Our third match in this season’s UEFA Europa Conference would be a home game against Armenian side Noah. Ever since the draw took place a couple of months ago, I had been flinching at all of the puny puns emanating from everyone concerning the team’s name, but I also knew that it would be remarkable should I not join in at some stage.
I stumbled across a reference that my good friend Alan might appreciate. The day before the game, late on, I messaged him about the imminent game.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark.”
He replied with an emoji of a wide grin.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark” is a Cocteau Twins song from their “Lullabies” EP from October 1982.
You all knew that, right?
On the day of the match, the Thursday, I worked an early shift, finishing at 2pm, and my thoughts centred on Noah being, quite possibly, the worst team that the full Chelsea side might ever play. The 21-0 aggregate score line against Jeunesse Hautcharage in the ECWC in 1971 drifted into my mind a few times too. The scores were 8-0 away and then 13-0 at home and I wondered about comparisons. One of that Luxembourg team wore glasses apparently although there is no truth in the urban myth that one of his team mates only had one arm.
Just as I left the office, I could not resist. I turned to my work colleague Stu and said that Noah’s formation later in the day would be 2-2-2-2-2 and I heard a hollow laugh inside me.
Fackinell.
I collected PD and Parky and we were away.
A couple of days before the game, however, there had been a double strike of sad news.
On the Tuesday, we all heard that Doreen Bruce had passed away. I first met Doreen, a proud wee Scot, out in Kiev in 2019, and our paths crossed on many occasions over the recent past. Doreen was big friends with Aroha and Luke, and they were always seen together. I remember spending some time with Doreen in that square in Porto ahead of the CL Final in 2021. She loved Chelsea and she loved Scotland just as much. I always enjoyed seeing her patriotic posts from Hampden Park and elsewhere. She was a real character, full of bubby energy, and will certainly be missed.
RIP Doreen.
On the Wednesday, we learned that John Dempsey passed away at the age of seventy-eight. He was an old stalwart from our early ‘seventies golden era, was one of Chopper’s “assassins” and was a respected defender. I saw John play in three of the first five Chelsea games that I ever attended, in 1974 and 1975. I remember him winding up some Arsenal fans at half-time in a game at Stamford Bridge a few years back. I also remember him playing alongside Peter Osgood at Philadelphia Fury in the late ‘seventies. I believe he worked for many years with underprivileged children.
RIP John.
The drive up to London was uneventful. While I waited for a pizza at “Koka” on the North End Road, I smiled when I heard “Kiss Of Life” by Sade being played. From Rio de Janeiro in July, to West Ham away in September, to the North End Road in November, this singer is haunting me this season.
I trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Luke, Alex from Houston – again – and also my mate Leggo from Bedford, but also from The Benches in 1984.
Ah, 1984.
Just a very quick mention of our next game in that 1984/85 season. On Tuesday 6 November 1984, Chelsea beat Walsall 3-0 in a League Cup Third Round Replay in front of a pretty reasonable 19,502. Keith Jones followed up his brace against Cov with one goal, while David Speedie and Kerry Dixon scored too.
We were joined by some friends from the US; Jesus, Austin, Tim, Hooman, Detroit Bob.
Everyone together. Everyone tacking the Mick. Tons of laughs.
Football, eh?
I loved to hear that Doreen had bequeathed her season ticket to Luke’s little three-year-old son Archie – as featured last season – and Luke had spent a large part of the Wednesday sorting that out. I also loved the fact that Archie has a ticket for the trip to Heidenheim in a few weeks.
We saw the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen. It looked remarkably attack-minded.
Jorgensen
Disasi – Tosin – Badiashile – Veiga
Enzo
George – Nkunku – Joao Felix – Mudryk
Guiu
Although I was inside with a fair few minutes to go before kick-off, it seemed that we had missed a minute of applause in memory of John Dempsey. The teams appeared as the pre-game rituals began in earnest. I could not help but think that the Europa Conference anthem sounded like something that Baltimora may have recorded in around 1985.
The teams stood in silence in memory of those who had perished in the floods in Valencia.
I was pretty impressed with the Armenians’ support; maybe a thousand or so. There were a few multi-coloured Armenian flags dotted around.
The over-eager PA announcer was shouting at his mic for us to “make some noise.”
Oh do shut up, you twat.
The game began with Chelsea attacking The Shed.
However, it was the unfancied visitors who dominated the very early moments of the game. A rapid counter-attack resulted in an effort on goal that Filip Jorgensen did well to save. They followed this up with a couple of corners.
Alongside me, Alan was getting confused.
“This lot only took about fifty to The New Saints.”
“Nah, that was Astana.”
This new-fangled format is succeeding in confusing all of us. I said to Alan that we seem to be remotely connected to teams that our opponents play, but we don’t. On the same night, Heidenheim were at Hearts, yet we won’t play Hearts, nor TNS for that matter.
It’s like some bizarre inter-related family tree, with off-shoots appearing in the unlikeliest of places.
“A Family Tree Of Bastards.”
The visitors threatened again. They definitely had the best of the early attacks.
But Chelsea soon responded, with Joao Felix getting a sniff from Tyrique George on the right.
As is a superstition at European home games, Alan shared out some wine gums.
“Want some Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops, mate?”
As the game developed, we grew stronger.
On twelve minutes, Enzo sent over a firm corner from Parkyville and Tosin was able to steer the ball in with a well-timed header. I was lucky enough to get that one on film.
While we were up and celebrating, the game restarted. I was looking at Alan, expecting him to soon launch our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.
I had to prompt him.
“What’s that, Al?”
But in no time at all, I looked up to see that Guiu had intercepted a terrible square pass from one Noah defender to another and he had calmly slotted the ball home to make it 2-0.
Fackinell.
Those goals had to be the quickest back-to-back goals in our history surely?
Five minutes later, Enzo again swung in a corner and it was Disasi who smashed it over the line in a virtual carbon copy of our first goal. This was getting silly.
Three minutes later, on just twenty-one minutes, Guiu robbed the ball off a visitor and the ball fell to Enzo, who picked out Joao Felix. He advanced and clipped the ball over the hapless ‘keeper Ognjen Chancharevich.
Blimey.
By now, Alan and I were relaxing and just enjoying the night, with plenty of humorous anecdotes keeping us happy. What a nice time.
Just after the half-hour mark, Mykhailo Mudryk took a pot-shot that was so high and wide of the target that it came down to Earth near the West Stand corner flag, and still stayed on the pitch.
His next effort was much more pleasing. He picked up the ball outside the penalty area, touched the ball forward to set himself, and then unleashed a perfect curler into the top right-hand corner of the goal. I took a photo just as it flew off his boot. What a cracker.
By now, a few folk around me were referencing the 13-0 win over Hautcharage in 1971.
Two minutes later, a counter-attack and the ball was fed to Joao Felix, who picked his way through and slotted home off the leg of a covering white-shirted defender.
I pointed at Lee a few seats away.
“It’s gonna happen. It’s gonna happen.”
We were 6-0 up at half-time, with the away team hopefully weakening in the second-half, when would the goals stop?
In both Hautcharage games in 1971, we were 6-0 up at half-time too.
At half-time, what was everyone thinking?
10-0?
13-0?
14-0?
I said to a few friends that it was a shame that we weren’t playing them over two legs. That 21-0 aggregate score would be in trouble. I am sure it is still the highest aggregate score in UEFA history.
As the second-half began, some substitutions.
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Guiu.
Cesare Casadei for Enzo.
What did that mean? I wasn’t sure.
The pace slackened in the second-half, but we still dominated the chances. Benoit Badiashile soon volleyed over a cross. The Noah ‘keeper Chancharevich twice foiled Felix, who – along with Mudryk – were the two players that took my eye.
Christopher Nkunku slammed a shot at goal but it clipped the top of the crossbar.
Carney Chukwuemeka for George.
On the sixty-ninth minute, fancy footwork from Felix released Nkunku. His first shot was blocked by the unlucky ‘keeper but the ball came back out for Nkunku to poke home at an angle between defender and post. The blue balloon stayed in his sock. It was no time to take the Mick.
On seventy-six minutes, a rather soft penalty was awarded after Dewsbury-Hall was fouled inside the six-yard box. Nkunku drilled it home.
Chelsea 8 Noah 0.
Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well.
I wondered if we were already promoted from this league.
A rare Noah corner elicited some high-pitched shrieks and much flag-waving from the Armenians in the far corner.
On seventy-nine minutes, debutant Samuel Rak-Sakyi replaced Nkunku.
A few late chances were spurned and so the elusive double figures were not reached. They stay as an elusive target. Were Noah the worst team that I had ever seen us play? Yes, I think so, and I have seen us play Tottenham a few times too, mind.
What a fun night though. I loved it.
It had, indeed, been an Ark Lark.
Dedicated to the memory of John Dempsey who scored against Real Madrid in Athens in 1971 and to the memory of Doreen Bruce who was with us against Manchester City in Porto in 2021, fifty years later.
The first midweek game at Stamford Bridge of the new season meant that I needed to swap my shift at work to 6am to 2pm. I was up early, at 4.30am, and I left the house at 5.30am. During the last few minutes of my twenty-five-minute commute, I realised that my brain had been occupied for virtually the whole time with thoughts of football, Chelsea, the evening’s game and the blog.
“All these bloody new players.”
“Us supporters need time to get to know them, it’s not easy. It’s not an immediate bond.”
“God knows how they themselves manage to form working relationships and decent friendships.”
“Nobody left apart from Reece James who has Chelsea DNA, experienced Cobham, knows our history.”
“Conor Gallagher. Fackinell.”
“Seems like an alien club to me right now.”
“That disconnect is real.”
“Feels like being witness to market traders. Players in. Players out. Commodities.”
“Yeah, we like to get to know players. But it takes time. Build relationships. Build understanding.”
“This ain’t like some sort of Swingers’ Club where players toss their car keys into a bowl and we hope for the best.”
“Tales From The Swingers Club. That should raise a few eyebrows.”
“I am a bit too old to call the players heroes, but this lot of heroes seem to be like ships that pass in the night.”
“Could do with some coffee when I get to work.”
“Chelsea seems like a decaffeinated football club at the moment.”
“Need to plan when I have to write the blog over the next week or so. Games coming thick and fast.”
“Am I going to do a full-blown retrospective of 1984/85 this season? A big ask. Going to be difficult.”
“Could do 2004/05 to be honest. Another big season.”
“Or 1994/95. Our first European campaign in twenty-three years.”
“Decisions. Decisions.”
“Man City got a reasonable amount of views. Not brilliant, but not bad. Would be nice to continue to grow the figures. This year’s total could reach twice the amount of last year. Big breakthrough.”
“Fuck knows why. Wasn’t the best of seasons.”
“Need to keep things fresh.”
“Not get stale.”
“Thank God for Europe this season.”
“Not convinced this tie will be easy though.”
“A slender lead from tonight maybe. Then a nervous away game next week.”
“Frome Saturday. Chelsea Sunday. Frome Monday. Big weekend.”
Will try to squeeze the blog in on Friday night.”
“Wonder what time I will get home tonight?”
The day flashed past. I collected PD and Parky outside work at just after 2pm. I was parked up at 5pm. I shot off for a pizza on the North End Road and then joined the two of them down at “McGettigan’s” for a lone pint of Diet Coke. There were many more replica shirts – of all eras – in this pub, compared to the old school outliers “The Bedford Arms” and “The Eight Bells” to say nothing of a few more similar pubs dotted around the borough. It’s to be expected, I suppose. Chelsea are not high up on the list of shirt and scarf wearers but there’s always many more in the pubs around Fulham Broadway than further afield. Luke and his Dad, plus Salisbury Steve had joined us. Time for a little natter.
There were rumours of a few of the six-hundred Servette fans causing a bit of a ruckus out on the Fulham Road as they approached the stadium; they were kettled near the old “La Reserve” hotel apparently. This was a big night for them. I guess they don’t often visit London. Certainly not against teams that have won the European Cup on two occasions. I guess they needed to make a scene.
Inside, my worries about empty seats were unwarranted. There were just a few in the top corners of the East Upper and the away corner of course. There were plenty of Servette banners and flags. Their colours were Torino pomegranate, a little like Sparta Prague too.
Joao Felix was re-introduced to the Stamford Bridge faithful.
“And don’t get sent off in your first game this time, mate.”
Due to a variety of reasons, I am not going to the away game in Switzerland next week. I am gambling on us getting through to the next phase – “the league table phase” – and the hope of getting to two of our away games.
Alan is going with his usual travel companions Nick the Whip, Pete and Gary.
“Nick’s looking forward to going to Switzerland. It gives him a chance to visit his money.”
News had come through about our team. It caused a few eyebrows to be raised. The back four was, ahem, interesting.
Jorgensen
Disasi – Tosin – Badiashile – Veiga
Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku
Neto – Guiu – Mudryk
Or something like that.
A first viewing for me of Filip Jorgensen and Tosin Adarabioyo.
Welcome to the club, chaps.
There was another DJ down by the pitch, clearly having way more fun than all of the other people in the stadium put together.
The kick-off time of 8pm soon arrived.
Flames, but no UEFA anthem. Maybe the winner of the yearly Eurovision Song Contest could devise a different Conference League anthem each year. Does it have that feel to it? Maybe. I’m just glad to get out and about in Europe with Chelsea again – hopefully, no chickens being counted here – and I honestly could not care less if supporters of other teams might have a giggle at our expense.
All roads lead to Wroclaw, right?
Chodźmy do pracy.
The large flag with the two golden stars floated atop the heads to my left in the Matthew Harding Lower. The last European night here was against Real Madrid in the April of 2023.
You can write your own punchline.
Moises Caicedo was the captain for the night and he bizarrely feels like a seasoned veteran, a crowd favourite, but the bloke only played his first game for us just over a year ago.
The game began and Chelsea attacked The Whitewall, The Middle, The West Side, The Tea Bar.
Within the very first minute, there was a really nice break down our left and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall pushed the ball towards the spritely Marc Guiu, who advanced and tried his best to regain control after over-running the ball. As the ball sped away from him, he tried in vain to head the ball in by the base of the post. He was offside anyway.
As the game got going, we dominated possession but it was hardly thrilling stuff. There was a buzz of noise from the home areas but that soon petered out.
After fifteen minutes, Jorgensen was called into action to tip a shot from an angle over the bar.
On Sunday, there was something about Pedro Neto that reminded me of Kevin Wilson. Likewise, as this game developed, Marc Guiu reminded me a little of Marcos Alonso. It must be a Barcelona thing.
Guiu was looking as determined as any, although Neto on the right was clearly trying to make an impression with his speed and craftiness. Guiu set up Mykhailo Mudryk who thumped wide. It was an awful finish.
Just after, a fantastic low cross from the Servette right was swept across the face of our goal – the famous “corridor of uncertainty” which always seems to sound like a description of the route to the Wetherspoons toilets – but thankfully there was no attacker able to pounce. Servette definitely grew with confidence in the final fifteen minutes of the first-half.
I had just texted a few friends in the US – who were not able to watch on TV – that it had all been pretty dull so far and that we had yet to muster a shot on goal. Neto, from a central position, at that moment, shot at goal but the Servette ‘keeper Jeremy Frick easily saved. Thirty-one long minutes had passed.
That fantastic cross from the Servette right was then repeated and although there were bodies in the six-yard box this time, nobody could thankfully connect.
All along I had predicted a 1-0 win to us, but I had real fears of us going out in the second leg, St, Gallen all over again.
The home crowd were not happy with the fair being presented and grew impatient.
“The trouble with possession-based football is that there seems to be a lack of intensity.”
When we conceded a late corner, all of our players just ambled back as if they were just returning to their cars after a leisurely ramble around a village fete.
On forty-three minutes a shot from Christopher Nkunku. I had forgotten that he was playing.
Yes, there were boos at half-time.
It had been, in the main, dreadful.
Soon into the second-half, attacking us in The Sleepy, Mudryk stretched his legs and powered down the left wing before running out of steam. He’s such an enigma, and I am not so sure he is going to get much playing time if Maresca keeps to his laborious set patterns, getting the opposition to sit deep after boring them to death, to say nothing of us fans.
We attacked down the left again and Dewsbury-Hall fed in Nkunku. He sped forward and it looked like he would struggle to reach the ball before Frick. Thankfully he poked it on, but the Servette ‘keeper bought it hook, line and sinker.
The referee pointed to the spot. I don’t know why but I hardly moved. I have rarely celebrated a penalty with less fervour in my life. The ghost of VAR? I definitely think so.
Nkunku slammed it home, just past the gloves of Frick.
Chelsea 1 Servette 0.
Alan : THTCAUN.
Chris : COMLD.
I was gutted that I missed Nkunku’s celebration with the blue balloon. That would have been a fine photo. Bollocks.
There then followed a ridiculous passage of play. The industrious Guiu chased a through ball. Frick met hit a long way from home but made a Chelsea-style hash of clearing the ball. Guiu charged it down and the ball spun away into a very appetising position for Guiu to stab home. Remarkably, the young Catalan was unable to finish and Frick miraculously scrambled back to save. Guiu then had two further efforts from close range but the ‘keeper somehow blocked them all.
Fackinell.
The place finally made some noise.
CAREFREE!
There was another pacey run from Mydruk and the noise continued for a few fleeting moments.
57 minutes :
Cole Palmer for Marc Guiu.
Noni Madueke for Pedro Neto.
Enzo Fernandes for Nkunku.
Servette, to be fair to them, then seemed to have a spell of their own. The frustration in the ranks of the home support rose again.
It was hardly inspiring stuff.
However, on sixty-seven minutes, Enzo spotted the strong run into space by Madueke and his lofted ball was to perfection. Madueke took it in his stride and, surprisingly instead of coming inside to connect with his left foot, slammed it unceremoniously into the roof of Frick’s net with his right peg.
GET IN.
Chelsea 2 Servette 0.
It was a fine goal.
78 minutes :
Malo Gusto for Disasi.
