Tales From The Old And The New

Chelsea vs. Juventus : 23 November 2021.

Back in February 2020, not long after Chelsea were given a masterclass in elite football by Bayern Munich, I had walked back up the North End Road with my friend Jaro. He had been in town for both the Tottenham game – good, very good – and the Bayern game – bad, very bad – and we said our goodbyes at the intersection with Lillie Road. He was heading back to his hotel before an early morning flight to whisk him back to his home just outside Washington DC. In the intervening twenty-one months, who could have predicted what would have happened to the world and to Chelsea Football Club?

It was 5.40pm, and I stepped into the Italian restaurant next to “The Goose” on a cold London evening. It was a mere ten yards from where Jaro and I went our separate ways all those months ago. This time Jaro was in town with his son Alex and they had just arrived to secure a seat for a quick bite to eat before the Champions League group phase game with Juventus. My travel companions Parky and PD came in to see the two visitors – handshakes and hugs – before they popped into “The Goose” for a drink or two.

I settled down, perused the menu, and ordered a beer and a pizza.

Time to relax a little, time to start talking football, time to think about the game. But first I thanked Jaro for his friendship over the weirdest time of our lives. He has been a good friend of mine in this period – on-line chats, occasional phone-calls – and I wanted him to know it was appreciated. Alex’ only other visit to Chelsea was for a league game with Newcastle in the early months of Frank Lampard’s short tenure as manager. To say both were excited about being back in London again would be a grave understatement.

The evening would unfold in due course, but I had a little teaser for them both before the evening got into full swing.

I poured a small Birra Moretti into a half-pint glass.

“Right. Bearing in mind tonight’s game and the two teams involved, what is the significance of this beer?”

Puzzled expressions. I added another few words.

“This beer is a thirst quencher, right? Well maybe it could be called a first quencher.”

Still puzzlement.

I then realised something else.

“Ah, it’s in a half-pint glass. A half. That’s a clue too.”

Jaro and Alex were stumped. The conversation moved on a little, and I realised that they weren’t going to be able to solve my little riddle.

Out of interest, it is worth saying that a few tables down from us, a lad was wearing a long-sleeved red Bari training top. This acted as another clue for those playing along at home, if not for Jaro and Alex.

To re-cap.

Birra Moretti.

First-quencher.

Half.

Bari.

Give up? OK, here goes.

Despite the game at Stamford Bridge being the sixth game between Chelsea and Juventus in the Champions League, the very first encounter took place in the southern Italian city of Bari in August 2002 in the Birra Moretti Cup. On the same night, Chelsea played half a game against Juventus (drew 0-0, lost on penalties) before losing 0-3 to Inter in another forty-five-minute game. I remembered watching it all unfold on Chelsea TV.

In those days, Juventus of Turin, of the whole of Italy, were European royalty. I still find it hard to believe that Juventus of Turin and Chelsea of London have both won the same number of European Cups.

The pizza was damned fine. The little restaurant was full of Chelsea supporters. We chatted about pandemics, Champions League Finals, heart attacks, Chelsea and Juventus.

In the dim and distant past, when Jaro was a teenager back in Poland, Juventus must have tugged a little at his heart strings. I remember that he told me that he had got hold of, I know not how, a Juventus scarf, which must have been quite a capture in communist Poland. He had since mislaid it. However, in packing for this trip he had stumbled across an old suitcase and – lo and behold – the old Juventus scarf was unearthed after many a year. Jaro thought that this was undoubtedly a good sign ahead of his trip across the Atlantic.

Outside, yes, a cold night. I was glad that I had worn an extra top beneath my jacket. I didn’t see a single Juventus fan on the walk down to the ground with PD. Jaro had spotted little knots of them in the afternoon as he circumnavigated the stadium not once but twice.

We all made it inside Stamford Bridge earlier – much earlier – than usual.

I was inside by 7.15pm, a good forty-five minutes before kick-off. I spent a few minutes at the rear of the Matthew Harding upper tier, right above where I sit, and took a few shots of the scene. In my quest to photograph every square yard of Stamford Bridge, inside and out, for my pleasure if nobody else’s, it was a well-spent ten minutes. Over in the far corner, the travelling Juventus supporters were positioned in two tiers. The Champions League logo – a large plastic flag – was lying still over the centre circle.

