstances, a quick yellow to the noisiest complainer should have been used. Backchat after VAR? A booking. Bloody good job supporters don’t get yellow cards, though, eh?

Jorginho took the ball, despite Barkley and Pedro being on the pitch.

Is everyone keeping up?

Me neither.

A run, a skip, and the ball was placed into the goal.

Blues 1 Blacks 0.

GET IN.

We kept on the front foot. A fierce effort from Pedro was saved by Ryan, Tammy went close. But then Brighton came to life a little, attacking us in the way that perhaps we had expected from the off. The visitors’ best chance came from an in swinging corner, their first of the entire match, taken from in front of their supporters, and the delivery was headed down by Dan Burn and the ball bounced up onto the Chelsea crossbar.

We sighed a collective “phew.”

Callum Hudson-Odoi replaced Pedro and then there was a Sarri-esque substitution with Mateo Kovacic replacing the under-firing Ross Barkley. Callum began on the Chelsea left, and it was his confident run from a deep run into a central area that allowed a pass towards Willian. The winger, often the subject of much wittering and complaining from some in our midst, advanced before a trademark shimmy to gain a yard of space. His slash past Burn was deflected in at the near post.

Blues 2 Blacks 0.

GET IN.

I looked at one of Willian’s chief detractors in the eye.

Surely the game was safe now? It absolutely felt like it. There was one extra golden chance, when Tammy attempted a subtle dink over the Brighton ‘keeper from inside the penalty box but the chance went begging.

At last a home win, at last a clean sheet, and there was relief from us all. As we made our exit, the sight of Frank Lampard walking on the Stamford Bridge turf and clapping, his arms above his head, was a welcome sight. This is an evolving motif of this season, at Stamford Bridge, and it is a lovely development. A simple act, but it brings so much warmth.

Let’s hope we all have more to cheer, to applaud, in games to come.

There is a positive vibe at Chelsea at the moment. It seems that our Chelsea has been handed back to us on a silver salver.

And it feels good.

Safe travels to all those heading over to Lille for the game on Wednesday.

My next game is on this side of the English Channel, just.

See you at Southampton.

Tales From Three Leaps

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 14 September 2019.

Football – of the right kind – was back after a self-imposed interruption of a fortnight. The international break saw England play Bulgaria and then Kosovo, and despite both matches being shown on “free-to-air” terrestrial ITV, I saw just five minutes of the second game. Even with appearances from Ross Barkley and Mason Mount, I’m afraid that my interest in our national team continues to wane. In the break, instead, I saw two consecutive home games involving my local team. Frome Town drew 1-1 with Evesham United and then beat Barnstaple Town 3-1. Both were excellent matches and I continue to feel an emotional attachment to my most local team, something that I struggle to do with England.

But now it was all about Chelsea.

The Chuckle Bus carried just two of its Brothers to our game against Wolverhampton Wanderers. Parky was still recuperating after his hip operation and Glenn was otherwise engaged. I was parked-up in the city centre at 11.30am, and the two of us – PD and CA – were soon settled in “The Sunbeam” pub outside the city’s bus depot and not too far from the train station, right in the middle of everything. There were signs saying “HOME FANS ONLY” but we skipped past the security guard on the door and were soon inside, despite PD wearing shorts and thus allowing a loud and proud Chelsea tattoo on his leg to be seen by all.

We kept to ourselves and there was no bother nor trouble. This was despite the presence of some locals of a certain vintage who – if their clobber was anything to go by – might have been involved in some fisticuffs a few years back. However, not everyone who goes to football these days who sports a Stoney is a psycho and not everyone who likes the Lacoste label is a lad. We were joined by Scott, Paul and Kim. The mixture of accents must have confused the bouncers, although I suspect that Scott’s Wolves mate, who he met at the Chelsea Legends game at Real Madrid a few months back, might well have aided their entrance into the pub.

The sun was out, we had a good chat, and I liked being able to partake in a little bit of people-watching through the windows. By the time we had decided to move on, there was a large gaggle of Wolves lads drinking outside but the occasional Chelsea fan wearing colours who walked past received no trouble.

“Wouldn’t have been like this in the ‘eighties, PD.”

Wolves fans wearing all different types of replica shirts waltzed past. I soon realised how off the mark the home club was in 2018/19 with the yellow shirt rather than the warmer old gold of the current design.

There were more “home fans only” signs in a few other pubs. One day I’ll make it inside “The Billy Wright”, but maybe not on a match day. We bumped into Alex – originally from Sofia – and he moaned that the “away pub” down near the train station was rammed, so we decided to cut our losses and leisurely walk down to the ground, passing the university buildings and the leafy surrounds of the local church. Molineux was soon spotted, and we disappeared down to the infamous “subway” which was the scene of many an ambush in days of yore.