There was a defensive blunder but The Honorable Jeremy Guillemenot, Third Earl of the Geneva Canton, was unable to capitalise, and we had Jorgensen to thank for a really fine save down low. Servette kept going and Tiemoko Ouattara’s shot dipped wickedly after a deflection of Tosin and the ball struck the top of the bar. Phew.
84 minutes :
Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.
Servette still kept coming. A header went wide. Then, late on, a corner was swept in and The Honorable Jeremy watched in horror as he somehow managed to push the ball over from what seemed to be a position right under the bar. Another phew.
It ended 2-0.
If I am honest, the visitors could easily have drawn this game. It had been a mediocre performance from us, but my expectations after seeing the starting XI were not sky-high. Let’s hope it is enough to see us qualify for the next phase.
The attendance was a pretty healthy 37,902.
Fair play to Chelsea. My ticket only cost me £27. Parky’s ticket was just £13.50.
And fair play to the six-hundred from Geneva. Although the noise that they produced wasn’t great, due to their numbers, they kept singing all night long. Absolutely magnificent stuff.
Although our heads seem full of the two domestic cups for the moment, here was a sobering trip back to normality and the league campaign. They really don’t get much tougher than this one.
Liverpool vs. Chelsea.
Gulp.
I was up early, at 5.30am, and I soon found myself outside PD’s house in Frome at seven o’clock. Salisbury Steve had driven up to Frome to join us and, despite being pleased to see Steve, there were a few special words for PD.
“Happy birthday mate.”
It was PD’s sixty-second birthday. I am not sure how that is possible, but it is. It doesn’t seem too long ago that I first met PD on a train home from Cardiff City almost forty years ago.
We left Somerset behind us and soon crossed the border into Wiltshire where I picked up Parky at just after 7.30am. By a twist of fate, the game at Liverpool was on the seventh anniversary of a match that we had attended at Anfield during our championship season of 2016/17. That was a Wednesday too.
And just as we celebrated PD’s fifty-fifth birthday with a famous pub-crawl in central Liverpool in 2017, we were also looking to partake in something similar for his sixty-second birthday. In 2017, we visited four pubs on Dale Street. I had a similar strategy for 2024.
Regardless of the football, we all hoped for a decent time.
There was heavier traffic than usual. However, after stopping for the usual breakfast at Strensham Services between Tewkesbury and Worcester, I was happy with our progress. We didn’t speak too much about the game. I did utter an opinion that most Chelsea supporters, I suspected, would swap a loss at Anfield – “even a heavy loss” – for a triumph in the up-coming League Cup Final.
It was a familiar drive into Liverpool. We crossed over Queens Drive at The Old Swan rather than take a right turn to either Anfield or Goodison and after a few miles, the huge carcass of the former Littlewoods Pools building appeared on our left. This was once an impressive art deco structure but has been abandoned for many years. It is currently awaiting a revamp as a media and studio centre.
We had a little chat about the football pools, and how Littlewoods and Vernons were based in Liverpool, whereas Zetters was based in London. I was reminded that the former Liverpool Polytechnic was re-named as John Moores University after the first owner of Littlewoods. The buildings of this university dominate the final approach into the city. John Moores was a director and chairman of Everton at various times from 1960 to 1977. His nephew, David Moores, was Liverpool chairman from 1991 to 2010.
One wonders how much pools money was filtered into the support of the city’s two football clubs over the years.
Driving into the city was easy. I easily spotted the two cathedrals. I dropped down the hill but Everton’s new stadium was just out of sight to our right. My route took me close to Walker Art Gallery. In March of last year, on my way home for a short break in Newcastle and Edinburgh, I had dropped into Liverpool’s city centre to visit an exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery about casuals. I spent around ninety minutes, appropriately enough, at the exhibition which detailed the rise and spread of casual subculture, which some say began on Liverpool’s Scotland Road in 1977. Although, the geographical roots are often argued, Merseyside is surely the spiritual home of the casual movement.
I really enjoyed the scope and detail of the exhibition, which I caught during the last few days of its run. Not only were there detailed descriptions of how football and fashion fused together, there were vintage original pieces of clothing from the original era, plus some excellent pieces of art from the football world. I was pleased to see a copy of “The Face” from 1983 that I still own to this day. The exhibition was superb and I loved it. It was right up my Gwladys Street.
I include some photographs.
I then drove within touching distance of Lime Street station, always the scene of much shenanigans in past decades. I remember arriving there for the first time in May 1985 and how I gingerly caught a bus up to Anfield for my very first game in the city. I remember putting on a “Scouse accent” as I paid the driver for my ticket. These were nervous steps for me. Liverpool had a gruesome reputation as being unsafe for away fans, despite the media’s view of the city’s football fans as being cheeky rascals and no more. I remember seeing a Chelsea fan on the bus that I recognised at the time. I have not seen him for years and years so I was pleased to see him at Middlesbrough a few weeks ago. I was pleased that he still goes.
Around that time, Liverpool had been the dominant force in English football since the mid-‘seventies. In those four seasons of First Division football from 1984/85 to 1987/88, I went to every Chelsea game at Anfield. It seemed a massive match in those times.
1984/85 : I travelled up by train from Stoke-on-Trent and watched from a packed away corner as we narrowly lost 4-3. This was a Saturday morning game, with the risk of crowd trouble ruling out a later kick-off. I was surprised how quiet The Kop was.
1985/86 : another trip up by train from Stoke, another morning game, and a fantastic 1-1 draw, with Pat Nevin knocking in a very late equaliser. There were around five hundred Rangers fans in our part of the Kemlyn Road. When the goal went in, at our end, I literally could not move.
1986/87 : another morning game, this time on a Sunday afternoon, and live on TV. A poor performance from us, we lost 0-3. I would later spot myself on the TV coverage on two separate occasions, a big thrill back then.
1987/88 : I travelled up from Somerset for this Sunday game, again on TV, and in a close match we narrowly lost 1-2 despite going ahead in the first-half, the winning goal being scored excruciatingly late.
These four away games have taken on a seminal role in my own Chelsea story. I enjoy so many memories from those four seasons; the players, the songs, the tribalism, the fashions, the real element of danger, the sense of place, the whole nine yards. They seemed huge, they seemed significant, as though I was taking part in some sort of Footballing Zeitgeist.
Sigh.
Back to fucking 2024.
The plan was to leave Dodge at 7am and be parked-up at midday. I pulled in to the car park opposite our Premier Inn at 11.58am.
It’s a good job I work in logistics.
The first two pubs of PD’s birthday pub crawl were revisits from 2017.
“The Vernon.”
Famous for its sloping floors, it was eerily similar to seven years ago; quiet, save for a few foreign Liverpool fans dotted around. The floor was sloping and so were my two pints of “Estrella”, sloping nicely straight down my neck.
“Thomas Rigby’s.”
We sat at almost the same table as 2017, but – alas – the jovial Evertonian landlord had moved on. It was quieter than seven years ago. A pint of “Prava” and a pint of “Madri” went down very well. We were starting to relax nicely. This was Steve’s first-ever visit to Liverpool. I tried not to bore him to death with intricate details of too many past trips.
“The Saddle.”
This one was right next to pub number two, no more than a ten second walk away. We arrived here just before 3pm so I soon sorted out tickets on my ‘phone for the Aston Villa cup replay which had gone on sale at that time. Fair play to Villa for knocking a further £5 off the cheap price of £25 for Chelsea season ticket holders. The drinks – another “Madri” for me – were going down well.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall.”
And this pub was right next to pub number three. This is allegedly the oldest pub in Liverpool, dating from 1720. As soon as we walked in, we loved its warmth and cosiness. A special mention of my mate Francis – with us in 2017 – who got a round in, remotely. Top man. We were joined, in the cosy snug, by our friend Kim from California, now Liverpool, who came by to wish PD a “happy birthday” and to enjoy a few laughs. I managed to snag a ticket for Kim for Anfield last year, but we were not so fortunate this season.
“The Denbigh Castle.”
And this was right next to pub number four. It was now 5pm, but the game was still hours away. It seems pointless, now, moaning about it but instead of having evening games at 7.30pm, or 7.45pm, or even 8pm, games are now held on occasion at 8.15pm, as was this one. It’s fucking pathetic. Just another twist of the knife. As if travelling large distances for midweek games isn’t difficult enough.
PD was happy because they sold “Thatchers” in this pub. I am surprised they sell it in Liverpool.
We were joined here by my friend Brij, originally from California but now residing in Boston and working for the NHL Boston Bruins. I first met Brji in Ann Arbor in 2016 ahead of our friendly against Real Madrid (still, officially, our largest ever paid attendance of 105,826) and we have loosely followed each other on Instagram for a while. He recently told me that he was over in Europe on a short break and I was lucky to be able to spirit up a ticket in the away end out of the ether. He was buzzing with excitement. It was great to see him. I was pleased that he shared many of my dislikes of modern sport. I could see that we would get on fine.
“The Tempest On Tithebarn.”
We arrived here around 6pm. This was a modern pub, unlike all the others, and the décor was a little odd. It was strange – or maybe not, in fact – that we had not spoken too much about the game that would be occupying our hearts and minds a few hours later. Another lager. Phew.
“The Railway.”
One final pub, all of a lengthy one-minute walk from the previous one, but still time to lose PD and Parky on the way. The lagers were starting to slosh around a little now. It was 7pm, and the final call of a pub-crawl that had been really enjoyable. This was a lovely old pub with wooden panels and glistening mirrors and beer pumps. This one was a quick visit. I didn’t even take my coat off.
At about 7.20pm, Brij volunteered to sort out an Uber up to Anfield. We waited outside for a few minutes, and thankfully one arrived. We were deposited near The Kop at 7.50pm. Within ten minutes we were inside the away concourse. The five of us were split up. I made it to my seat – 140, Row 18, a decent seat in line with the six-yard box – just after the “YNWA” stuff.
I didn’t fancy bringing my SLR on such a busy afternoon and evening, so my pub camera had to suffice. I didn’t take too many shots.
Neither did Chelsea.
The game began and I did my best to try to work out who was where, how, why and what for.
Petrovic
Disasi – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell
Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo
Sterling – Palmer – Madueke
The game began with us facing The Kop. Behind me was the newly opened top tier of the Anfield Road Stand. Liverpool began strongly, as expected and attacked at will. Petrovic was soon called into action.
In one of our early attacks, Raheem Sterling advanced on the left with a barrage of boos cascading down from The Kop, and his pass inside found the raiding run of Conor Gallagher. He went deep inside the box, but fell. From one hundred yards away, my view was not great. “No penalty” and the game continued.
Liverpool continued their ascendency, their players fleet-footed, ours with boots full of lead. Not long after, Darwin Nunez launched one from well outside the box, our defensive so easily breached, but the hard strike clipped the bar. The same player again slipped through our defensive line after a long ball from deep. His low angled shot from in front of us was thankfully turned onto the far post by Petrovic.
This was just horrible.
Nunez was shooting for fun. We seemed miles off the pace. We found it impossible to build moves. It just wasn’t working.
On twenty-two minutes, Diogo Jota slalomed his way through our defence, past Thiago Silva and Benoit Badiashile, and slammed the ball low past Petrovic.
It was on the cards.
There was, however, the slight hope that VAR might assist our cause with a long check for handball. Nah, the goal stood.
More Liverpool efforts, Petrovic the hero a few times.
In the away end, the minimal singing has stopped. I stood in silence.
On thirty-nine minutes, utter calamity. Moises Caicedo gave up possession cheaply, and Liverpool exploited acres of space on our left. Conor Bradley ran and slotted in at the far post. I sadly captured this one on film. Our hopes were raised a little, but another VAR check did not help us.
Fackinell.
In the closing embers of a dire half, we conceded a penalty after Badiashile coughed rather too loudly at Jota. Thankfully, Nunez slammed the kick against the outside of the post.
It stayed 0-2.
At the break, three substitutions.
Malo Gusto for Chilwell.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher.
Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.
Early in the second-half, a decent break from Gusto down the right and the ball was played deep into the box, rather like a bouncing bomb. Mudryk – who had that crazily optimistic debut at Anfield just over a year ago – fluffed his lines and the ball flew way over.
Bollocks.
The mood in the away end was as sombre as I have known it. Spaces began to appear around me. That passionate, rugged, defiant “fuck’em all” support of decades ago was nowhere to be seen.
On sixty-five minutes, as simple as you like, a long ball from deep by Van Dijk to Bradley. He skipped past Badiashile and slung over a cross. In front of the goal, in front of The Kop, Dominik Szoboszlai leapt up and headed down and in. The whereabouts of our central defenders at the time is not known.
Fackinell.
The home fans in the top tier of the “Annie Road” sang.
“Liverpool, Liverpool – Top Of The League.”
Neighbours in my row departed to pubs, trains and automobiles. There were seven empty seats to my left and five empty seats to my right. Earlier in the evening, I had been concerned that after such a long spell of drinking since just after midday that I might well be slumped asleep in my seat by 9.45pm.
Now, I almost wished that I was.
Carney Chukwuemeka replaced Caicedo.
Caicedo and Fernandez had been awful, just awful.
On seventy-two minutes, Chukwuemeka turned and ran at the Liverpool defence. He passed to Nkunku, who slipped past markers with some nifty footwork and slid the ball in. It was a really fine goal.
Liverpool 3 Chelsea 1.
Our spirits were raised slightly.
A few of us lone souls yelled :
“COME ON CHELSEA.”
But this was ridiculous. If we had gained a point from this game, the team would have deserved to have been jailed.
Nunez hit the bar yet again
On seventy-nine minutes, any silly thought about an unwarranted draw was extinguished when Luis Diaz crept in behind a sleeping Badiashile to sweep in a low cross from Nunez.
Late on, a Chelsea debut for Cesare Casadei who replaced Palmer, and – worryingly – this is the first time that I have mentioned his name.
Sigh.
We gathered together outside and decided to wait a while to hunt down a cab. We walked the short distance to “The Arkles” and drowned our sorrows. This was always an odd pub in that it was an away pub but one that allowed home fans in too. To be honest, there never was any trouble in all the years that I have dropped into it at Anfield. We had a couple more pints, and one was bought for us by a Liverpool fan from my neck of the woods. He came from Gloucestershire I seem to remember. Brij and I chatted away to him. He was friendly enough and slowly but surely the agony of the game slowly subsided. Behind me, Steve, PD and Parky chatted to two Liverpool fans from Ireland. I am sure that we were the only Chelsea fans in there. We did not leave “The Arkles” until almost midnight.
We caught another Uber down to the city centre and at last had a bite to eat. At about 12.45am, we slipped into “Pop World” and had a few nightcaps. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
It wasn’t.
We finally took another cab back to the hotel, and we must have hit the sack at about 2am.
In order to get everybody up to Chelsea in good time, I needed to work another early shift. The alarm was set for 4.30am. This would be another long day following The Great Unpredictables
It’s odd the things that go through people’s minds first thing in the morning, eh? I had barely been fully awake a minute or two, but as I started to clean my teeth, my mind was already focussed on the game with Real Madrid. And, for the first time ever – probably – I pondered the “Real” part of their name. Well, it means “royal” right? I quickly came up with a buzz-phrase for the evening’s entertainment.
The Royal Blue of London versus the White of Royal Madrid.
And I was on my way. Off to work, an eight-hour shift, then a meet up with PD, Parky and Ron at just after 2pm, with thoughts of the game haunting our immediate future.
I just hoped that we wouldn’t get royally fucked.
I dropped Ron off at the bottom end of the North End Road so he could join Gary Chivers, Johnny Bumstead, Colin Pates, Kerry Dixon, Paul Canoville and David Lee in their corporate pre-match entertaining. The remaining three of us parked up and made a bee-line for “Norbros Pizzeria” – shite name, great food – which I use occasionally before mid-week games. I had booked a table for five o’clock but we were there early.
We hadn’t talked much about the imminent game. Why would we? Did anyone think we could turn it around? Not me. Not PD. Not Parky. In fact, to be brutally frank, I have rarely looked forward to a second leg at Stamford Bridge less. With our rapidly diminishing chances of partaking in UEFA competition – of any nature, even the rightly ridiculed Europa Conference – in 2023/24, this night of exotic European football seemed like it would be the last for some time.
With this in mind, I quickly termed our meal in deepest Fulham as “the last supper.”
The food was fine though; bruschetta and prawns, rice balls, chicken and mushrooms, spaghetti Bolognese and a pizza. They all managed to hit the spot, several in fact.
We popped into “The Goose” and bumped into a few faces from near and far. We then skipped down to “Simmons” to see others. The mood in both pubs was pretty sombre.
Inside the stadium, flags had been left by each seat and I knew that not many would be taking up the chance to “flag-wave” in our section. It seemed old hat in 2007, let alone now. Let the tourists in the Shed Lower and the West Lower do all that.
I briefly spoke to Oxford Frank.
“We will know we are in a bad way if Eden Hazard comes on to play during the second-half…”
The team that Frank chose didn’t seem to inspire many and I found it odd that Conor was our man supporting Kai. The midfield was certainly packed though. We had quality in some areas, not others.
If a curate’s egg was a football team…
Kepa
Chalobah – Silva – Fofana
James – Kante – Enzo – Kovavic – Cucarella
Gallagher – Havertz
An unpalatable part of the pre-game smorgasbord of images and sounds that UEFA foist upon us these days is a short segment of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Sod that.
This felt like a Champions League evening but only just. There was not the sense of occasion that was present in the air last season. And this is what the morons who were looking to foist a “closed shop” / US style Super League on us in 2021 always fail to recognise; that familiarity can breed boredom, even at the top table. For starters, there were clearly less Madridistas in The Shed than last season, down to 1,500 from 2,000 from memory. I guess Chelsea had been “ticked off” last season and the thrill of a “new ground” was not so big. However, I am sure that there were many Spaniards – and other nationalities too, my immediate boss is a Real Madrid fan from Latvia – dotted around the home areas. PD had arrived in the seats earlier than me and he commented that when the Madrid team took to the pitch for pre-match drills, a noticeable buzz came out of the Matthew Harding.