As I walked down to share a few words with Frank from Oxford, who sits in the row behind me, and then to re-join PD, the players of both teams entered the pitch for their choreographed drills and pre-match routines. Very soon the entire pitch was covered in people. Not only the starting elevens, but the substitutes too. A few coaches, maybe a few of the medical staff. Around ten chaps forking the pitch. UEFA officials swarming everywhere. God knows who else. Easily a hundred people were on the pitch. It was ridiculous.

I immediately spotted Jaro and Alex in the second row of The Shed, right by the corner flag. At this time of year, I know that many US supporters travel over – making use of cheaper than usual international flights at Thanksgiving since the vast majority of Americans only travel domestically to see family members – and I knew that many were close by in Parkyville.

These Autumnal group phase matches – part and parcel of our game now – can be viewed as an unnecessary burden by some. Are they an integral part of the calendar and a key part in the selection of the fittest and finest teams to head into the latter stages in the new year? Or are they simply money-spinning stocking fillers before Christmas, ostensibly nothing more than extra games, the source of extra revenues with the accompanying extra chatter, extra debate, extra noise?

I think we know the answer.

The saving grace, of course, is that this format allows match-going fans of a certain disposition – step forward, you know who you are – the chance to watch their idols play in three, hopefully, interesting and exotic cities each time qualification is gained. For that reason alone, I am glad that the bloated Champions League format exists though, deep down, the simpler knock-out style of European competition pre-1992 has many admirers too.

The minutes ticked by. PD and I were joined by Rich from Edinburgh and Alan from South London in The Sleepy Hollow.

A text from Tullio in Turin : “let’s go to work.”

Despite my soft-spot for Juventus, I fended off the need to buy a half-and-half scarf. Out in Turin, the nearest I got to it was a “I was there” jacquard scarf depicting the date of the game and the venue.

This would be my thirteenth Juventus game. I hoped it would be unlucky for them and not for me.

The first dozen :

1987 : Juventus 3 Panathinaikos 2.

1988 : Juventus 1 Internazionale 0.

1988 : Juventus 3 Napoli 5.

1989 : Juventus 1 Fiorentina 1.

1992 : Juventus 0 Sampdoria 0.

1995 : Rangers 0 Juventus 4.

1999 : Juventus 2 Fiorentina 1.

2009 : Chelsea 1 Juventus 0.

2009 : Juventus 2 Chelsea 2.

2012 : Chelsea 2 Juventus 2.

2012 : Juventus 3 Chelsea 0.

2021 : Juventus 1 Chelsea 0.

In the last few minutes, the place suddenly filled. There were around one thousand away fans opposite me.

The Chelsea team was almost the same one that ended the game against Leicester City.

Mendy – Rudiger, Silva, Chalobah – Chilwell, Kante, Jorginho, James – Hudson-Odoi, Pulisic, Ziyech

The stadium packed to capacity, save for a few late arrivals, the teams appeared.

First Chelsea, with blue tracksuit tops, then Juventus also in blue tracksuit tops.

I remember hating the sight of Juve, back in 2009, showing up at Chelsea in a bronze away shirt. Thankfully on this occasion they opted for the Notts County “hand-me-downs” of black and white stripes, but there was something about their uniforms that didn’t strike me as being particularly “Juve”. Were the stripes too narrow? Were the shorts not baggy enough? Did I miss seeing “Ariston” and the “Robe di Kape” labels? No. Of course it was the black socks. Ugh.

I clapped the former two Chelsea players Juan Cuadrado and Alvaro Morata.

Neither looked happy to be back.

“We hardly knew you.”

The game began. Nobody was expecting Juventus to come at us like their life depended upon it, but our dominance in the first five minutes was astounding. It took them until the sixth minute, I think, for them to get the ball out of their own half.

With both Timo Werner and Romelu Lukaku on the bench, it was left for Christian Pulisic to take over from Kai Havertz as the central false-nine, and Alan commented early on how high King Kante was playing on the right.

A “sighter” from the currently impressive Ben Chilwell was fired over the bar. We enjoyed a lot of early possession, and it settled the whole stadium.

“Champions of Europe, we know what we are.”