Despite my decision to forego home programmes this season, I just could not resist purchasing the £5 special edition that marked the one-hundred and thirtieth anniversary of the club moving to their current site. The famous old club was one of the twelve members of the inaugural Football League which began in 1888/89 and Molineux is their fourth home. The programme was wrapped in an evocative panorama featuring an artist’s adaptation of the stadium in 1889, 1958 and 2019. I can well remember the multi-span roof of the stand which used to sit on the land from where we would be watching the game in 2019. The old stadium was in poor repair for many years, but Sir Jack Hayward, whose statue welcomes spectators as they arrive with eyes blinking after walking through the darkness of the subway, helped renovate the stadium with huge success in the ‘nineties and the stadium has since been improved with a new double-deck north stand. It works well. If Goodison Park is my favourite away venue, then Molineux is surely my favourite “new build.” It is ridiculously close to the city centre, there is a perfect use of old gold in much of its structure and it all seems to fit together with a minimum of fuss.

In fact, I bought two programmes. When I was over in Italy during the summer, I spent a few hours in a bar on the beach in which one of the bar staff was a Swedish lad who, after I told him I was a Chelsea fan – I soon get this key fact out of the way pretty sharpish when I start chatting to a stranger for any length of time – he told me that he was a Wolves fan, and had been to Molineux a few times. I decided to send him a copy and he was very grateful when I quickly messaged him.

We waited in the cool of the concourse, PD supping lager, and little old me on my third and fourth Diet Cokes of the day. We welcomed a few friends as they arrived.

We made our way inside and I was well happy with our seats; right on the half-way line, just three rows from the front. For the FA Cup game in 2017, we were located in the lofty heights of the double-decker to my right. For this game, all 2,600 Chelsea were strewn out along the entire length of the lower tier of the Steve Bull Stand. I knew from the off that getting consistent singing from us all would be a difficult task.

I centered my gaze on the ten outfield players going through their warm-ups. There were three centre-halves involved; Christensen, Rudiger and Tomori. I wondered what plan Frank Lampard had hatched.

The sun was beating down. This would not be “Dublin in July hot”, but this was a lovely early autumn afternoon. “Love will tear us apart” by Joy Division improved my enjoyment of the moment, but this was then cut short as we were treated to a prolonged display of pyrotechnics just before the teams entered the pitch. Our faces were scorched by the heat of the flames.

OK – old gold, orange, I get it. I can make the connection between the fingers of flame which darted into the air and the club colours, but on a bright sunny day it seemed rather pointless.

Surely a display at night games only would be better.

Old gold and black.

Perfect.

The teams entered the pitch. We had jettisoned the blue shirts, and even the blue socks from Norwich City, and were in all white.

The team?

Arrizabalaga

Christensen – Rudiger – Tomori

Azpilicueta – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Willian – Abraham – Mount

It was an Antonio Conte-style 3-4-3.

The game began and it was a quiet beginning. Tammy was soon booed for his Aston Villa connections. On the Wolves right, we were treated to a few lightning bursts from Adama Traore – built like a sprinter or a modern-day winger in rugby – but who (classic football cliché warning) “flattered to deceive.” We looked composed on the ball without creating too much. Things were a little quiet off the pitch too. It took a full twenty-five minutes for a pitch-long chant to unite the Chelsea support. I spotted that Willian and Mason Mount swapped wings once or twice. We tried hard to reach Tammy, but it was a struggle. If I was honest, I’d say that Wolves possibly edged the opening half-an-hour, if only in terms of possession. But there were no efforts on target. A wild shot from Willian which blazed over was our one notable effort. Before the game, in whispered tones, a few of us had been worried about the three games in the next week.

Wolves away, Valencia at home, Liverpool at home.

“We could…possibly…lose all three.”

On thirty-one minutes, everything changed. An attack on our right floundered and the ball was knocked away by a Wolves defender. The ball rolled at pace towards the onrushing Fikayo Tomori and he shaped to hit the ball without the need of a second touch. I snapped just as he connected. We watched, eyes bulging, as the ball made the net ripple.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBASTARD.

Oh my.

What a goal for this match, for this season, for any season.

His leap in front of me was euphoric.

After a few seconds…

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us nowwwww.”

Chris : “Come on moi little dimonddddds.”

Three minutes later, with the Wolves defence on their heels, we found our way into the box. Mount appeared to be fouled but the ball rebounded off a Wolves leg to Tammy who spun one-hundred and eighty degrees and lashed it in. The net bulged again. There was a kiss to the Chelsea support from an ebullient Tammy, back among the goals again.

Seven minutes later, and after a slight Wolves resurgence, a Jorginho cross was headed out. Alonso picked up the loose ball.

I had commented to Alan earlier that because we only had Tammy up front, our crosses needed to be on the money.

Alonso’s cross was.

He picked out Tammy perfectly and the tall striker headed home with ridiculous ease. It was a fantastic goal. Yet more lovely celebrations. I caught his leap towards the Chelsea support in the corner on film. This was another great celebration. It pleased me that I evidently took a better photograph of Tammy’s leap than that of Tomori.