Sod that too.
We attacked the Matthew Harding in the first-half, never my preferred option. As the game got underway, it was a joy to be part of a noisier than usual crowd inside the stadium.
It was a lively start from both teams, but there was an early concern when Vinicius Junior showed Reece James the ball, then easily side-stepped him in a move of blinding speed and execution. Thankfully the cross did not hurt us. He looked a major threat in Madrid so we prayed that Reece could stay closer to him throughout this game.
Soon – almost too soon, “give the bloke a break” I chuckled to myself – the MHL were on to the visiting goalkeeper. However, Thibaut didn’t seem too bothered by the name calling.
On ten minutes, Alan opened up his packet of “lucky Maynard’s” and we chewed away. I felt like saying we might need several packets.
Soon after, a cross from James was half-cleared and the ball fell invitingly to N’Golo Kante, who rather stabbed at it and the ball bounced down and wide of Thibaut Courtois’ post. We groaned. But Stamford Bridge remained noisy. Despite a persistent cough and a thick head, I was bellowing away with the best of them.
“I’ll regret this in the morning…”
Our corners were mainly shite, though eh? One down below us from James got us all howling.
The noise kept up.
“Super Super Frank, Super Frankie Lampard.”
On twenty minutes, we gave them too much space, allowing Dani Carvajal to pass to Rodrygo who slammed a fierce shot against a post.
More song.
“Oh Tiago Silva.”
We continued to create half chances, and I was pleased with our application and drive. However, a terrible Enzo free-kick had us all wailing again. Thiago Silva then prodded a lob almost apologetically at Courtois.
We were half-way through the first-half.
“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC…”
There was a worrying burst from Vinicius but his shot was saved. Kepa then thwarted a shot from Luca Modric at his near post. I was relatively happy with our general play and the way that the noise kept up. Even Marc Cucarella was half-decent. I whispered to Clive :
“We are playing OK but this is our limit.”
With the end of the first-half approaching, Conor Gallagher made a fine run between two defenders but Enzo – new hair colour, new pink boots – over hit the ball.
On forty-two minutes, a lightning break caught us out but Karim Benzema, rather quiet thus far, overstretched and missed.
Right on half-time, a James cross found Cucarella at the far post. He took a touch, allowing Courtois to readjust. His powerful shot was miraculously saved by our former player. I turned away from the action in disgust.
Fackinell.
At the start of the game, we needed to score two goals – the bare minimum – in ninety minutes. We now needed to score two in forty-five minutes. I wasn’t hopeful. Was anyone?
There was applause for Antonio Rudiger, replacing David Alaba, at the start of the second-half. The game began again and it was a lively few minutes. I was frustrated to see Kai Havertz often appearing on the right when he was needed further inside. However, six minutes into the re-start, his fine cross caused panic in the Madrid box. It was headed out and Gallagher headed it back, but Kante’s shot was blocked by Eder Militao.
Another terrible free-kick from Reece got us all venting.
A roller from Enzo went wide.
We had a good little spell.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
A low shot from Havertz was easily saved. Oh for a cutting edge.
Then, on fifty-eight minutes, a lightning break and a failed Trevoh Chalobah slide to rob the breaking Rodrygo. He advanced and reached the goal-line before playing the ball in. Benzema fell over himself, but Vinicius was able to play the ball back to Rodrygo who had continued his run. He slotted it in easily.
We were down 0-3.
Bollocks. This was particularly annoying as we had seemed invigorated.
The half-chances continued.
A grass cutter from Gallagher at Courtois. A shot from Enzo at him again.
OH FOR A FUCKING CUTTING EDGE.
On sixty-five minutes, Real waltzed into our box but a weak shot from Benzema was easily saved. Their striker was having a quiet game.
Soon after, a plethora of substitutions.
Raheem Sterling for Enzo.
Joao Felix for Gallagher.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Cucarella.
I tried to work out who was playing where. It was a mite confused. A shot from James was blocked and we then admired a nice shimmy from Mudryk, but he skied it.
The Madrid fans were not the noisiest that have ever appeared at Stamford Bridge. Using my telephoto lens to zoom in on them all, they hardly looked the most intimidating bunch of individuals.
Despite being 0-3 down on aggregate, I loved it that virtually nobody in the home sections had left.
Proper Chelsea.
Mason Mount for Havertz.
Right after, a way-too-easy advance from Vinicius down below me resulted in a pull back towards that man Rodrygo who pushed the ball home easily.
We were down 0-4.
Now people left.
Improper Chelsea.
Alan mentioned how spoilt we have become and dropped in a reference from forty-years ago into the mix.
“Fans these days wouldn’t have coped losing 3-0 at Burnley in 1983.”
More of that later.
Our task was always going to be a supremely tough one. We had not been humiliated. To be truthful, it certainly appeared that Real had not moved out of second gear over the two legs. He is a wily old fox, that Carlo Ancelotti.
On ninety minutes, the home support still sang.
“We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. We love you Chelsea we do. Oh Chelsea we love you.”
I took a photo of virtually the last kick of the game and shared it on Facebook.
“Over and out.”
So, 1983.
On Saturday 16 April 1983, I travelled up by National Express bus from Bath to Victoria Bus Station for the home game against Newcastle United. This would be my fourth and final game of this particular season. Amid the worry of the upcoming “A Level” exams, the day ought to have been a relaxing side-show…
Going in to the game, Chelsea were in fifteenth place, six places behind the visitors. With Kevin Keegan revitalising Newcastle, their league campaign had not lived up to the pre-season expectation. At the top of the table, QPR, Wolves and Fulham were in the three automatic places. I had hoped for a gate of 15,000 but fully expected one of around 12,000 to assemble at Stamford Bridge.
My diary tells me that – presumably to save money – I walked to and from Stamford Bridge, along the Kings Road, full of shoppers and punks. It was a lovely sunny day.
The team lined up as below –
Iles
Jones – Droy – Pates – Hutchings
Rhoades-Brown – Bumstead – Fillery – Canoville
Speedie – Lee
The visitors included some decent players; alongside Keegan were Imre Varadi, Terry McDermott, David McCreery and Chris Waddle. During the game, Keith Jones – yes, him – replaced Paul Canoville.
I remember that I wore the 1981 to 1983 replica shirt to the match.
“We started OK but when Keegan scored a penalty, it knocked the stuffing out of us. Mike Fillery was unrecognisable. Colin Lee played quite well. Keegan was the best player on the pitch; he was a bundle of energy. Newcastle played the more controlled football but we had more possession.”
After Keegan scored a first-half penalty at The Shed, Varadi made it two-nil to the visitors in the second-half. By then, the mood had deteriorated, with calls for John Neal’s resignation being heard in The Shed. One chap in front of me kept singing :
“Eddie McCreadie’s Blue & White Army.”
I also heard “One Man Went To Mow” at a game for the very first time.
At the game, I kept with my guess of 12,000. There were quite a few visitors – two pens from memory – and the East Lower was quite full, but The Shed not particularly. The actual gate was 13,466.
In the programme there was a letter from one of our greatest-ever supporters Ron Hockings, whose attendance at the Fulham away game had marked his 1,400th Chelsea game. He had seen 877 at home and 523 away. I can only imagine the awe that I must have had for such numbers as a seventeen-year-old Chelsea fan in Somerset.
Back at Victoria, the place was swarming with Brighton fans after their 2-1 win against Sheffield Wednesday at Highbury in their FA Cup semi-final. In the other semi, Manchester United had defeated Arsenal by the same score at Villa Park. Chelsea seemed well and truly down the pecking order. We could only dream of FA Cup semi-finals; our next one would still be eleven years away. On the coach trip home, I was of course pretty depressed about the state of our club. The Third Division was definitely beckoning. I was at a low ebb.
Next up – in 1983, that game at Burnley, in 2023 a home game against Brentford.
One of the markers that I use to gauge the progress of the year lies in the hedgerow opposite my house. A month or so ago, snowdrops appeared, blossomed and then slowly vanished. Recently, they shared the space with some newly-arrived daffodils which are now in full bloom. A few days ago, there were no more snowdrops left – only the stunning yellow blossoms remained – and in my eyes, winter had ended and spring was here.
Spring has been a winning season for us in fifteen of the past twenty-five years. It’s the business end of the football campaign. It’s when we, with amazing regularity, have gone to work.
But this one might be a little different. With domestic honours an impossibility in 2022/23, our only hope for silverware lies in Europe, but we were given a hideously difficult path to the final in Istanbul. First up, a tie with Real Madrid for the third season in a row. Unfortunately, I will only be able to attend the home leg as others in the office have already booked that Easter week as holiday. The same thing happened last year. It is grimly ironic that we chased a trip to the Bernabeu for years and have now drawn Real Madrid three times in a row, yet on all three occasions, I won’t be in attendance.
Bernabeu has become my new San Siro. One day I’ll get there.
Should we defeat Real Madrid, we then have to play Manchester City or Bayern Munich.
Yeah, I know.
With the kick-off for our home game with Everton at 5.30pm there was a relatively late start to the day. However, by 9.30am all of my fellow passengers had been collected and I then set off on our latest pilgrimage to London. At midday PD and Parky were settling down for an afternoon of lager and large laughs in “The Eight Bells” and I joined them at around 1.45pm. I had met up with my friend Bill from just outside Toronto at Stamford Bridge and by the time we arrived, our friends Diana and Ian, from Chicago, were already sat alongside PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve. Rene from Chicago, who I had not previously met, joined us too.
A table for eight at the Eight Bells.
We chatted about all sorts.
Bill told me that he felt that he already knew PD and Parky, through reading these rambles over the years, and was actually quite excited to be eventually meeting them for the first time. You can imagine my response.
I was amazed how easy it was for Diana – an Everton fan – to get a ticket for the away section. Her husband Ian and Bill would be sat together in the West Lower after I managed to secure tickets for them both via a reliable source.
Rene would be sat in the West Lower too.
The chat continued. I hadn’t been feeling great, though, for a few days. I had been suffering with a cold. As I chatted away to the friends from near and far I could feel my sore throat beginning again. I felt a bit groggy too. I hoped the players were in better nick than me.
I was able to personally thank Bill, at last, for helping me to obtain a ticket for the incredible Racing vs. Independiente derby that I witnessed over in Buenos Aires in February 2020. This feat of kindness came about when a friend of his, Victor – as featured a few weeks back – who he played football with in West Virginia a decade or so ago, was contacted and within an hour, I was sorted. I sent a photo of us to Victor, who lives just a few blocks from Enzo’s former home El Monumental, and eagerly await the opportunity to be able to return the flavour when Victor comes over to London in hopefully the near future.
Ironically, the bloke who I secured the two tickets from for Bill and Ian is currently in Buenos Aires himself on a football jolly.
It had been raining on the drive to London. Now, leaving the pub, the sun was out. However, walking up the steps to the platform at Putney Bridge, I suddenly felt knackered. At least the weather was mild. I was rough, but if it had been a freezing day, I would have felt even worse.
I reached my seat and still felt below par. I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be strongly participating in this one.
The team?
Kepa
Fofana – Kouilbaly – Badiashile
James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell
Felix – Havertz – Pulisic
The presence of Christian Pulisic surprised me. Surely Mykhailo Mudryk needed games more.
So, the McNally Derby.
Chelsea in blue / blue / white.
Ian in the West Lower.
Everton in pink / grey / pink.
Diana in the Shed Upper.
The game began with us fizzing the ball around nicely. I must admit it did feel odd for us to be attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half. A half volley from Enzo was blocked. Not long after, a Ben Chilwell free-kick was worked to Mateo Kovacic who unleashed a volley that everyone in our section of the stand thought was goal bound. It whizzed just past the far post.
We dominated the first ten minutes almost completely.
But the atmosphere wasn’t particularly loud, nor even above average.
There was a “if you know your history” from the Evertonians every few minutes but that was about it.
Kalidou Koulibaly over hit a diagonal out to Pulisic to such an extent that I wondered if he had put his boots on the wrong feet. At least Pulisic looked full of running. Enzo looks a proper footballer doesn’t he?
There was a swift break that flew through the Everton defence but we were unable to finish. Kai Havertz was starting to come to life. On twenty minutes, undoubtedly the best move of the match took place down below me with great passing involving Reece James, Enzo, Havertz and Joao Felix but a lunging Pulisic was just unable to toe-poke a finish past Jordan Pickford.
Within quick succession, we purred at two pieces of sublime skill from Felix. Firstly, he showed complete calm and unerring presence of mind to contort his body to keep the ball from going out for an Everton throw-in down to my right. Next, a phenomenal spin into space after a remarkable first touch that left his marker consulting a “London A to Z” for his current whereabouts.
It was Zola-esque.
Magnificent stuff.
On the half-hour, I heard The Shed for the first real time.
Next up, a nice move but a weak effort from Felix right at the ‘keeper. On forty minutes, a terrible waste of a cross from Pulisic. His star had faded already.
Things were a bit edgier now, and although Everton had hardly mustered more than a couple of attacks on our goal in the entire length of the first-half, the support around me definitely became more nervous. There was desperate defending at times – much of the defending involving Koulibaly by definition looks desperate – and we were grateful, I think, that the first-half was nearing completion. In the last few minutes of the half, the only sound to be heard in the Matthew Harding Upper was that of plastic seats being flipped back.
One last free-kick, well-worked, a dummy, something from the training ground, but the eventual shot from Enzo did not bother Pickford one iota.
At the break, I grimly predicted a 0-0 draw at full-time. It’s not that we had played badly – far from it – but our lack of firepower in and around the box was haunting us yet again. I was still feeling rough and had not really joined in too many songs and chants in support of the boys.
I sat myself down alongside PD – Alan was unable to make it, Clive had shifted over to sit with Gary – and prepared myself for another half of attrition against a bleak but regimented Sean Dyche team.
Straight away we were on the attack. A couple of crosses were zipped over from our left with Chilwell having a fine game, and Havertz should have buried the second one with a virtually free header.
Eight minutes into the second-period, Enzo floated the ball perfectly out to our left wing-back. A first-time cross from Chilwell was not cleared and the ball reached Felix slightly to the left of the penalty spot. I looked on and hoped for the best as he dug a shot out. Miraculously, the ball was struck with such accuracy that it slowly crept just inside the far post.
The Toffees were becoming unstuck, as was my recent score prediction.
Chelsea 1 Everton 0.
The players cuddled underneath the TV screen and in front of the away fans in the far corner of The Shed.
At last some noise.
“He came from Portugal.”
And then a rousing “Carefree” – seemingly – from all four stands.
I joined in, coughed and spluttered, and soon stopped.
Arguably the best move of the game soon followed when a cute back-heeled pass from Felix set up Pulisic in a nice little pocket of space. He lifted a fine shot into the goal – similar to the Havertz disallowed goal against Dortmund – but the flag was raised for an offside. Ian and Bill must have got a good view of that decision.
“We need a second, Paul.”
“Yep.”
“A goal there would have killed them off.”
The prize for this win, with Fulham playing in the FA Cup this weekend, would be a step up to ninth position.
In the pub, Bill and I had laughed about the varying expectations of us Chelsea fans over the years.
“Back in 1983, we would have craved a safe ninth spot in the top division.”
Ah 1983.
Forty years ago, my mind was full of school discos and terrible “Mock A Level” results but it was also full of Chelsea’s nosedive down the Second Division table. The next game to be featured in my look back on the dreadful 1983/83 season, which took place on Saturday 12 March 1983, paired us against Carlisle United at Stamford Bridge. In the pre-amble in the match programme the game was described as a “six pointer as we skirt with the relegation zone.” I had predicted a bare 6,000 to show up at The Bridge. Both teams were mired in the bottom nine positions of the table with Chelsea just two points above the visitors. These were grave times.
The team’s two managers were both from the North-East; John Neal from Seaham in County Durham and Bob Stokoe from Hartlepool. Their two teams were now embroiled in a fight to avoid the drop. I mention these two fine fellows because, at the time, I was only seventeen and yet Stokoe and Neal, gentleman managers in every sense of the word, seemed decidedly ancient at fifty-two and fifty years of age.
And yet here I am, pushing fifty-eight.
There is no punchline here. And if there was, it wouldn’t be very funny.
At the time, Chelsea’s home record wasn’t too bad – 7 – 5 – 2, promotion form – but it was our away record – 2 – 3 – 11, relegation form – that was the root cause of our troubles.
A notable change saw our regular ‘keeper, the eighteen-year-old Steve Francis, being replaced by Bob Iles, a signing from non-league Weymouth a few years earlier. Despite going a goal down, Chelsea lead 2-1 at the break and we went on to win 4-2 The goal scorers were Paul Canoville with two, John Bumstead and Clive Walker. The gate was 6,667.
On the same day, Everton played at Old Trafford against Manchester United in front of a huge 58,198 gate in the FA Cup quarter finals with a Frank Stapleton goal giving the home team a narrow 1-0 win.
Back to 2023, and – I could hardly believe my ears – there was a strange sound emanating from the very upper echelons of the West Stand.
“Oh when the Blues…oh when the Blues…go steaming in…go steaming in.”
Fackinell.
Just after the hour, Conor Gallagher replaced Pulisic.
There was another scooped ball from Enzo. He is quickly becoming my favourite in this new assortment of players that we now find ourselves supporting.
Everton attacked. There was a free-kick from their right that caused nervousness. Then from a corner on the far side, a ball was floated in and James Tarlowski rose above Wesley Fofana, otherwise enjoying a fine game, and headed the ball down towards Kepa. Abdoulaye Doucore nipped in to flick the ball in. Havertz hooked the ball away but it was a clear goal. The buggers were level and they celebrated wildly down below me.
We got going again. There was a clean break down our right and Fofana found James. His ball inside enabled Felix to continue the move. The ball was played back to James, entering the danger zone for Everton, and as he galloped on, he came crashing down after a coming together of bodies.
Penalty.
I felt so rough that I just sat in my seat.
PD was up celebrating and he looked down on me with a look of disbelief.