Juve attacks were rare, and efforts from Chalobah and Hudson-Odoi caused panic in The Old Lady’s defence. Our youngsters were raiding at will, and the watching bianconeri in The Shed must have been impressed with our fluidity. The ex-Arsenal ‘keeper Wojciech Szvsazvxsaeneszxeyezcsy was involved early and involved often. He ably stopped a fine free-kick from our man of the moment Reece James.

When we were awarded a corner, Alan commented that he wanted Morata to find himself inside the six-yard box and to awkwardly jump and head a ball past his ‘keeper.

“Knowing our luck, the fucker would be offside, Al.”

As Hakim Ziyech trotted over to take a corner in front of the away support on twenty-five minutes, I noticed more than a usual number of Italian flags being waved. It struck me as a little odd. It’s something that club teams tend not to do on travels around the continent. I have certainly not seen this from Juventus before, nor other Italian teams, where local identity and allied tribal imagery is usually much more important. Maybe somebody had them on sale in a local Italian restaurant.

The ball was floated in, Antonio Rudiger rose, the ball ended up at the feet of Trevoh Chalobah.

Smack.

Goal.

One-nil.

“YES.”

The Bridge erupted.

I captured the slide down in front of the away fans.

Unlike “Song 2” by Blur – of all bands – being used by the Juventus PA out in Turin in September when Chiesa scored, there is no song used by Chelsea when we score and long may this continue. It would be just another nail in the coffin.

We are Chelsea and we make our own noise.

Woo Hoo.

While we were waiting for the game to restart, there was a rumour of a VAR check, but nothing was really made clear.

“Whatevs” as the kids say.

A text from Tullio : “volleyball.”

The defensive highlight of our game then thrilled us all. Locatelli unlocked our defence with a fine chipped lob to Morata, and with Mendy flummoxed and on his arse, the Spaniard was denied a certain goal when the back-peddling Thiago Silva hooked the ball away.

The applause rang out from all four stands.

The old man had thwarted the Old Lady.

However, I equally enjoyed the Rolls Royce-like burst from Silva down our left flank when a Juventus attacker threatened him. His effortless glide past the hapless striker was an absolute joy to watch.

Efforts from James and Rudiger towards the end of the half made sure that the Juve ‘keeper was kept busy. I can’t remember Mendy, the Morata cock-up aside, ever being in danger.

Sadly, there was an injury to Kante, and he was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

At the break, much positivity.

“Pulisic is quiet though, Al.”

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding. We continued our domination.

I loved it when I spotted Thomas Tuchel fist-pumping and demanding some noise from the adjacent fans in the East Lower; it’s the family section, someone should tell him.

On fifty-five minutes, a cross from Ben Chilwell down below us was headed on its way. It fell to the feet of the lurking James on the angle. A chested touch to control and take out the defender was followed by a low pile driver that flew into the net.

I captured that bastard on film.

What a strike.

Despite bubbling over, I managed to snap the subsequent shrug from Reece and then the triumphant pose in front of the MHL.

Two-up on the night, we were now top of our group.

A couple of minutes later, a cracking move involving Rudiger, James, Ziyech and some lovely close-in dribbling from Loftus-Cheek set up Our Callum. Once this final ball was played in, there was that glorious feeling knowing that a certain goal was just about to be scored.

Bosh.

3-0.

I reached for my camera and tried my best to capture Callum’s wild euphoria. He was mobbed by all. Great scenes.

The atmosphere was good, but not at a stratospheric level. The Juve fans kept singing throughout. It’s what they do. I gulped when I spotted a “+39” banner in their section.

Sadly, Ben Chilwell was injured and had to be assisted off. He was replaced by Captain Dave, a rare sight these days. Other late substitutions followed. Timo Werner for Pulicic, then Mason Mount for Hudson-Odoi.

The Chelsea choir to the luckless ‘keeper : “You’re just a shit Fabianski.”

Juventus enjoyed their best spell of the game, and the otherwise out-of-work Mendy did ever so well to save from the American Weston McKennie. However, as the game drew to a conclusion, I always fancied us to score a very late goal. Ziyech grew as the game continued and drew another fine save from “triple points score in Scrabble” as Chelsea continued to pile on the pressure.

On the ninety-five-minute mark, we were rewarded.