Bloody hell.

We were 3-0 up at the break.

We could hardly believe it.

We had caught fire in the last fifteen minutes and the Wolves fans standing in the South Stand, the old Kop, were as scorched as we were from the pre-match flames. Our three goals might have flattered us a little, but we cared not. Wolves, after all, had not really forced a save from Kepa the entire half.

During the first forty-five minutes, I had mentioned our 5-0 win at the same stadium in 2003, which was my first-ever visit to Molineux. Alan had then spoken to me about his first visit too.

“To her dying day, my Mum never knew I came up here in 1977.”

Alan was just fourteen – I was eleven – and had been going to Chelsea for a few years. Our famous game in 1977, in which our travelling support was officially banned, was a huge occasion. Alan simply had to be there. He had told his mother that he was out to see friends and stayed out the entire day, via a secret trip to Wolverhampton, returning late. In those days – God, they seem so distant, before mobile phones and constant attention and interaction – kids would often disappear for hours on end. On this day – with Wolves needing a point to secure the Second Division Championship and with Chelsea requiring a point to gain promotion – thousands of Chelsea flooded Molineux. We drew 1-1 and, as I have reported previously, my one recollection of that day was hearing the result on “Final Score” at my grandparents’ house, opening the front door, running up the slope to the main road and jumping up, punching the air in a leap not too dissimilar to those of Tomori and Tammy forty-two years later.

Alan and I chuckled about the ridiculousness of it all.

We imagined Alan returning home at 10pm, in a scene not too dissimilar to that of Perry’s return from Manchester in the “Harry Enfield Show.”

“You’re back late, son.”

“Aye, I yam.”

“Why are you talking funny?”

“What yow talking about? Anyway, I’ve brought you a present.”

“What’s this, pork scratchings?”

“Bostin’ ah.”

Kurt Zouma replaced Toni Rudiger at half-time. Very soon, he was causing a few nervous jitters in the away section. However, we withstood some early Wolves pressure. On fifty-five minutes, Jorginho lofted the ball forward to Tammy. He controlled the ball, stood tall against Conor Coady, twisted into a little space, leaving Coady for dead, then struck a low shot past Rui Patricio.

He had silenced the Yam Yam Boo Boys in fine style with a sublime hat-trick.

Smiles everywhere.

Alan, knowing full well our past, uttered the immortal line :

“We’ve got the draw, let’s go for the win” and those close by chuckled.

Mount was set free and should have scored after darting past the ‘keeper after a magnificent pass from Jorginho, but his effort was wide.

With twenty minutes to go, Wolves grabbed a goal back after a corner was scrambled in after Kepa made an initial save. We would only learn much later that it was Tammy’s fourth of the game. Dave, playing wide, had several gut-busting runs down the right and should have created more with his final ball. At times, we were purring.

Ross Barkley replaced Kovacic. Michy replaced Tammy. We kept attacking. There was a lovely looseness to everything we did. Michy impressed me in the final quarter and could have scored a couple himself.

Bizarrely, Patrick Cutrone made it 4-2 with five minutes to go, stabbing home from close range after Kepa fumbled.

…maybe Alan was right after all.

“Bloody hell, we are 4-2 up, why are we all as nervous as hell?”

Wolves appealed for a penalty. The referee did not give it. VAR did not give it.

What a fucking non-story.

With six minutes of extra-time signalled, we found ourselves clock-watching.

“Come on ref, blow up.”

In the final minute, Michy controlled a bouncing ball, and fed in Mount in the inside-left channel. With ridiculous ease, he turned his defender and slotted home.

5-2.

Memories of the 5-0 in 2003.

Game, set and match.

Beautiful.

At the end of the game, Tammy grabbed the match ball. What a time to be alive for this young lad. May he go from strength to strength.

We are all right behind him.

On Tuesday, we reassemble at Stamford Bridge for our first Champions League match since Barcelona away in March 2018.

I can hear the music now…

…see you there.

 

Tales From Out East

Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 24 August 2019.

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

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

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

I was in a good place.

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

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

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

Soul food is sometimes the only answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So here was the team :

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Zouma – Emerson

Jorginho – Kovacic

Mount – Barkley – Pulisic

Abraham

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

“Top marks.”

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

I commented to Gary :

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

We were, of course, stood all match.

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

Let’s go to work.

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

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

Yellow. Green. Red.

No.

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

“Oh Tammy Tammy. Tammy Tammy Tammy Abraham.”

We roared his name.

Beautiful.

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

Fackinell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh.

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

“He needed stronger wrists there, Gal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whack.

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

The Norwich manager was heard to utter “Farkenell.”

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

“OH TAMMY TAMMY.”

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

It went to VAR.

How tedious.

Two loud chants from the away end.

“FUCK VAR.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

No goal.

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

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

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

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

It was bloody lovely.

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

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

Good times, good people.

It was a blast.

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

I slept well.

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

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

Happy days.