More hesitancy on the run up from Havertz.
…oh bloody hell man.
Thankfully the soft shoe shuffle sent Pickford to the left and the ball was struck high to the right.
Chelsea 2 Everton 1.
Safe?
You would hope so, eh?
There was a loud and passionate chant for Gianluca Vialli and despite my sore throat, I had to show some respect and join in.
“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”
With around ten minutes to go, our manager could not resist some typical pottering.
Kovacic, forging a decent partnership with Enzo of late, was hoiked off in favour of Ruben Loftus-Cheek and I felt a little murmur of concern.
Everton came at us again. A mistake from Koulibaly thankfully went unpunished.
With five minutes to go, two more substitutions and my head struggled to fathom it all out.
Trevoh Chalobah for Forfana.
Carney Chukwuemeka for Felix.
PD, his hip hurting, and needing a long time to walk back to the car, set off.
“See you soon mate. Here are the car keys.”
The game was very almost over.
Then, an Everton break down our right and Doucoure played in Ellis Simms, who still had a lot to do. Sadly, he breezed past a sadly immobile Koulibaly and slotted home with far too much ease.
Oh Kepa.
It was a terrible sucker punch.
The buggers celebrated in our faces again.
When Havertz had scored what we thought was our deserved winner, flags of many colours were waved enthusiastically in front of the West Lower and “equality” was observed on a few of them. Maybe our players had taken the word far too literally.
Five minutes of extra time were announced.
I shouted out : “Come on Chels, keep going.”
Almost immediately after, a bloke behind me repeated the exact same words.
“Come on Chels, keep going.”
It wasn’t to be. This was an evening when we flattered to deceive yet again. We will have to make it our new slogan.
Next up, a kick-off at the same time and in the same place, but not for a while.
So, here we were then. The first visit by Real Madrid to Stamford Bridge in a UEFA competition where spectators were allowed in. Our paths have crossed, very infrequently, in the past and in a variety of locations. Officially there have been five contests under the UEFA umbrella. In 1971, we battled in the European Cup Winners’ Cup Final over two games in Athens. In 1998, we met in the Super Cup in Monaco. And then, infuriatingly, we met last season in the semi-finals of the Champions League at a time when no spectators were allowed.
So far so good. Five games and not a single defeat.
There have been other games too. There was a charity game at Stamford Bridge in 1966 and there have been two relatively recent friendlies in the US; one in Miami in 2013 and another in Ann Arbor in 2016.
But this one was the one we had all been waiting for.
Real Madrid.
At home.
…shudder, just writing those words.
This was the real deal.
But this would be it for me. Unfortunately, I am unable to get time off from our beleaguered office for the equally eagerly anticipated away game. And, should we progress, I am still thwarted in my attempt to see a potential away game in a semi-final against Atletico Madrid due to others being away and others being off sick.
I was pretty ambivalent about it all though. With the Bernabeu getting a refit, it will be around for a long time yet. And let’s hope Chelsea get another stab at the Spanish giants. And I have already visited the stadium on two occasions already. In 1987, two college mates and I paid a ridiculously small fee to have a wander around the stadium. There was no tour, no guide. We were simply let loose on the mainly-terraced stadium. We even made it to the top of that famously high terraced section, even though I am sure we were not meant to. There was simply nobody around to chase us off. In 2009, myself and a few Chelsea mates went on a far more civilised tour of a modernised Bernabeu on a trip that saw us visit Atletico. This time, everything was a lot more swish. The difference between the stadium on the two visits could not have been greater.
This was a typical Champions League pre-match. There was a pint of Peroni in “The Goose” – revamped, refurbished, re-painted and pretty decent – and then the standard two bottles of Staropramen for a fiver in a packed “Simmons”. This bar had also benefited from a slight refit since my last visit in the group phase stage before Christmas. The lights had dimmed, music was playing. In the far corner, the chaps were fully assembled; Nick, Al, Gal, Ed, Parky, PD, Daryl, Chris, Simon and Milo. And me.
Thousands upon thousands of Chelsea games between us all.
Real Chelsea.
Gary made the point that, with music blaring and the beers going down well – laughter booming – it actually felt like a European Away. The eleven of us plotted up in a small bar, enjoying each other’s company, not a care, not a care.
“All Night Long” by Lionel Richie was playing.
With a wink and a snigger, Gal said “ah, they’re playing my song.”
I replied “the only bloody thing you do all night long these days, Gal, is the evening buffet.”
It was time to set off to Stamford Bridge. Sadly, I got drenched on the fifteen-minute walk to the Matthew Harding turnstiles. The rain in Spain was falling mainly in London SW6.
Fackinell.
But I was in with plenty of time before the match was to begin at eight o’clock. Over in the opposite corner, the away fans were massing up. It looked like Los Merengues would be cheered on by around two thousand supporters. I spotted a line of about thirty in the front rows dressed in white tops.
How cute.
Back in the ‘eighties, the Ultras Sur were their hooligan element. Banned in 2014, I glanced over and wondered if any former members had made it over. The atmosphere was bubbling along nicely. This had all the feelings of a top European night. Flickering squares of blue and silver were spotted in our section of The Shed and it was obvious that a pre-match mosaic had been planned.
With the teams appearing from the tunnel, it was time for me to juggle phone camera and SLR at the same time. I spotted Real wearing blue socks. Deep down I was hoping for them to appear in all white but knew this would never happen. At least they showed up in white shirts and socks.
Our team? Back to the more trusted 3-4-3.
Mendy
Christensen – Silva – Rudiger
James – Jorginho – Kante – Azpiicueta
Mount – Havertz – Pulisic
Still no Lukaku, no complaints from me.
Right from the off, and from some moments before, the atmosphere was simply excellent. This was more like it. This is what I signed-up for. I never wanted spectators to become experts and critics at games. I simply wanted supporters to stay as, er, supporters. So far my fellow fans were not letting me down.
This was the business.
Compared to Saturday, this was a different ball game.
The contest began, a vibrant start, Real on the front foot, but the first chance came to us, a Mason Mount cross pumped low into the box. I clocked a few of their famous players; Kroos and Modric, Casemiro, Vinicius, Benzema. Oh, the ogre Courtois. The unloved Courtois. We would have a few songs lined up for him later.
In the opening flurry, one song dominated.
“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel.”
There was a shot from Kai Havertz that flew over at our end. Yes, much to my annoyance, we were attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half.
The rain lashed down.
A slip from Christensen let in the raiding, and instantly impressive, Vinicius who slammed a shot against the top of the crossbar at The Shed End. A free-kick from Reece James was kept out by Courtois.
The MHL entered stage left :
“Courtois – you’re a cnut, Courtois, Courtois – you’re a cnut.”
On twenty minutes, I needed to go to the loo. I made my way out of the seats. While in the gents, I heard a roar, a load roar. My immediate reaction was :
“Too quiet for a Chelsea goal.”
“Too loud for a Real goal.”
What was it? A penalty shout for us?
I was soon to find out.
Real had scored via Benzema.
Bollocks.
Just a couple of minutes later, at the exact moment that Modric played a cross into the box, I said to Al “we need to shape up.” With that, we watched as Benzema rose, without any real hindrance, and headed the ball back across the goal, well past Mendy. Talk about a perfect header.
Shocking defending.
“Free header, Al. How is that possible?”
Real then dominated and hit a purple period. We struggled to get close to them. They cut through us. Carvajal forced a save from Mendy and Christensen was available to hack the ball away. We then seemed to improve – I know not how – and on thirty-seven minutes, Thiago Silva headed over from a corner.
Alan and I were discussing our plans for Southampton as Jorginho sent in a lovely cross that dropped in to the six-yard box at the exact location for Havertz to plant a strong header past Courtois.
Out of the blue, bosh. We were back in it.
I picked up my camera to capture the post-goal celebrations, screaming into my camera all of the time.
Thinking to myself : “well, I’ve never done that before.”
The Bridge was absolutely rocking again. Yet just before the break, Benzema was put through by Vinicius inside the box and we absolutely expected to go further behind.
Inexcusably, the low shot was scuffed wide.
The first-half ended with renewed hope among the fans close to me. There were moments when, in that middle period of that first-half, when I had visions of a repeat of that 0-3 reverse at home to Bayern in 2020.
There were cheers when we saw Mateo Kovacic taking off his top on the touchline. He replaced Christensen as the shape changed to 4-3-3. Hakim Ziyech replaced Kante. Mount was withdrawn into the midfield three. I was inwardly annoyed that Jorginho stayed on. He just seemed to slow stuff down.
Alas, alas, alas.
The absolute horror show that occurred in front of our eyes in the very first minute shocked us all into stunned silence.
A weak pass from Mendy – so far out – to Rudiger was intercepted, Benzema pounced.
Fucksake.
The game died a little, unsurprisingly. We kept plugging away, and actually enjoyed most of the ball in that second-half. Madrid had no reason to go on the offensive. They had already done a job on us. Their job was to contain us. But they never stopped nibbling at us in possession.
Dave let fly with a firmly hit riser that forced a fine save from Courtois.
The singing continued.
“We all follow the Chelsea.”
On the hour I was pleased to hear a massive “Carefree” envelope the whole stadium. We were all pleading for one goal.
Tuchel made further changes.
Romelu Lukaku for the awful Pulisic.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Jorginho.
On sixty-eight minutes, there were two headers from Lukaku in quick succession. The first one almost went off for a corner but was from a difficult chance. The second one brought huge groans; a leap with no defenders close from a central position just outside the six-yard box and the ball whizzed past the right hand post.
Swearing erupted all around Stamford Bridge.
Just after, Mount let fly and his shot sadly whizzed over. We enjoyed a decent spell. Havertz danced into the box and pushed a shot at Courtois. The chances – half-chances – were mounting up.
On the scoreboard, 18 to 8 attempts in our favour.
There was just time for – almost – another Mendy cock-up, but we kept going.
I spoke to Alan : “well, we haven’t played it into Lukaku’s feet once.”
A drive from Mount forced Courtois to make a fine shot down low. The last attempt of the game was another riser, this time from Ziyech, but this one went both high and wide.
Obviously the Mendy mistake killed us. We were showing signs of getting back into the game. The second-half could have been so different. But Real were a fine team. Of our players, only Havertz and James could really hold their heads up.
This was a game that, if I am honest, I wasn’t particularly excited about. Work had been busy since our previous game up at Middlesbrough – a cracking day out, a classic away trip – and with everything else in the world dragging us down, this match at home to Brentford just wasn’t doing it for me. Nonetheless, as always, the pre-match was excellent. I spent it with friends from California, Oregon, Virginia and Vietnam – the returning Steve, last seen in Perth, Australia – and also from Edinburgh, Kent and, nearer home, Salisbury and Bristol.
At “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge, it seemed all of the world was in one place.
Even though I was in the ground early enough, I didn’t make a note of the team line-ups when they were announced by the PA and shown on the screen. So when the game began my mind went into “scurrying around mode” trying to put a plan of attack – and defence – together with the players that I saw lining up on the pitch below me.
I tried to piece it all together.
“Mendy in goal. Now then, was that a back four with Alonso and Dave the full backs with Silva and Rudiger in the middle? Surely Ziyech out wide isn’t a wing-back in a 3-4-3? Nah, that’s a four. Right, the midfield. That’s easy; Kante, Loftus-Cheek and Mason. But Ruben seems to be starting quite deep, almost as an anchor. His tour of the ten outfield starting positions continues, eh? Upfront, a recalled Werner on the left with Havertz in the central role and that man Ziyech out wide on the right. Is that it? Is that ten outfield players? Check.
My first assignment of the game was concluded with only a minute or so gone. It was a good job that I hadn’t been drinking.
No room for Rom. Again. We have all made up our own conclusions about our miss-firing and miss-fitting (is that a word?) Belgian and these have tended to converge. Indeed, all of the evidence honestly suggests that Thomas Tuchel agrees with us.
Bugger. It wasn’t meant to be like this was it?
Brentford were in all yellow. Why? Who knows.
The game got going and after an early Chelsea attack down our left, Brentford quickly got into their groove. In the first two minutes, Christian Eriksen fancied his chances with a free-kick from distance but Mendy was untroubled. The Danish international’s return to the game is both magnificent and yet shocking at the same time. I remember watching in stunned silence as his fate appeared to be in the balance during the Denmark vs. Finland game last summer, one of the few games that I bothered with in the whole of the 2020 European Championships. Yet here he was playing professional football once again.
I turned to Alan.
“Fuck that. If I had almost died on a football pitch, it would be pipe and slippers for me.”
When the former Tottenham midfielder appeared below us to take a corner, I joined in with the hundreds of Chelsea fans around me who showered some warm applause upon him. But we only did it the once. We knew our limits.
There were mainly blue skies overhead. It was a decent day in SW6. It wasn’t warm, but the sunshine gave the afternoon a Spring-like feel.
On the pitch, the visitors were warming up quicker than us.
We love Edouard Mendy but oh! His distribution at times is catastrophic. Ivan Toney – when he first appeared on the scene, and without seeing him play, I wondered if he was a relative of Luca Toni – intercepted an errant pass from Mendy but his lob was high. The same Brentford player then made space for himself inside our box but Mendy fell to his right to push the ball nervously past his near post. Toney’s third effort in quick succession was a header but thankfully it did not trouble us.
So, in the first ten minutes it was Brentford who were setting the pace. On another day, we could easily have been 1-0 down or worse. We, meanwhile, were struggling to get out of first gear.
In the first quarter of an hour, our sole attack of note resulted in Werner collecting the ball thirty yards out and dribbling the ball forward, but forgetting to stop dribbling past the goal line.
Fackinell.
A much more refined feint and dribble from Ziyech on the right was easier on the eye, but that was again full of false promise.
Chelsea’s attacks were rogue at this point; not wholly convincing, not well planned.
In fact, it took a whole twenty minutes – count’em – for our first real strike on goal. Mount took the ball, advanced and struck a curler that flew narrowly past David Raya’s right-hand post.
All was quiet.
It took until the twenty-eighth minute – again, count’em – for me to hear a credible chant from the home support; the Matthew Harding Lower rumbled a half-hearted “Come on Chelsea” and I, and a few others in the Upper, joined in. But the game was being played out in front of a thoroughly tepid atmosphere. Not even the away fans could be bothered.
Another fackinell.
Suffice to say, there were no “Roman Abramovich” chants, but there were hardly any other chants either.
I heard a pigeon coo in Brompton Cemetery.
On the half-hour mark, there was a nice dribble, centrally, from Ruben but his shot was hit straight at their keeper’s midriff. Next up was a beautiful lofted pass from Kante into Mount but his volley was aimed at the ‘keeper again. We were slowly getting the upper hand but it was hardly stirring stuff.
“Wednesday on their minds?” offered Alan.
Our best effort of the first-half came from the boot of Ziyech but his fearsome shot was tipped over by the Brentford ‘keeper.
Down in front of us, I purred at the way Thiago Silva calmly brought a ball down and delicately tapped a ball over the limbs of an onrushing Brentford player to Dave in a few yards of space. The man makes everything look so easy. Utter class.
The first-half apologetically ended.
Brentford had enjoyed the best of the first quarter of the game while we slowly engineered some sort of reaction in the second quarter.
But, really, this was lukewarm stuff.
As the second-half began, nobody within Stamford Bridge could possibly have predicted the events of the ensuing forty-five minutes.
Chelsea were now attacking us in the Matthew Harding and after three minutes of play, the ball was pushed square towards Antonio Rudiger. He must have been thirty-five yards out. With one touch to set himself up, he swiped at the ball and we watched as the missile flew goal wards. It looked on target. So often his efforts are wild. But on this occasion the ball hit the left-hand post before glancing in.
Delirium.
And not just from the fans, but from the goal scorer too. After my initial scream of joy, I quickly harnessed the camera that was hanging around my neck at the time – I don’t always have it “up and ready” – and snapped away at the scorer’s uninhibited and ecstatic run of celebration. From my vantage point – behind him – it looked like he was losing it, and possibly gesticulating and gurning in a way that he might later regret. He ran, maniacally, towards the Chelsea bench and flung himself into the arms of the manager.
“Get a room, lads.”
It was some strike. Because of where it was on the pitch, it immediately reminded me of a Frank Leboeuf screamer against Leicester City in 1997. That late goal gave us a1-0 win. This goal, almost twenty-five years later, sadly signalled the start of a crazy period in the game.
After our goal, I left my seat and sauntered off to turn my bike around. Just as I was about to disappear into the North Stand concourse, I heard a roar and looked around to see a Brentford player reeling away in front of The Shed with the Brentford fans celebrating wildly behind him.
Bollocks.
I got back to my seat and Alan filled me in with the details; a sweet strike from Vitaly Janelt. This had come after barely a minute of play since our goal.
We immediately attacked but a Werner effort was blocked easily. Sadly, Brentford broke with pace as they attacked The Shed again, and three Chelsea defenders sprinted towards the ball-carrier Bryan Mbeumo. This left two yellow perils unmarked inside the box – spotted by myself with an impending sense of doom – and it was no surprise when one of them, Eriksen, slotted the ball in.
Oh crap. What terrible defending.
Our fine recent form was now facing a rude awakening.
Reece James replaced Marcos Alonso and the defence was shuffled.
But only a few minutes later, a quick and concise move down the inside-left channel by Brentford caused us more pain. They cut through us so easily – “after you Claude” – and Janelt nabbed his second of the game with a strike high past Mendy. Brentford had scored three times in just over ten minutes.
Ugh.
The away fans could finally be heard.
“We are staying up. Say we are staying up.”
Two more substitutions followed.
Romelu Lukaku for Werner.
Mateo Kovacic for Kante.
Werner had been so poor. I am pretty fair with most players and heaven knows I have wanted the German to finally hit some form but – oh my – the bloke seems to be getting worse. I’m getting pretty fed up with people saying, and quoting Porto as an example, that his moves off the ball allow space for others. If I was a footballer, an attacking player, I would be pretty ashamed to have to write that in bold at the top of my curriculum vitae.