We watched in awe as James sent over an absolutely perfect ball – with just the right amount of spin, dip and fade – towards Ziyech. We were a little lucky in that a Juve defender mistimed his interception, but the Moroccan’s cross was so good that not even Werner missed it.

Goal.

On a splendid night in deepest SW6 when so many Americans were present, there was only one phrase needed.

“Totally foursome.”

It was a night when three academy players scored three goals against a tough Italian defence. It was a night when our youngsters – aided and abetted by one masterly old’un – totally dominated against La Vecchia Signora. It was a night when our new guard drew praise from everyone.

How ironic that Juventus means “youth.”

Move over, Juve, there are new kids on the piazza.

We headed out into the cold London night.

A text from Tullio : “no words.”

In the style of La Gazzetta Dello Sport, and its incredibly tough way of ranking players – I have never seen a ten, even nines are ridiculously rare – here are my player rankings.

Mendy : 7 – a night-off, but one fine save when called-upon.

Rudiger : 8 – solid as ever, and an occasional threat in the opposing box.

Silva : 9 – calm, cultured, a masterclass in defensive nous.

Chalobah : 8 – a fine game, took his goal well, never embarrassed.

James : 9 – a thunderously fine performance, solid defensively, always a threat going forward, man of the match, man of the moment.

Kante : 7 – a little bit of everything until an injury took him out of the game.

Jorginho : 7 – understated but so efficient, he kept the team focussed.

Chilwell : 7 – a good overlapping threat, sadly his night ended with a bad injury.

Hudson-Odoi : 8 – at last he is fulfilling his great potential, always a handful.

Pulisic : 5 – a quiet game, not involved in many key moments.

Ziyech : 8 – arguably his match thus far, he grew in confidence and stature as the game continued.

Subs : Loftus-Cheek 7, Azpilicueta 6, Mount 6, Werner 7

Chelsea : top of the Premier League.

Chelsea : top of the Champions League.

Frome Town : top of the Southern League Division One South.

Next up : Manchester United at home.

Life : good.


Tales From The Loony Toon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 30 October 2021.

At 1.37am on Saturday morning, I posted this on “Facebook” :

Get Daniels. Get Parkins.

And then a six hour drive to The Loony Toon where a team awaiting transformation lie in wait.

“You’re a big club but you’re in bad shape.”

I watched “Get Carter”, the 1971 original and not the US remake, a few months ago. I was shocked with how shocked I was. The film’s subject matter featured the criminal underworld of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne and the brutality of a few scenes matched the brutal architecture that appeared in the ‘sixties in that particular city.

For the second time in around six weeks I was heading to a black and white city, a favourite along with Turin, and to a place where Michael Caine had starred in films. In the build-up to the bank raid in Turin, his famous line about “blowing the bloody doors off” is well-remembered. In “Get Carter” the line about a fellow gangster, altered slightly on this occasion to describe our opponents, is equally memorable.

Anyway, enough of this waffle.

We usually fly up from Bristol for games in the North-East. On this occasion, the prices of flights were much higher than usual, so after a little deliberation, I decided to take the bull by the horns and drive up. I wangled an early shift at work on the Friday, finished at 3pm, and was asleep by 6pm.

The alarm woke me at 12.30am. I fuelled-up en route to collect PD at 2am. We collected Parky at 2.20am. What God-forsaken times, eh? Needs must.

We were on our way to The Toon.

I had booked an apartment in the city’s West End, around a twenty-minute walk from St. James’ Park, and hoped that the rain that was expected to fall later in the day would not drag on until the evening. The aim was to get to Newcastle at around 9am, then join in the pre-match fun on the quayside, but then have a relaxing evening, not go too crazy, in preparation for the return journey on the Sunday.

Now then, there are many who take the time to read these match reports who appreciate the most minute details of these trips. For those living far away from these shores, and especially those who have not been able to see us play, I love the fact that many like being able to experience my match days and my match day routines. The word that I hear most is “vicarious”.  These next few paragraphs are for those who live vicariously through my words ( he says rather pompously)…

For the others, feel free to skip ahead. I won’t be offended.