All of a sudden, Kai Havertz became the centre of attention. Firstly, he tucked the ball in from a cross, but the goal was disallowed for handball, although it also looked offside to us. Then, he closed down on a clearance from Raya and the ball spun just wide. Then, and again in quick succession, an effort from the same player drifted just wide of the far post after good work from Loftus-Cheek and Kovacic.
A goal or two then might have turned it our way a little.
After scoring one goal, Rudiger tried his best to get his shooting boots into action again with a succession of increasingly extravagant efforts on goal. None came close unfortunately.
As the game continued, many of the home support set off for home, or maybe some nearby bars. I have rarely seen Stamford Bridge so empty in the last ten minutes. In the dying embers of the game, there was more Keystone Cops defending in The Shed penalty area as we failed to clear the ball and Youane Wissa smacked home a loose ball.
Chelsea 1 Brentford 4.
Good God, bloody hell.
At least there were no boos at the final whistle.
Those more likely to boo had already fucked-off home by then.
As I walked down to the Peter Osgood statue to pick up some tickets for next Saturday’s game at Southampton, I was just bewildered and not mad. I had mentioned to Walts at half-time that we hadn’t really pushed on since last season, and this game was evidence enough. But we’re decent enough to finish third this season and, cup glories aside, that has to be our goal. We’re a team slowly growing, nothing more. Give us time.
I soon bumped into four of my overseas guests, and Kathryn – from Vienna, Virginia – was almost in tears as she told how there just wasn’t any noise at all in her part of The Shed Lower.
“We tried to get everyone singing but nobody knew the words.”
Sigh.
Welcome to Chelsea 2022.
Walking towards the car, I passed the wine bar on Vanston Place, and at last, as I peered in, I spotted Dutch Mick on his first trip to Chelsea in over two years. I had seen him to talk to Abu Dhabi but I told him then that I missed seeing him and his mates in that bar every time I walked by. I pointed to him and he came out for a hug. It was a nice end to a far from nice afternoon at the home of the World Champions.
Next up, Real Madrid at home and they surely don’t come any bigger.
There was a moment in The Harp bar in Belfast’s historic and beguiling Cathedral Quarter that will live with me for a while. Parky and I had met up with our good friends from Edinburgh Gillian, Kev and Rich at just after 2pm on the day of the game. We were then joined by old friends Daryl, Ed, Gary and Pete in our favourite Belfast bar. We loved the décor, the attentive staff, the choice of beers – including draft Peroni – and the excellent music. We had crowded around a couple of tables for a few hours and had been predictably catching up with each other after almost a year and a half apart. There was the usual flow of stories, jokes and laughter but also – in these rather odd times in which we have found ourselves – a few sobering tales of health issues, of how we tried to overcome the stresses of lockdown and a few fleeting mentions of Chelsea Football Club where time permitted. The time, of course, absolutely flew past. The kick-off between Thomas Tuchel’s Chelsea and Unai Emery’s Villareal was at 8pm. We had decided to leave for Windsor Park at around 6pm, but I was hoping for some sort of suspension of time so that we could just enjoy this wonderful pre-match for a few precious moments more.
And then things improved further still. One of the bar staff decided to open the concertina windows that fronted onto the narrow street outside. The sunlight suddenly shone into the bar, and the late afternoon air immediately hit us.
It seemed that after our yearlong hibernation from watching Chelsea, we were now catapulted into a warm – and warming – future.
“After those dark, bleak months away from Chelsea, this is our time in the sun boys.”
It really was sheer bliss. We were all livened by the sun’s rays.
We got more beers in.
Perfect.
There was a time when the city of Belfast in Northern Ireland would have been a no-go for me. Even as recently as twenty years ago, it seemed a rather intimidating place, as it endeavoured to escape the shackles of its sectarian past. When I started travelling around Europe independently and also with friends, Belfast was simply a place too far. I can remember being genuinely scared of the city, a result of watching all of those awful images on TV in the ‘seventies of bombs and desolation. For a while, it seemed that every time I stayed up late on a Saturday night in the early ‘seventies to watch “Match Of The Day”, there would be harrowing film of a city under siege on the preceding news on BBC1. Names such as the Falls Road, the Shankhill Road, the Crumlin Road and Divis Flats have stayed in my consciousness from early those days.
Thankfully, times have changed. For a few years I have been promising myself a trip to Belfast – EasyJet run cheap flights from nearby Bristol – so there was a sense of real joy when it became apparent that Belfast would be hosting the 2021 UEFA Super Cup Final. I love the way that Chelsea has dragged me to some of the cities that I have always wanted to visit; Moscow, Jerusalem, Tokyo, Beijing…St. Petersburg is waiting in the wings.
What luck.
Not long after our – still – surprising journey to this Champions League Final and subsequent victory against Manchester City, it did not take me long at all to book flights and a hotel to Belfast. I managed to coerce Parky to join me. We would be in town for three long days. Compared to the stresses of last summer, this year has been a relative breeze at work but I have to admit the thought of a lovely Chelsea-fuelled break in Belfast has kept me going when things darkened a little.
I was, deep down, hoping to be something of a lucky charm for Chelsea. I have only ever attended one UEFA Super Cup before, the only one where we have been victorious; our first one in Monaco in 1998. I did not travel again to Monaco in 2012, nor Prague in 2013 nor Istanbul in 2019.
But Monaco 1998. What a trip.
As winners of the European Cup Winners’ Cup against Joachim Low’s Stuttgart, Gianluca Vialli’s Chelsea were assured of a place in the subsequent Super Cup match against Guus Hiddink’s Real Madrid – winners of the European Cup against Juventus – in Monaco in August. Of course, in those days both finals were held on Wednesdays. We won in Stockholm on 13 May, then had to wait a week to see who we would be playing. It will surprise nobody that I was hoping that Juventus would be our opposition in Monaco. It would have been my dream matchup, even though we would have been ridiculously out-numbered by the Italians with Turin only a few hours away. But just as we won in Sweden with a single goal from Gianfranco Zola, it was the Castilians who triumphed by the same score in Amsterdam with a goal from Predrag Mijatovic.
At the time of the game in Sweden, I was famously unemployed; I had lost my job the previous month. But by the time that August came around, I had moved into a very satisfying job in logistics, although those first few months were pretty frantic. But my employer granted me time off at the end of the month, so all was well. A company called Millwest – a Manchester sports travel firm, formerly Universal – had advertised a four-day coach trip to the South of France that included a night in nearby Nice for a decent price of £129. The match ticket was extra.
My mate Andy – who travelled to Porto with me in May this year – was the only one of my close Chelsea mates that fancied it. The season was two games old. I didn’t attend the opening 1-2 loss at Coventry City, but was at the following weekend’s 1-1 draw at home to Newcastle United. New players included Brian Laudrup, Pierluigi Casiraghi, Albert Ferrer and Marcel Desailly. It was a considerable upgrade to our squad.
Andy and I met up at a pub near Victoria around lunchtime on the Thursday ahead of the game in Monaco on the Friday evening. We boarded the coach and started talking to our travel companions. I think we semi-recognised a few from The Harwood Arms which was one of the hardcore pubs around that time. I remember a gaggle of lads from Highbridge in Somerset who had brought along a few flagons of the local “Rich’s” cider. One lad – Jamie – I see on odd occasions to this day. One of his crew was a lad who wasn’t really into football, attending his first-ever game, and bore an uncanny resemblance to serial killer Fred West. I remember a lad who was Tommy Langley’s cousin on the coach. Most were blokes. Virtually all in fact. Once in France, we stopped at the “Eastenders” wholesale drinks warehouse and stocked up on beer and cheese. The banter among new friends slowly faded away as we all fell asleep on the ten-hour drive south. We all occupied double seats. There was plenty of room.
Not long after waking on the Friday morning the coach broke down on the wide approach towards the coast. We were only shy of our destination by around twenty miles. After a couple of nervous hours on the side of the motorway, we eventually limped into Nice. We sensed that the relationship between the drivers, an American and a Canadian, was already strained. Our surprisingly good quality hotel was on the western end of Promenade D’Anglais, the main road that hugged the beach. We were suitably impressed.
A quick change around lunchtime and then a bus into the town centre. Typically, we bumped into Jonesy from Andy’s home town of Nuneaton. We plotted up at a table and enjoyed some beer and pizza.
We later found ourselves outside a bar at the main station at Nice, where a decade or so earlier I had slept al fresco on my travels around Europe as I waited for an early morning train into Italy. Andy spotted Hicky in the distance, the first time I had seen him since the ‘eighties, a visitor from Thailand and at one time the nation’s most infamous football hooligan. We hopped on a train for the short twenty minute into Monaco. The stadium is a stone’s throw from the train station.
The pre-match was memorable for Andy’s altercation with the Labour MP and Chelsea supporter Tony Banks outside the VIP entrance.
Previously, the Super Cup had been played over two legs.
1998 was the first year of it being played in Monaco where it resided until 2012. It was always held on the same weekend as the UEFA draws and I believe most draws were made in Monaco during that era.
Of course, the Monaco stadium is an odd creation. The pitch is famously above several stories of facilities including a basketball arena and a car park. It holds 16,000 but the gate on that night in 1998 was 11,589. My guess is that no more than one thousand Chelsea supporters were present. We were allocated the open away end with its nine high arches at the rear of the yellow seats.
It was a case of “sit where you like” and Andy and I chose to stand behind the goal.
Chelsea played in all blue, which was considered unlucky by many until we won the league at Bolton in 2005 in that colour combination.
I remember little of the game. I think the pitch was pretty bumpy and didn’t play true. Real Madrid had many more supporters than us at the opposite end; maybe four thousand. Real’s team included Roberto Carlos, Christian Panucci, Fernando Hierro, Clarence Seedorf and Raul. They were no mugs for sure. But we won it with a solitary goal from Gus Poyet in the eighty-third minute, a low strike at our end. I remember our new signing Brian Laudrup made his debut for us just after our goal.
At the time, it seemed we were invincible in the cup competitions.
1997 FA Cup
1998 Football League Cup
1998 European Cup Winners’ Cup
1998 UEFA Super Cup
After the game, Andy uttered the famous line…
“In a bar in Madrid right now, there’s an old Real Madrid fan who is saying” –
“Chelsea. They always beat us.”
We hopped onto a waiting train, triumphant. We enjoyed a few more beers before calling it a night.
In the morning, we were to learn that out on the promenade in the small hours of Saturday morning, Fred West had an altercation of his own with a woman who revealed herself to be a transvestite and then, if that wasn’t enough a shock for our Fred – after a little provocation from what I remember – drew a pistol and fired a few shots into the air. Fred West raced back to the safety of the hotel and according to Jamie when I saw him a few years back has not been seen at a game since.
On the Saturday, we dipped into Nice again for a few more beers and a bite to eat. These were simply super times. The Chelsea stories came thick and fast. This was all a bit like the second coming of Chelsea; we were all in love with the 1970/71 team and here we were witnessing a repeat in 1997/98.
We caught a cab back to the hotel and I can remember this moment as if it was yesterday.
A little boozy, light-headed with beers, the window open, laughter from my new-found friends alongside me, the Mediterranean sky overhead, the warm air brushing my cheeks, high on life, high on Chelsea, high on everything.
It was my time in the sun, and one that I was to repeat twenty-three years later.
Super.
But this was to be the briefest of away trips in reality. We left for the long return trip home during early afternoon on the Saturday.
Sadly, the coach broke down again near Marseille. A few lads needed to be back in the UK on the Sunday so got off and caught a cab to Marseille airport. There followed another frustrating wait for a few hours. Eventually we got going. I slept fitfully. I remember sitting in a French service station eating a dodgy sandwich around midnight when the news broke that one of the coach drivers had stormed off in a moody fit. I can recollect seeing him walking away with his little bag on wheels being towed behind him. We pleaded with him to return. One driver would not be able to get us to Calais in light of the driving regulations. Eventually he relented. On the approach to Calais there was a further fuel leak and the coach limped home. On the motorway back in Blighty, we pulled into a services and changed coaches. We arrived back in London at around 5pm on the Sunday, a good five hours later than planned.
It was, as we joked, a character-building trip and one that always brings a smile of happiness when Andy and I remember it.
Twenty-three years ago, though.
Fackinell.
Postcards From Monaco.
The trip to the 2021 Super Cup had begun for me with an early alarm at 2am in the small hours of Tuesday, the day before the game. I collected Parky at 4am. By 5am we had arrived at Bristol Airport. It was no surprise that we saw a gaggle of familiar Chelsea faces from the West of England on our 7am flight to Belfast International Airport. There were around thirty Chelsea on the flight which lasted less than an hour. Friends Foxy from Dundee and Rich from Edinburgh were waiting for us outside the terminal and we soon hopped into a cab to take us into the city. We were joined by Jason from Newport, who decided to swap his accommodation in favour of the last room that was available at our – cheaper – hotel just south of the city centre.
We set off on a walkabout.
Foxy had visited Belfast on many occasions and so walked and talked us through the city centre. Parky had first visited the city with the British army on two tours in the early ‘seventies. After an Ulster Fry breakfast in the Cathedral Quarter, we decided to head down to Sandy Row, something of a loyalist stronghold, and we dived into a pub called “The Royal” at just after 11am. It was packed, and packed with some very familiar faces. We supped the first beers of the trip and bumped into Daryl and Ed quite by chance. There were nearby murals of George Best, of Hurricane Higgins, of local factory workers, of normal Belfast folk, but also of Joe Bambrick – Linfield and Northern Ireland – who also played for us in the 1930’s. Playing for Linfield, he scored a staggering 286 goals in 183 games. We returned to the city centre for another beer in “Fibber Magees.”
Parky and I then embarked on a pre-paid black cab tour of the city. Our guide – a cabbie called Kieran – was wearing a Leeds United away shirt and was full of smiles when I noticed it.
“Are you Leeds?”
“No, Chelsea.”
The tour was supposed to last an hour, but it lasted two and a quarter hours. I thoroughly enjoyed it. The photographs show some of the sights that we visited. It was – of course – rather eerie to find myself walking along the Falls Road and the Shankhill. More learned and erudite students of the history of this particular part of the world are far better placed than myself to comment on Belfast’s sectarian past. Suffice to say, that afternoon will live long in my memory.
I leave this section of my Belfast story to the lead singer of Stiff Little Fingers, Jake Burns, to sum it all up :
“Well it’s lasted for so long now And so many have died It’s such a part of my own life Yet it leaves me mystified How a people so intelligent Friendly, kind and brave Can throw themselves so willingly Into an open grave.”
Later that evening, we reassembled in the Cathedral Quarter – the area that we were to grow to love – at around 5pm.
We met Gillian, Kev and Rich in “The Dirty Onion” – hugs. We were all together last in Newcastle in January 2020. It seemed so recent but also a lifetime away. From there, to “The Harp” and from there to “The Duke Of York” where we spotted the first of the yellow-clad supporters of Villareal. Daryl, Gary, Pete and Nick briefly dropped in, but exited after – like us – being rather annoyed with how long it was taking to get served. It was even poorer service in “The Morning Star” – a favourite of many – but as I joked with Rich, it was funny how my spirits had been lifted by just a few swigs of lager. We then stood outside a cracking pub – “Bittles Bar” – which reminded me of The Minerva in Hull, Belfast’s answer to The Flatiron in Manhattan. We then ended up at “Franklins Sports Bar” where the drinking continued long into the night. My pal Stephen – originally from Belfast – but living in New Orleans for twenty years called in with his wife Elicia and her parents.
Then the others drifted off and I was the last man standing.
There was a reunion with a few good friends, some Chelsea songs, some flag-waving.
At about 1am we were turfed out and I managed to find my way back to the hotel.
Outside the hotel, there was more chat with a couple of Chelsea lads and I then stumbled next-door to raid the adjacent chicken joint.
At 2am – awake for twenty-four hours – I called it a night.
Unfortunately, the scene that greeted me on Wednesday morning – game day – was of drizzle in the Belfast streets below my room on the sixth floor. In the distance, pinched between some tall buildings, the slopes of Black Mountain could be seen, but they were shrouded in cloud. Parky and Foxy were up before me, but I eventually met Parky in reception at around 11am. We put on rain jackets and ambled off to pick up our match tickets at the Europa Hotel. As every Chelsea fan in Belfast 2021 now knows, it is the world’s most bombed hotel (43 times according to yer man Kieran).
We inevitably bumped into many Chelsea faces in the fifteen minutes that we were at the Europa. Parky and I then sheltered in a restaurant – another fry up for me – and a lovely pub “The Spaniard” before our get-together in “The Harp” at 2pm.
Peroni, laughs, Peroni, banter, Peroni, chat.
We admitted to each other that we were just so relieved that Villareal had reached the final and not Manchester United. Belfast is a United stronghold. The Manchester club has had a certain affiliation with the Catholic community in the past – though not as strong as Celtic – and so the thought of United and Chelsea with its links to Rangers and, to a lesser degree Linfield, drinking in the same compact city centre drew gasps from us all.
As the afternoon grew older, we looked on as little groups of Villareal fans – their vivid yellow so prominent – stopped for photos beneath the neon signs opposite. It certainly was a photogenic hotspot. We then joked that it was the same fans on some sort of sponsored walk and that when we reached the stadium there would only be fifty inside.
After four hours or so of sublime Chelsea chat, we split up. Sadly, Gillian and Kevin were unlucky to get tickets in the UEFA ballot. Foxy and Rich had been luckier. But so much for heading off to the stadium at 6pm. We eventually left at around 6.30pm. It took us a few nervous minutes to get hold of a cab. But the cabbie was only able to take Rich, Parky and little old me as far as Sandy Row, which looked like a scene from the apocalypse with debris and broken glass littering the street. A good time had certainly been had by all. A police car blocked the road south.
So, out into the now seriously warm evening sun. We embarked on a thirty-minute walk down to Windsor Park which sits a mile or so to the south of the city centre. I enjoyed this. There was a certain old-time feel to it all, walking past decidedly working class terraced houses, the crowd being drawn to the football stadium as in times of yore.
We turned into Donegall Avenue, under a road bridge, a row of police watching us, yet more echoes of a distant past, and then the security checks. Thankfully, no issues with either the COVID19 passport nor my ticket. More familiar faces. Good people. Plenty of old school Chelsea. But then a silly altercation with a fellow fan who was sat in my seat. This all meant that despite waking up at around 10am, and the kick-off some ten hours away, I was only in position for the kick-off at 7.55pm.
Proper Chelsea.
I was behind the eastern goal in row G, but where was Parky? Maybe Chelsea in their infinite wisdom had decided to keep us apart despite me getting our tickets together in the same transaction. Who knows? Answers on a postcard.
Windsor Park holds 18,000 but its limit for this game was 13,000. Chelsea were given 2,000 tickets, Villareal had 1,500. Now I know this club comes from a city with a population of just 50,000 but that split doesn’t seem fair in this day and age. Surely all UEFA Finals should have an even spilt. The side stands – home to the UEFA ballot tickets – were predominantly Chelsea. In the end, it looked like slightly over 1,000 Villareal fans had made the journey. They were residing in half of the western end and in the two tiers of the side stand too. I remember the old Windsor Park. I remember England returning there in 1977 after a spell of Northern Ireland always playing their Home International games away from Belfast during The Troubles. For many years it was a ramshackle stadium, the double tiered north stand being the only modern structure. It has now been totally modernised, with white, blue, light green and dark green seats. It has rather ugly raised executive areas in the main south stand and an even uglier arrangement in – our – eastern end. But it suited UEFA for this game. I remember the Cardiff City stadium hosted Real Madrid and Sevilla in 2014.
So, I predictably missed all of the pre-game pageantry.
I had to quickly run through the team.
Mendy
Rudiger – Zouma – Chalobah
Hudson-Odoi – Kante – Kovacic – Alonso
Havertz – Werner – Ziyech
Villareal’s team included Capoue, ex-Tottenham, and Moreno, ex-Liverpool.
It seemed like every single one of their fans were wearing yellow.
Bless’em.
It is worth noting that in none of the bars and pubs, in none of the conversations among close friends and distant acquaintances did anyone…not one person…mention a “high press.”
So here we all were. The Chelsea away club transplanted to the National Football Stadium at Windsor Park. A row of Chelsea flags along the unused seats at the front of the east stand. Chelsea flags sporadically placed on balcony walls.
The simple efficiency of one that bore the words “Two Steps Beyond.”
We all knew what it meant.
The game began and Chelsea were immediately on top, and its fans too. The first segment of the game was played out in front of a noisy backdrop and one song dominated.
“Oh Roman do you know what that’s worth?
Kai Havertz is the best on Earth.
The silky German is just what we need.
He won Chelsea the Champions League.”
It was sung loudly and raucously for minutes on end.
Chelsea attacked the colourful Villareal fans in the western end. Behind them, the dull outline of the hills that surround Belfast squeezed in between the steel of the stands. A setting sun behind it all.
When the Spanish fans began to familiarise themselves with the sights of Belfast, perhaps they took solace in the bright yellow of the twin cranes of the Harland & Wolf shipyards. Was yellow the key colour of the moment? There was that rather oddly misaligned yellow piping on the Chelsea shirt and then shorts after all.
After five minutes, an in swinging corner from the slight Hakim Ziyech on our right found the predatory Timo Werner on the far post. He connected late, almost between the legs of his marker, and brought a great instinctive save from Asenjo in the Villareal goal. We were finding players in good wide positions and after a sweeping ball in from that man Havertz, the ball was won back by N’Golo Kante, the captain on the night, who thundered the ball wide.
Where was Parky, though? Couldn’t see him anywhere.
We were well on top. Kante was everywhere. Villareal were kept camped inside their half. On twenty-six minutes, after steady Chelsea pressure, the ball was played by Marcos Alonso out to Havertz on the left. His first time cross was hit low towards Werner, but was picked up by Ziyech behind him. He swept the ball fortuitously into the net, bouncing up and in, as if in slow motion.
Get in.
Chelsea 1 Villareal 0.
The players celebrated over in the opposite corner with the noise booming around Windsor Park.
Not long after, a rare Villareal break enabled players to find space inside our box but Dia was foiled by Edouard Mendy, who did well to block the effort on goal.
A Ziyech cross from the left found Alonso, but his snap shot was clawed out by Asenjo at the near post. Then a Ziyech free-kick caught Villareal out. It was perfectly played, dropping at the far post but the outstretched leg of Kurt Zouma just sent the ball crashing over the bar.
The goal scorer Ziyech went down after a challenge and was replaced by Christian Pulisic.
Right on the half-time whistle, a very good Villareal move enabled the ball to be hooked back towards the far post where Moreno met the ball with a thunderous volley. We gasped as the ball crashed against the bar, and bounced down a foot or so from the line.
Fackinell.
At the start of the second-half, Havertz went close at our end. But then Mendy slipped as he cleared and the ball fell to Moreno. Mendy thankfully redeemed himself, touching the ball onto the base of the far post. But the warning signs had been sounded and Villareal dominated much of the possession in the second half. The Chelsea fans grew nervy and quieter.
Just after the hour, Thomas Tuchel changed the personnel.
Jorginho for Kante.
Mount for Werner.
Christensen for Zouma.
Mendy saved at the near post from Estupinan. On seventy-two minutes, the Yellow Submarine cut through our rather static defence and Gerard Moreno slammed the ball in after a nice ball played back to him by Dia. The Villareal players celebrated in the yellow corner.
It was on the cards. No complaints.
Bollocks.
Right in front of me, in the inside left channel, Alonso received a ball, nestled it on his thigh, turned and volleyed. The ball only troubled the side netting. It was the last chance of the ninety minutes.
We moved rather reluctantly into an extra thirty minutes and I suspected that the extra pints that had been gleefully taken throughout the days drinking in the many city centre pubs may have had an adverse effect on the Chelsea support.
In truth, the extra half an hour provided little thrills. Pulisic stumbled as he prodded a ball towards the Villareal goal and the ball apologetically bounced wide. In the second period, a twist and a shot from Mason Mount inside the box brought another fine save from the Villareal ‘keeper.
Just before the end of the extra thirty minutes, we looked over to the touchline and saw that Kepa was lining up to replace Mendy.
There was a mixed reaction in the Chelsea end. There were moans when we realised that the penalties were to be taken at the Villareal end.
So. The game continued, the night continued. All was dark above Windsor Park now.
All eyes on the penalty takers.
First-up Chelsea. Our support tried to put the fear of God into the Villareal players.
“We know what we are. Champions of Europe. We know what we are.”
Havertz. The hero of Porto. The new hero. An easy save. Bollocks.
Gerard the scorer in normal time. Goal.
Dave. A big penalty. A sweet strike. Goal.
Mandi. Saved not by Mendy, but by Kepa. Get in you bastard.
Alonso. A slip, but in. Goal.
Estupinan. Goal.
Mount. Goal.
Gomez. Goal.
Jorginho. Lots of nerves from us all. Would he hop and go right? No, a hop and left. Goal. Get in.
Raba. Goal.
Sudden death now.
Fackinell.
Pulisic. Goal.
Foyth. Goal.
Rudiger. Nerves again. Goal.
Albiol. My camera was poised. A strike. The Chelsea players blocked my view. I heard a roar. Saved.
GETINYOUBASTARDS.
The players ran towards Kepa in the yellow corner. The submarine was sunk in Titanic’s home city.
I looked for Jonesy, a veteran from Monaco, and we shared a special moment. We had been present at all of the “modern” European Chelsea victories in all those far flung places.
Monaco and Belfast, though; the most unlikely of twinned cities.
There was the usual post-game sequence of the modern age. The rather odd two-stage presentation of the cup. Firstly, the handing over of the cup to Dave and then a walk to the platform to join the waiting team mates.
The hoist, the silver ticker-tape, the screams of delight.
Athens 1971.
Stockholm 1998.
Monaco 1998.
Munich 2012.
Amsterdam 2013.
Baku 2019.
Porto 2021.
Belfast 2021.
Count’em up. Eight. Two of each. I like a bit of symmetry.
It’s lovely that the badge that I grew up with, the lion rampant and the two stars – celebrating 1970 and 1971 – now has an even deeper meaning.
And if the win in Monaco in 1998 was Realy super, the win in Belfast in 2021 was Villarealy super.
OK, enough of the shitty wordplay.
Outside, I met up with Rich. We waited for Parky to emerge from the crowds but soon gave up. We were to eventually find him tagged on to the end of a queue for hot dogs and hamburgers on the Donegall Road.
We walked back, slowly, to the busy area near our hotel, an area that was known as the Golden Mile in the dark days of the ‘seventies, just beyond the high-security of the city centre. A cheap and cheerful pizza, with Chelsea shouts and songs in the distance, and then bed.
It had been a good night.
On the Thursday, there was a visit to the area near the Titanic Museum, a hop-on and hop-off bus tour of the city and even a quick flit over to East Belfast to cram in another football stadium. The Oval is home to Glentoran, Linfield’s main rivals, nestling underneath Samson and Goliath, the twin cranes of the nearby dock area. It is so different to Windsor Park, but I loved it.
It was a perfect end to a magnificent three days in Belfast.
We caught the 10pm flight home and I was able to look down on the lights of the city as we soared high above. The memories will stay a long time.
My match report for the home game against Everton in March of last year – a really fine 4-0 win – ended with a typical few words.
“Right. Aston Villa away on Saturday. See you there.”
Then, as we all know too dearly, life – and football – changed. The corona virus that had first been spoken about just after Christmas in 2019, almost in a semi-humorous way at the start, took hold and started claiming victims at an alarming rate. A global pandemic was on our hands. Very soon the United Kingdom was placed in lockdown, a situation that none of us could have ever envisioned witnessing in person during our lives.
Suddenly and without too much thought, football seemed of little real relevance to me.
The trials and tribulations of Chelsea Football Club in particular seemed small compared to the news appearing on my TV screen, on my phone and laptop. As friends found their own way of coping with the surreal nature of lock down, and then being furloughed from work, I quickly realised that football, Chelsea in particular, was way down my list of priorities.
I simply had other, more serious, issues to deal with. And this is how my thought process, my coping mechanism, remained for weeks and weeks. While others pushed for football to return I simply asked myself :
Why?
It was irrelevant, for me, to concern myself with millionaires playing football.
Eventually after a prolonged break, when the football season began again in the middle of June, I had become emotionally distanced from the sport and from Chelsea too. I had simply turned inwards, as did many; working from home, travelling as little as I could manage and trying not to impact – socially – on the outside world. I joked that I had been practising for this moment my entire life. Earlier in my life, I was the ultimate shy boy.
But the noisemakers in the game and the media were adamant that it would be a major moral boost for the nation to see football return.
How?
It just didn’t sit well with me, this notion of football to be seen as the great saviour. Other priorities seemed to overshadow it. I just could not correlate what I was hearing in the media about football and what I was feeling inside.
I will not lie, I absolutely hated watching the games on TV, with no fans, in silence, and I became more and more distanced from the sport that I had loved with each passing game. I watched almost with a sense of duty, nothing more. What had been my lifeblood – to an almost ridiculous level some might say, and with some justification – just seemed sterile and distant. I have very few memories of those games in the summer.
The FA Cup Final seemed particularly difficult to watch. On a hot day in August, I mowed the lawn, and even did some work in my home office for an hour or two, and then sat alone to see us score an early Christian Pulisic goal but then be over-run by a revitalised Arsenal team. That result hurt of course, and I was annoyed how some decisions went against us. The sad injury to Pedro – a fine player for us over five years – in the last kick of the game seemed to sum up our horrible misfortune that day. However, and I know this sounds funny and odd, but I was pleased that I was hurting. That I still cared.
But by the evening, the loss was glossed over.
Football still didn’t seem too important to me.
The one positive for me, and one which combines my own particular brand of OCD – Obsessive Chelsea Disorder – married with a possible smidgeon of shallowness, was the fact that I didn’t have to delete the games I had witnessed in 2019/20 from both my games spreadsheet and – gulp – this blog site.
A small victory for me, and I needed it.
Off the field, work was becoming particularly stressful for me. In August I came oh-so close to handing in my notice. The workload was piling up, I was battling away, and I was getting some worrying chest pains again.
In mid-September, the new season began and I openly hoped for a new approach from me. There was nothing up in the air here; we knew games would be played behind closed doors, we knew the score from the start. I renewed my NOWTV package to allow me to see most of our games. We began the league campaign at Brighton. For some reason, I didn’t see the game, I can’t remember why not. The first match I witnessed on TV was the home defeat to Liverpool.
It was no good. I could not deny it. I was as distanced as ever. The hold that Chelsea Football Club had on me for decades was under threat.
Conversely – at last some fucking positivity – as soon as my local team Frome Town started playing friendlies and then league games, I was in football heaven. I especially remember a fantastic pre-season friendly against Yeovil Town two days before Chelsea’s game at Brighton. A warm Thursday evening and a capacity 400 attendance, a fine game with friends, just magnificent. In September and October, I attended many a Frome Town game including aways at Mangotsfield United in Bristol – it felt so good to be back home in my living room uploading photos just an hour after the game had finished, a real positive – and on a wet night in Bideford in North Devon. Home gates were significantly higher than the previous season. There was a magnificent sense of community at the club. There had even been a tremendous crowd-funder to raise £25,000 in April to keep the club going. We even had a little FA Trophy run – before being expelled for refusing to play an away tie in an area with a high infection rate. Soon after, the club’s records for a second successive season were expunged and that early season flourish was put on hold until 2021/22.
But for a month, I was felling inexorably closer to Frome Town than to Chelsea. It seemed that my entire world was turning in on myself.
Was the world changing?
On Saturday 10 October it certainly did. For the second time in a few days I experienced chest pains. There had been a similar attack in my bed and breakfast in Bideford on Thursday morning. That drive home was horrible. I wanted to be brave enough to phone for a doctor. On the Saturday, I knew I had to act. I phoned the emergency services and – to cut a very long story to a quick few lines – I was whisked into a local hospital in Bath. On the Sunday, I was told that I had suffered a mild heart attack, and on Monday I underwent an operation to have two stents fitted into my heart. My Tuesday afternoon, I was home again.
I remained off work for five weeks, and slowly returned in stages. A half-day here, a half-day there. I remained calm throughout these weeks. I knew, deep down, that something had been wrong but being a typical bloke, decided to let things slide and hope for the best. Since then, I have improved my lifestyle; decaffeinated coffee – boo! – and healthier food, more exercise and all of the associated improvements that go with it.
With all this going on, Chelsea seemed even more remote. I was momentarily cheered when fans were allowed back inside Stamford Bridge, and that for a few hours we were top of the table after Leeds United were despatched. For a fleeting moment, it seemed that Frank Lampard, who had teased a very creditable fourth place finish in July out of his youngsters, was now able to similarly nurture his new signings too. But there had been failings in 2020/21 too. Our defence was at times calamitous. But I was solidly behind Frank all of the way. I really felt for him. Back in March, with Billy Gilmour the new star, we had enjoyed quite wonderful wins over Liverpool and Everton. There was positivity, hope and the future looked utterly pleasing.
Then the pandemic struck. Damn you COVID19.
In December and early January our form dipped alarmingly. I watched Frank’s interviews through my fingers. It was not pleasant viewing. It saddened me that so many rank and file Chelsea supporters, across all demographics – from old school fans in England to younger ones abroad – had seen fit to kindly forget the “I don’t care if we finish mid-table for a couple of seasons, let’s build a future with our youngsters” mantra in August 2019.
It got to the stage where I didn’t want Chelsea to simply win games but to simply win games for Frank.
I had returned full-time to work in mid-January. To their credit my employer has been first rate throughout my ordeal. While I was in the office on a day in late January, it was sadly announced that Frank Lampard had been sacked. I was numbed yet not at all surprised. I firstly hated the decision for reasons that are probably not difficult to guess. So much for long termism, eh Chelsea?
My interest in the exploits of Chelsea Football Club probably reached an all-term low. Or at least since the relegation season of 1978/79 when we were shocking throughout and I was being pulled away from football with a new interest in music and other teenage distractions.
Thomas Tuchel?
A nerdy-looking chap, skeleton thin, probably a diamond with Powerpoint and with a marginally worse hairstyle than me? I wished him well but football again seemed distant.
Our form improved but the football itself seemed sterile. I was still struggling.
On a Saturday in March, I debated whether or not I had time to go off on a ten mile walk to a local village and get back in time to watch play at Elland Road. I considered binning the football in favour of my new found enjoyment of walks in the surrounding winter Somerset countryside. In the end I compromised; I went for a walk on the Sunday.
I know what I found most enjoyable.
Of late, our form has really improved. Again, I haven’t seen every game. But we look a little more coherent, defensively especially. Apart from an odd blip, to be honest, the results since the new manager took over have been sensational even if many of the ways of getting those results have lacked a certain “I know not what.”
Pizazz? Style?
I’m being mean. The bloke has done well. I like his self-effacing humour, his humble approach. He has started to grow in me (Parky : “like a fungus”).
Of late, our progress in the latter stages of the Champions League has been the most impressive part of our recent resurgence. And yet this competition has been haunting me all season long. In a nutshell, the thought of us reaching our third European Cup Final and – being selfish here, I know it – me not being able to attend is a nightmare.
(OK, not a nightmare. I know. I know 127,000 people have lost their lives due to COVID19. That is the real nightmare. I realise that. This is just football. Just football.)
I shrugged off last August’s FA Cup Final. I coped remarkably well with that. I soon decided that I could even stomach missing a second-successive one this year. But the thought of us lifting the big one for a second time and me – and others – not being there is bloody purgatory.
So, it was with a heady mix of genuine pride and impending sadness that accompanied the glorious sight of us beating a hideously poor Real Madrid side over two-legs to reach the final.
But that spectacle, or debacle, needs another chapter devoted to it. And it doesn’t seem right to talk too much about that at this time. In fact, going into the weekend I assured myself that I would not dwell too much about the 2021 European Cup Final. Let’s be honest here; the twin crushing of the hated European Super League and the farcical and immoral desire of UEFA to send 8,000 UK citizens to Portugal in the midst of a global pandemic warrants a book, a Netflix series even, all by themselves.
Let’s talk about the FA Cup.
For those readers of this blogorama who have been paying attention, I have been featuring the visit of my grandfather Ted Draper to Stamford Bridge for the 1920 FA Cup Final between Aston Villa, his team, and Huddersfield Town. This is a work of fiction since I only know that my grandfather once visited Stamford Bridge, but was never able to remember the game. Suffice to say, in the report of the home game against Liverpool last March, I continued the story.
After a break of fourteen months, a re-cap.
On Saturday 24 April 1920, on this very same site, if not this very same stadium – but certainly one which was in situ for the 1982 game, those lovely packed terraces – my grandfather stood on the great slug of the West terrace with his old school friend Ted Knapton alongside him. It was half-time, and the score between the two teams – Aston Villa, who he favoured, and Huddersfield Town – was 0-0. It had been an exhilarating game of football for my grandfather, though the spectacle of seeing fifty-thousand spectators in one sports ground had proved to be the one abiding memory that he would take away with him.
Fifty thousand people.
And virtually all were men, and so many had fought in the Great War.
My grandfather was twenty-five years old. He silently gazed out at the main stand on the far side, the open terraces behind each goal, and looked behind him at row after row of fellows in caps and hats, some with the colourful favours of the two competing teams. A claret and blue rosette here. A light blue hat there.
Fifty-thousand men.
It struck home.
My grandfather had just that week spotted a local girl, a few years younger than him, who was beginning work in the manor house of his home village. She was a young cook, with a lovely smile, and had caught his eye.
My grandfather was a rather quiet man. He looked out at all those faces. He did not speak to his friend Ted, but he – at Stamford Bridge on Cup Final day 1920 – had decided that the stadium, indeed the whole of England was full of men, and the thought of one of them asking the young cook out before he had a chance to utter a shy “hello” ate away at him.
He had survived the Great War. He lived in a great village and now this great spectacle had stirred him in a way that he had not expected.
“You had better get your act together, Ted Draper. On Monday at lunch time, I think I will ask Blanche if she would like to accompany me to next weekend’s village dance. I can’t be second in that race.”
I was so annoyed that I could not continue this story last season. The team did their part, defeating Manchester United in a semi-final, but of course there was no Cup Final Tale in which I could tie up rather conveniently tie up the end of my 1920 story on the centenary.
Thankfully, good old Chelsea, the team defeated Manchester City in this season’s semis to enable me to continue and to honour my grandfather again.
The quality of the play down below on the surprisingly muddy Stamford Bridge pitch deteriorated throughout the second-half. But Ted Draper, along with his friend Ted Knapton, were still enthralled by the cut and thrust of the two teams. The players, wearing heavy cotton shirts, went into each tackle with thunderous tenacity. And the skill of the nimble wide players caught both of their eye.
“Ted, I wonder what the crowd figure is here today. There are a few spaces on the terracing. I suspect it would have been at full capacity if Chelsea had won their semi-final against the Villa.”
“I think you are right. What’s the capacity here? I have heard it said it can hold 100,000.”
“Bugger me.”
“Trust Chelsea to mess it up.”
“Yes. Good old Chelsea.”
The crowd impressed them. But they were not too impressed with the swearing nor the quite shocking habit of some spectators to openly urinate on the cinder terraces.
“To be honest Ted, I haven’t seen any lavatories here have you?”
“I’m just glad I went in that pub before we arrived.”
The play continued on, and the crowd grew restless with the lack of goals. The programme was often studied to match the names of the players with their positions on the pitch. With no goals after ninety-minutes, there was a short break before extra-time, and more liquid cascaded down the terraces.
“Like a bloody river, Ted.”
After ten minutes of the first period of extra-time, Aston Villa broke away on a fast break and the brown leather ball held up just in time for the inside-right Billy Kirton to tuck the ball past Sandy Mutch in the Huddersfield goal. There was a mighty roar, and Ted Draper joined in.
The Aston Villa supporters standing nearby flung their hats into the crowd and many of the bonnets and caps landed on the sodden floor of the terracing.
“Buggered if I’d put those things back on my head, Ted.”
There then followed a period of back-slapping among the Villa die-hards, and Ted Draper was very pleased that his team had taken the lead. The game stayed at 1-0, with both teams tiring in the last part of the match. The crowd stayed until the end, transfixed. There was just time to see the Aston Villa captain Andy Ducat lift the silver trophy on the far side. The teams soon disappeared into the stand.
With a blink of an eye, the game was done, the day was over, and Somerset was calling.
As the two friends slowly made their way out of the Stamford Bridge stadium, Ted Knapton – who favoured no team, but had picked the Huddersfield men for this game – spoke to my grandfather.
“That goal, Ted.”
“What of it?”
“It looked offside to me.”
“Not a chance, not a chance Ted. The inside-right was a good half-inch onside.”
“Ah, you’re a bugger Ted Draper, you’re a bugger.”
On Cup Final Day 2021, I was up early, a good ninety minutes ahead of the intended 8am alarm clock. One of my first tasks was to swab my mouth and nose. Now there’s a phrase that I never ever thought that I would utter on a Cup Final morn. Part of the protocol for this game, the biggest planned event to take part in the UK since lockdown in March 2020, was that all attendees should take a lateral flow test at an official centre from 2.15pm on Thursday 13 May. I was lucky, I was able to work a late shift on the Friday and I travelled to Street for my test. The negative result soon came through by email. We also were advised, though not compulsory, to take a test at home on the morning of the game and five days after the event in order for data to be gathered. A small price to pay.
This felt odd. To be going to a game after so long. I took some stick from a few people that saw me comment that my love of football was being rekindled.
“Chelsea get to two cup finals and all of a sudden Chris Axon loves football again.”
I laughed with them.
The joy of football had been rekindled because I was now able to see a live game. There are many ways for people to get their kick out of football. By playing, by writing, by watching on TV, by refereeing, by betting, by coaching, by fantasy leagues. By I get my kick through live football.
It has been my life.
I posted the carton with the vial containing my swab at Mells Post Office just after I left home at 10.30am. I was genuinely excited for the day’s events to unfold. Outside the same post office a few days earlier, I had announced to two elderly widows of the village – Janet and Ann – that I was off to the FA Cup Final a few days earlier.
“I have missed it badly.”
They both smiled.
And I realised that this final tie of the Football Association Challenge Cup represented a final tie to my childhood – I am known around the village as a Chelsea supporter – and it also represented a nod to the tie that Chelsea Football Club has on me.
But did it really represent one last chance to bring me back in from the cold?
I know that I needed something to help me regain my love of the game before my dislike of VAR, obscenely-overpaid players, ever-changing kick-off times, blood-sucking agents, the continuing indifference to game-going fans despite the limp platitudes that might suggest otherwise, the threat of the thirty-ninth game, knobhead fans, the disgraceful behaviour of UEFA and FIFA in so many aspects of their stance on so many things (I have already decided I am not watching a single second of the Qatar World Cup) all combine in one horrible mixture to turn me away even more.
I have aired all this before. As well you know.
No pressure, Chelsea.
Vic Woodley.
On my way to collect Lord Parky, my sole companion on this foray back to normality, I passed near the village of Westwood. Until recently, I was unaware – as were many – that this is the final resting place of our former ‘keeper Vic Woodley. There is a group on Facebook that actively try to locate the graves of former players and on occasion headstones are purchased if there are unmarked graves. It is an admirable cause. Two Saturdays ago, I placed some blue and white flowers on the grave. Although it is open to debate, I would suggest that until 1955, Vic Woodley was our most successful player at Chelsea.
Hughie Gallacher was probably our most famous player, George Smith had played more games and George Mills had been our record goal scorer.
But Woodley had played 252 games for Chelsea and 19 for England. He was in our team for the Moscow Dynamo game in 1945 too.
I vote for Vic Woodley.
I soon passed The Barge pub, on the outskirts of Bradford on Avon where he was a landlord in later years.
We must pay a visit when normality returns.
Parky soon reminded me that he had heard of his Uncle Gerald, a Derby County fan, talk about Vic Woodley – who played thirty times for Derby before moving to Bath City – living locally when Parky was younger. Parky also recounted meeting a chap in nearby Melksham who had been at that Moscow Dynamo game just after the Second World War.
1994 And 2021.
I had collected Parky at 11am. His first task had been to replicate a photo of me setting off outside Glenn’s house in Frome before the drive to the 1994 FA Cup Final. I wanted a little comparison. Me at 28 and me at 55.
This would be my eleventh FA Cup Final that I will have attended. The twenty-eight year old me what have laughed at such a notion.
We had a lovely natter on the way up. We hardy stopped chatting. Sadly, neither Glenn nor PD could make it up but we promised to keep them in our thoughts. Our route took us towards High Wycombe before we doubled back on the M40. This was quite appropriate since a very well-known and popular supporter at Chelsea, Wycombe Stan, had recently passed away. He was well-loved by all and will be sadly missed at Chelsea. Stan has featured in these reports a few times. A smashing bloke.
RIP Wycombe Stan.
I had purchased a pre-paid parking slot for £20 only a ten-minute walk from the stadium. Traffic delays going in meant that we didn’t arrive much before 3pm, but it felt good, for once, to not have to race like fools to get in to a Cup Final. Those “last pints” on Cup Final day are legend.
The environs around modern Wembley Stadium are much different than as recently as 2007, the first final at the new place. Flats and hotels abound. It is very much a retail village first, a sporting venue second. We bumped into two Chelsea fans on the walk to the stadium. Gill B. said that the place was full of Leicester, that there were hardly any Chelsea present yet. I knew of two Leicester City season ticket holders who were attending the final and one had said that most of their fans were arriving on an armada of coaches. Gill R. wasn’t planning on meeting up with anyone, but as we turned a quiet corner, she shouted out : ”Chris!”
It was so lovely to see her. We chatted for quite a while, talking about the surreal nature of the past year, the sad departure of Frank, the whole nine yards. We both admitted we had not missed football as much as we had expected. Strange times.
At the southern end of what is now normally called “Wembley Way” – but was really called “Olympic Way” – the rather unsightly access slope has been replaced by steps, which I must admit remind me of an old style football terrace. But it is rather odd to see steps there. One supposes that crowd control has improved since the Ibrox disaster of 1971, but the straight rails, with no cross rails to stop surges, did bring a tremor to my memory banks. At least the steps do not immediately start near the stadium.
At the base of the steps, we scanned our match ticket and showed our test result email to Security Bod Number One.
In. Simple.
We neared the turnstiles at the eastern end – not our usual one – at around 3.30pm. Hardly anyone was around. We went straight in.
Thankfully, Security Bod Number Two didn’t react negatively to the sight of my camera and lenses.
Result. In.
For an hour and a half – the equivalent of a match – and by far the most enjoyable ninety minutes of the day, we chatted to many friends who we had not seen for fourteen months. I was driving, of course, so was not drinking. In fact, as I never drink at home, my last alcoholic intake was way back in September. But Parky, himself almost teetotal since June, was off the leash and “enjoying” the £6 pints. I updated many friends with the latest news regarding my health. I summed it up like this :
“I’ve had a good six months.”
There had been rumours of the whole game being played under constant rain. We were low down, row three and right behind the goal. If anyone was going to get wet, we were.
It was soon 5pm. A quick dash to the loo, things have improved since 1920. Within seconds I was spotting more familiar faces and I added to the gallery.
A Chelsea Gallery.
The Game.
The Cup Final hymn – Abide With Me – was sung and I sang along too. It is always so moving.
A quick look around. Most people in the lower tier. Team banners all over the south side of the top tier. A few people dotted around the middle tier and the north side of the top tier. Altogether surreal. Altogether strange. We had been gifted a Chelsea flag and a small blue bag was placed beneath the seat too. I didn’t bother to look in for a while. Time was moving on. I was starting to gear up for my first Chelsea game of the season and, possibly – only possibly – my last. Some fireworks, some announcements, the entrance of the teams. I spotted Prince William, a good man, and snapped away as he was introduced to the two teams.
“Oh bollocks. The teams. Who’s playing?”
I had been so busy chatting in the concourse that my mind had not given it a moment’s thought.
James in the middle three, Kepa in goal, Ziyech? Oh dear. I was amazed that Havertz was not playing. I was reminded last week that the young German’s first ever appearance at Wembley was in late 2016 against Tottenham. He came on as an eighty-sixth minute substitute for Bayer Leverkusen as they won 1-0. It was memorable for me too; I was there, tucked away among the Leverkusen hordes with my childhood friend Mario.
So, yes, the team.
Kepa.
James. Silva. Rudiger.
Dave. Kante. Jorginho. Alonso.
Mount. Werner. Ziyech.
I always say that I need a few games at the start of each season to get used to watching football again. To learn the habits, strengths and weaknesses of new players. To pace myself. To try to take it all in. Sadly, such a staggeringly low viewing position was of no use whatsoever. Everything was difficult. There was no depth. I really struggled.
And I really struggled with the latest dog’s dinner kit that the wonder kids at Nike have foisted upon us.
Does anybody like it?
To be honest, with players in motion the bizarre chequered pattern is not too discernible. It is only when players are still that the mess is fully visible. That the nasty pattern is continued onto the shorts without the merest hint of an apology makes it twice as bad. After getting it so right – sadly for one game – in 2020, the Nike folk thought that the yellow trim was obviously worth repeating.
Right. Enough of that. I’m getting depressed.
With only 12,500 fans of the competing clubs in the vastness of Wembley, it was so difficult to get an atmosphere going. For the first time in fourteen months, my vocal skills were tested. I joined in when I could. But it was all rather half-hearted.
The game began and we edged the opening spell quite easily with Mason Mount busy and involved. A couple of very early attacks down the right amounted to nothing. The rain was just about staying off.
Our loudest chant in the game thus far had been the statistically inaccurate “We’ve won it all”, a comment that Corinthians of San Paolo will note with a chuckle, as will the Saints of Southampton.
After a full quarter of an hour, an optimistic effort from Toni Rudiger flew tamely wide of the Leicester goal. A rare foray into our half saw a cross from Timothy Castagne for Jamie Vardy but Reece James blocked well. Chances were rare though. Mount advanced well but shot wide. An effort from Timo Werner replicated the curve of the arch overhead as his shot plopped into the area housing the Leicester fans.
We were clearly dominating possession but after a reasonable start we became bogged down with keeping the ball and trying to force our way in to Leicester’s well-drilled defence. I could almost hear the commentators describing the play. And it’s maybe a subtle new type of play too, possibly a side-effect of having no fans at games for over a year.
Watching on TV, and I admit I get so frustrated, I get bored to death of teams sitting back and letting teams pass in and around them. I watched some old footage from the ‘eighties recently, highlights of the 1982 and 1988 Scottish Cup Finals, and from the kick-off the teams were at each other. It was like watching a different sport. It was breathless, maybe not tactically pleasing, but it had me on edge and dreaming of another era.
Today there is just so much I can take of commentators talking about “the press, a low press, a high press, a high block, a low block, between the lines, transition, the counter, little pockets, passing channels.”
It seems that football is – even more – a sport watched by experts and critics rather than supporters. Yes, everyone seems more educated in tactics these days, but the repetition of some key phrases surely grates on me.
For the high priests of the high press, I sometimes wonder if they are even aware of how often they use this phrase during a normal match.
Players have always closed space and targeted weak spots, just as teams have in the past been happy to soak up pressure when needed. It just seems that teams do it all the time now. In every bloody game. And with no supporters in the stadium to inject some passion and intensity, I get drained watching training game after training game on TV.
A few long crosses and corners from the right did not trouble Schmeichel in the Leicester goal. His father was in the Manchester United goal in 1994. It infamously rained that day and just around the half-way mark of the first-half, the heavens opened. The omens were against us. My camera bag got drenched, my jacket was getting drenched. The blue cardboard bag from Chelsea was getting drenched.
Someone asked: “what’s in the goody bag?”
I replied “a return air ticket to Istanbul.”
Tuchel hurried back to the bench to get a blue baseball cap from his goody bag. Not sure if he had a metal badge too, though.
For twenty minutes, my photos stopped. I couldn’t risk my camera getting waterlogged. Leicester had a few rare forays towards us at the eastern end. I liked the look of Thiago Silva. Bizarrely, of course, these were my first sightings of Werner, Ziyech and Silva in a Chelsea shirt.
The rain slowed and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was in no mood for a “Burnley 2017.” Around me, the rain had dampened the fervour of our support. Leicester were beginning to be heard.
“Vichai had a dream. He bought a football team.
He came from Thailand and now he’s one of our own.
We play from the back.
And counter attack.
Champions of England. You made us sing that.”
Thankfully no mention of a high press.
The last real chance of the half, a poor-half really, fell to Caglar Soyuncu but his effort dropped wide of the far post.
At half-time, there were mutterings of disapproval in a Chelsea support that had quietened down considerably. Throughout that first-half, neither team had managed a shot on goal. But I tried to remain positive. I was buoyed by the pleasing sight of blue skies in the huge rectangular window above us…I hoped the clouds would not return.
No changes at the start of the second-half. I prayed for a winner at our end, just yards away from me.
The first effort of the second-half came from the head of Marcos Alonso, a surprising starter for many, who rose to meet a cross from N’Golo Kante but headed too close to Schmeichel. Leicester showed a bit of life, some spirit, but it was dour football.
Sadly, this was to change. Just after the hour, the ball was pushed square to Youri Tielemens who advanced – unchallenged, damn it – until he was around twenty-five yards out. As soon as the ball left his boot, from my vantage point, I knew it was in. Not even Peter fucking Crouch could have reached it. The Leicester end erupted.
Bollocks.
Five minutes later, Christian Pulisic for Hakim Ziyech and Ben Chilwell – loud boos – for Marcos Alonso. Pulisic immediately added a little spice and spirit. He seemed positive. Two more substitutions, Callum Hudson-Odoi for Azpilicueta and Kai Havertz, the slayer of Tottenham, for Jorginho. Our attack had stumbled all game but with fresh legs we immediately looked more interested.
The Leicester fans were in their element, raucous and buoyant. We tried to get behind the team.
“COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA, COME ON CHELSEA.”
It didn’t exactly engulf the Chelsea end in a baying mass of noise.
Kante was strangely finding himself engaged as a supplier of crosses and one such ball was met by Chilwell but his strong downward header, coming straight towards me, was palmed on to his post by a diving Schemichel.
I was right in this game now; it had taken so long for us to get any momentum, but with time running out my eyes were on stalks, watching the ball and the players running – or not – into space.
“COME ON YOU BLUE BOYS.”
With eight minutes’ left, The Charge of the Light Brigade as Olivier Giroud raced on to replace a very disappointing Werner. It was the fastest any Chelsea player had run all game.
The Chelsea pressure increased. I didn’t even think about the stresses that might be induced should we score a late equaliser. But that’s good. I felt fine. No problems.
A delicate cross from James was knocked back to our Mase. He steadied himself momentarily and then let fly with his left foot. I was about to leap in joy. But Schmeichel flung himself to his left and clawed it out.
I called him a very rude name. Twice. Just to make sure he heard me.
In the closing minutes, a lofted ball – into space, what joy – found a rampaging Ben Chilwell. He met it first time, pushing it into the six-yard box. In the excitement of the moment, I only saw a convergence of bodies and then…GETINYOUFUCKER…the net bulge. I tried my damnedest to capture him running away in joy, but I needed to celebrate. I brushed past Parky and found myself in the stairwell. King Kenny virtually slammed me into the fence at the front – ha – but I kept my composure and snapped away. The results are, mainly blurred. A second or two later, I looked back and Kenny was screaming, his face a picture of joy, and the scene that I saw me was a virtual copy, with less people, of the aftermath of Marcos Alonso’s winner in 2017, a mere thirty yards further south.
I heard a voice inside my head.
“Fucking hell, Chris, we’ve done it.”
And then. Someone mentioned VAR. At first, I thought someone was being a smart-arse. Didn’t seem offside to me. Nah. And then I realised as I looked up at the large scoreboard above the Leicester City fans that the awful truth was for all to see.
A red rectangle…
VAR : CHECKING GOAL – POSSIBLE OFFSIDE.
My heart slumped. How often do these end up with the advantage being given to the attacking side?
Ironically, on the car drive in to London, both Parky and I quoted a recent game when Harry Kane’s toe was deemed to be offside and we both admitted that we felt for the bloke. When Chelsea fans are upset with a VAR decision is given against Tottenham, something is definitely up.
A roar from the other end, no goal.
King Kenny wailed : “what has football become?”
I had no answer.
Has anyone?
There is a chance that this might be my last report this season. It depends on how Chelsea Football Club looks after its own supporters’ hopes of reaching the Portuguese city of Porto in a fortnight.
It could have easily been a typical Saturday morning back home in England. As I lay in bed, the sheets almost covering me completely, I buried my head deep inside the covers and tried to sleep on for a few more minutes, and endevoured to ignore the depressing sound of the rain lashing down outside the window. It sounded bleak. Following Chelsea during the summer in the US wasn’t meant to be like this. I hadn’t packed a jacket for the trip, that’s for sure. And I knew that there was no cover at the huge University of Michigan stadium. With the tightening of stadium security, I also knew that bags were not able to be taken in to the game. If the rain continued to fall at the same rate over the next few hours, there was a strong chance of the upcoming game against Real Madrid becoming the worst viewing experience of my life. No roof. No jacket. No bag for my camera. Possibly not even my camera; there was an unclear description of the type of camera which would be allowed inside when I had checked on the stadium website earlier.
“Less than six inches.”
On reading this, I had glanced down at my camera and sighed.
“Looks bigger than six inches to me.”
There was, I suppose, if the occasional thunder cracks continued too, even a slight chance of the game being cancelled or postponed and obliterated from the record books.
Bollocks.
I slept on for a few more minutes. The room had top notes of disinfectant, mixed with a slight aroma of marijuana. Its base notes were of misery. I wondered if this would set the tone for the day.
The rain abated slightly and I became a little more optimistic. I showered, chose jeans over shorts, Moncler over Lacoste, Adidas over Nike, and headed out for the time-honoured tradition of a McBreakfast on the morning of a Chelsea match. This one was not in Melksham, or Chippenham, or at Fleet Services, though; this one was at Ann Arbor, Michigan, a lovely college town situated at arm’s length from the urban sprawl of the troubled city of Detroit. As I finished my coffee, I chatted briefly to a father with two teenagers – the girl wearing a Chelsea shirt, the son wearing a Real Madrid one. It was their first Chelsea game. I wished them well. I wondered if we’d get to see Real’s famous all white kit. It would be a shame to come all this way and not be treated to that. Instead, some ludicrous away kit catastrophe. I have only ever seen Real play once before; in Monaco in the 1998 UEFA Super Cup Final. It was all white on the night for them, but more so for us; a Gustavo Poyet goal gave us a 1-0 win, and prompted my good mate Andy to memorably comment :
“Right now, in Madrid, there’s an old bloke in a bar, saying ‘They always beat us, Chelsea.’ “
Of course, we had beaten them in Athens in 1971 too.
Two games, two wins.
Our paths have rarely crossed since; certainly not in official European campaigns.
On the walk past the motel reception, I spotted a lad wearing a Willian shirt. As I ambled past, I couldn’t resist singing “he hates Tottenham, he hates Tottenham” and this drew a wide smile from the Chelsea fan. There was a spring in my step now. This would be a good day.
My friend John, from Ohio, had kindly volunteered to pick me up in his truck and head in to town for pre-match beers. It was fantastic to see him once again. John studied at Reading University for a few months during the winter of 2008/2009 and I was able to get him tickets, usually alongside the Chelsea legend Lovejoy, for some games. He saw the Juve home match and also took in a game at Anfield. I last saw him at the Baltimore match against Milan in 2009; still widely-regarded by many as the best Chelsea matchday-experience in the US of them all.
On the drive in to town, we caught up with each other’s lives, and John spoke to me about the town’s university, and its myriad sports teams. That John was a “U of M” fan, made this game even more worthwhile for him. I had driven in to town myself on a few occasions since arriving on the Wednesday, but the streets and parking lots were so much busier now. The town was gearing itself for an influx of over one-hundred thousand footy fans.
I had flown in to O’Hare Airport in Chicago on the Tuesday afternoon. I had decided to miss the opening tour game in Pasadena against the Scousers. Los Angeles is not my favourite place, and I wanted to stretch out and unwind a little bit rather than rush between three games. The matches in Ann Arbor and Minneapolis would be just fine. There would be no fun, in my eyes, travelling all of the way out to California to see bloody Liverpool.
“LA?”
“No, la.”
I spent Tuesday night with a few good friends in Chicago, where we spent a few hours hitting a few bars, sharing plenty of laughs, eating Mexican food, and reminiscing about the previous time that I had been in town; the memorable weekend of July 2006 – ten whole years ago, good grief – when Chelsea played the MLS All-Stars, the only game of our US tour that year. I had travelled to the US the previous two summers with Chelsea and had mainly kept myself to myself. In 2006, though, because everyone met up in one pub – “Fado” – and because everything was so well organised (a quiz night, an evening with Charlie Cooke, a practice session, a tour around Chicago in three double-decker busses before heading down to the game), everyone made a special effort to socialise. For me, it was a watershed moment. I met so many friends during those three days of Chelsea in Chicago. Not long after, Chelsea In America asked me to write about a trip to Bremen with Chelsea for their monthly newsletter, and I soon began posting ad hoc match reports on their bulletin board. Ten years later, I am still scribing away with thoughts about what supporting Chelsea means to me and many others.
It has been quite a ride.
I drove from Chicago – sad it was just a fleeting visit – to Ann Arbor on Wednesday. I made the big mistake of stopping by at “Culvers” for a butter burger. It is not a good sign for my future health that the sound effect that accompanied me biting down in to the burger was “squelch.”
But I loved the trip to Ann Arbor on the American road. I find it quite beguiling. The scale of everything is so different to back home.
On Thursday, I drove over to visit my friends Erin and JR, and their three-month old boy Harry, who was born just a few hours after our game at Anfield at the close of last season. It was lovely to see them again. It’s such a shame that simple geography keeps me apart from so many of my closest Chelsea mates. We headed in to Detroit for a few hours. Of course, everyone knows how that city has suffered over recent decades, but I was encouraged to see green shoots of renewal in the city centre, which seemed very chilled and relaxed. I love the way that the city’s sport stadia have remained right in the middle of everything. We relaxed at a great little restaurant. I just fancied a “light snack” and so asked for a Reuben sandwich. However, I was presented with a slab of food so huge that if it had been served in the UK, it would have needed planning permission. JR had shrimp tacos, while Erin had a very healthy salad and rice bowl. The server, a particularly irritating fellow who enjoyed regaling us with a far-too detailed description of the menu, made a point of asking Erin if she required “any protein” with her salad. Perhaps he thought she might soon wither away without added nutrients.
He turned to me and asked if I wanted any fries.
The fucker.
On Thursday night, in Ann Arbor, the Chelsea portion of my holiday kicked-in. Sometimes, I find it a little difficult to focus on events at the start of each season. Because I have witnessed so many games, and have seen us win so much – “things I never thought that I would hear myself say #542” – I usually take a while to get going each season. In “Conor O’Neils” in Ann Arbor, meeting up with a few friends, plus former players Garry Stanley and Gary Chivers, gave me the kick-start that I needed. We spoke about the current team, but also about little parcels of our history. I see Gary Chivers at Stamford Bridge quite often as he works on the corporate hospitality these days. I last saw Garry Stanley at Ian Britton’s funeral in Burnley. We watched Didier Drogba score against Arsenal in the MLS All-Star Game.
Too funny.
Jesus, Brian, Beth and Carlo from Texas were there. The omnipresent Cathy, with Becky, too. Neil Barnett ran through his player ratings – not many high scores, I have to say – from the Liverpool match, which I was unable to track in my motel room, but which we won 1-0. I had my photo taken with Garry and Gary. These were good times.
On the Friday, despite a slow start, the afternoon turned into an evening of additional Chelsea fun. I walked over to the pub at around midday, and spotted two mates – Tuna from Atlanta and Simon from Memphis – who I see on the US tours and also back home at games. They were outside enjoying a pint and a breakfast. They would be the first of many old friends – and a smattering of new – that I would happily meet over the weekend. We had taken over the whole pub – large, cool, roomy – and I spent my time chatting away with many Chelsea faces, clutching a bottle of Corona, and occasionally taking a few photographs to capture the mood. For a while, those outside the pub sang a selection of Chelsea songs, and this resulted in many locals using their cameras to record the moment. I don’t think Ann Arbor was prepared for it. The city centre is a quaint mix of antique shops, brew pubs, eateries, diners, pubs and shops. It is a very typical college town. For a couple of days, Chelsea fans invaded it like a plague of locusts, drank beer, and turned the air blue.
At around 12.30pm on the day of the game, John parked his truck in a multi-story opposite “Conor O’Neils” and we dived into the pub. The rain soon returned, and the University of Michigan store opposite had a run on ponchos. More beers were guzzled, and the pub absolutely roared to Chelsea chants. On the drive in to the city from my motel three miles to the south, the number of Chelsea shirts greatly outnumbered those of Real Madrid. This was a very positive sign indeed. At just after 2pm, thankfully the rain cleared and we began the twenty-five-minute walk south to the stadium. It was very pleasant indeed. The rain had freshened things up a little. We were allocated the northern end of the stadium, and it soon appeared before us. Touts – or scalpers – were doing their best to get rid of spares. Knock-off kits, virtually all Madrid, were being hawked on grass verges. Time was moving on, and the line at the gates were long. I thrust my telephoto lens down into my pocket and hoped for the best. Thankfully, there was a very minimal search and I was in.
“And relax.”
In time-honoured Chelsea tradition, the call of “one last pint” (or in this case “one last poncho”) had been honoured without jeopardising our ability to get in on time.
The stadium, which holds around 110,000, sits on a hill, but does not look large from the outside. Like so many stadia though, the entrances are towards the top of the vast bowl, and the pitch is down below. As I walked in, I was blown away by the scale of it all. It is immense. It is not called “The Big House” without reason. There are rows upon rows of blue metallic bleachers which wrap themselves around on one never-ending single tier. The very last twenty rows are a relatively recent addition. Along the sides are two huge edifices – darkened glass, quite sinister – which house hundreds of executive and corporate suites.
Our section was right down the bottom and it took a while to reach it.
I located my seat, alongside Brij, an Ann Arbor student from San Jose attending his first-ever Chelsea match, and Neil, who was with me in Vienna, just as the national anthem was being played on a trumpet.
I looked around and took it all in.
The guy with the Willian shirt at the hotel in the morning was stood right behind me.
What a small bloody world.
Mosaics were planned and with a great deal of condescension, the announcer painstakingly explained what the spectators needed to do. Thousands of multi-coloured paper panels were held aloft, but I found it odd that the folks in and around me in the Chelsea section held up cards depicting the Real Madrid crest, whereas over in the southern side, the Chelsea crest was visible. Actually, the sections were not cut and dried. To my annoyance, the Chelsea sections of 33,34 and 35 were populated by not only Chelsea supporters, but by those of Real Madrid and many other teams too. The lower sections housed those from the various supporters’ clubs though – New York Blues, Shed End Dallas, Chicago Blues, Beltway Blues, Motor City Blues, Shed End Seattle, Atlanta Blues, Badgercrack Blues – and this lower level housed the bedrock of our support. However, a pet peeve of mine, noted here before, is that it would have been much better to allocate a solid block of one thousand or two thousand just to Chelsea. Over the course of the game, getting the disparate sections, split up and spread more thinly than I would have liked, to sing together was almost impossible.
Elsewhere, there were colours of many teams. If the opposite end was officially the Real Madrid end, there were no noticeable hardcore sections among it. There were no banners, no flags, no “capo” stuff. In fact, if I am blunt, the only section in the whole stadium that tried to get anything going the entire game was in the lower sections of our end.
Real Madrid were in all white, but it was Chelsea that had let me down.
It was black and white, not blue and white, this time.
Antonio Conte had chosen a strong team.
Begovic.
Azpilicueta.
Terry.
Cahill.
Aina.
Matic.
Oscar.
Willian.
Pedo.
Loftus-Cheek.
Traore.
I am so used to seeing a 4-2-3-1 that it took me a while to adjust.
The match began and the support around tried desperately to get behind the boys.
I got my rasping “Zigger Zagger” out of the way early – on around six minutes – and it left me gasping for a sip of beer at the end. I almost didn’t make it. The last “ZZ” almost caused my head to explode in the warm Michigan sun. I turned to Neil and said –
“That’s it. That’s me done.”
As I said, sections of those in blue did their very best to get things going but it wasn’t great.
Sadly, the first-half was truly awful.
Willian had a free-kick which failed to live up to its hype. An ill-judged back-header from Matic caused Begovic to scramble and save. Real Madrid started to dominate.
Two relatively similar goals were scored by Marcelo as our defence opened up before him. This was not going to plan. A third goal from Diaz, whipped in, dipping, but almost straight at Begovic, left us all with concerned faces. I had visions of a 6-0, a cricket score. I had visions of folks back home, at work, waiting to pounce.
“Bloody hell, mate. You went all that way and your lot lost 6-0.”
Neil disappeared at halftime in search of beer, but was never seen again, until later, much later, in the pub.
The manager made widespread changes at half-time.
On came Courtois, Chalobah, Cuadrado, Batshuayi.
Things genuinely improved a little in the second-half.
“Not difficult” I hear you say.
I liked the look of Cuadrado down below me on the wing. At last he looked a little more confident on the ball, and his first touch seemed to be fine. He looked “up for it” and I have a feeling that the manager might well be regarding this as his “special project” this season. He saw him play in depth for Juventus last season. Maybe he can coax something out of his frail shell.
Shots from Chalobah and Batshuayi went close.
The Real ‘keeper Casilla raced out of his area to gather a ball, but Traore pounced, only to see a defender block his shot.
There was a pitch invader, and I – perhaps with a little too much heavy satire – said “shoot him.”
Brij, next to me, told me that there were snipers in the stadium. He pointed up to the two opposing top corners of the roofs of the sky boxes. There were two darkened figures.
I actually felt a shiver go down my spine.
Is this crazy world of ours spiralling out of control so much that we require snipers on stand roofs? I wondered back to the days of the police observation area in the old West Stand in the ‘seventies and ‘eighties. I bet in those days, the only things on display were a pair of binoculars and a cheese and pickle sandwich.
Real Madrid made massive changes and the game drifted on.
Victor Moses, back for his annual pre-season run, was fouled and Hazard went close.
Soon after, with eighty minutes on the clock, Hazard gave the score line a little more respectability when he latched on to a Chalobah ball and rounded replacement ‘keeper Yanez to slot home. My boy Cuadrado looked good, and created a few chances down below us. With an almost copy of his first goal, Eden Hazard was played in by Batshuayi and again rounded the ‘keeper to score a second. As bizarre as it sounds, we all thought that we might salvage an unwarranted draw. We had a little spell right at the end, but with the ball out for a corner, the referee blew up.
3-2 is a lot better than 3-0, but this was not great.
I will make the same comments, though, as I did against Rapid Vienna.
These are just games for us to get our fitness levels back and for the manager to look at options.
Time is moving on though.
We need to improve.
After a slow walk back to the bar, I said a sad farewell to John. After a few more beers, in the bar, we were all chilled and the result was glossed over. The drinking continued. On Wednesday, the locusts descend on Minneapolis.