Driving to Newcastle from my part of the world is around a three-hundred and thirty-mile journey. With non-stop driving, it’s five-and-a-half hours. It’s a long one. I have driven to Newcastle for Chelsea games on two other occasions; once for our 1-3 loss in the spring of 1997, and again in early autumn for a dire 0-0 draw, a game that would mark Gianluca Vialli’s last game in charge.

Incidentally, the longest trip that I have undertaken without stopping over was Middlesbrough in 2008. That topped out at 580 miles and I vowed “never again.”

I soon found myself bypassing Bath and by 3am I was joining the M5 from the M4. There was a little rain through Gloucestershire but nothing too heavy. PD had managed five hours’ sleep, Parky four. I fully expected them both to “drop-off” at some stage on the long haul north. There were two diversions, near Gloucester on the M5, and near Tamworth on the M42, the result of roadworks. A few more minutes were added to our travel time. PD was in charge of the mobile tuck shop and as I wended my way through some quiet Warwickshire roads, I wolfed down a couple of treats that he had prepared for the journey. We hit the M1 at around 5am and I was happy with our progress. Outside the night was black, and the traffic – even on the M1 – was pretty sparse. Parky was asleep in the back.

I continued the long road north. It seemed that signs for Leeds appeared often, too often, like ghosts from the past. As I veered off the M1 near Sheffield, I thought I had seen the end of them, but Leeds still appeared for many miles.

Up and onto the A1, I soon stopped to refuel at Beverley Services. The traffic thinned out further as we saw signs for Scotch Corner and Teeside. At around 7.30am, just south of Durham, I decided that I needed a rest. My eyes were heavy and a “power nap” was in order. I dropped off for about thirty minutes. When I awoke at 8.15am, it was light. I soon realised that I had done the right thing. That thirty minutes would see me well for my final approach into Newcastle, but would also give me fresh energy for the rest of the day.

Anthony Gormley’s “The Angel Of The North” overlooks the main approach road through Gateshead and into the city centre. It looked dark and foreboding on this visit, its usual rusty colour now blackened in the morning murk.

I spotted, for the first time, road signs for Low Fell, and it brought a lump to my throat. Here, on the main London to Newcastle railway line, former Newcastle United and Chelsea legend Hughie Gallacher committed suicide in 1957 by throwing himself in front of a train. One day, on one visit to this area, I will pay my respects. He remains the one player from our distant history that I wish I had seen perform.

On the train home after the famous 1-1 draw in March 1984, on the same line, our train carriage was “bricked” by locals. I remembered a young lad getting bloodied from the shattered window. About a year or so ago, on a “Chelsea In The ‘Eighties” forum on “Facebook” I happened to mention it, and the actual chap who had been hit soon replied to my comment. How often do I mention how small our Chelsea World can be?

So, here I was; on the cusp of driving over the River Tyne in my own car for the first time since 2000. The A184 served me well. A slight curve and there she was; Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in all her glory. The buildings rising up from the quayside, the wonderful array of seven bridges traversing the river, and the glass and steel edifice of St. James’ Park perched at the top of the hill. Everything so clear, everything so immediate. It was a wonderful sight. It took me back to the first time I ever crossed the River Tyne for that game in 1984. Wild times then, not so wild now. But the city was still so dramatic. It was super to be back.

The route took us to within five hundred yards of the stadium, but we then veered west. At just before 9am, as per my planning, we had arrived. We left our bags in my car, ‘phoned for a cab – which never arrived, so a second call was needed – and at just before 10am we had ordered our breakfast at the already busy “Wetherspoons Quayside” pub.

We had made it.

A few familiar faces were already inside and we were to be joined by a few more.

A special mention for our pals Gillian and Kevin from Edinburgh. Kev had proposed to Gillian the previous evening – Newcastle is a favourite city of theirs too – and Gillian was sweetly, and proudly, flashing the silver engagement ring.

“Ah, congratulations you lovebirds.”

Unfortunately, they were not fortunate enough to get match tickets. I had heard a familiar story from others. The demand wasn’t able to be met. I guess a fair few had travelled to Tyneside without the hope of a ticket. This just shows how much fellow fans have missed matches since the game was taken from us in March 2020, but also illustrates the lure of a night in Newcastle, and on Halloween weekend to boot.

We wolfed down the breakfast but outside the rain became worse by the minute. The idea was to hit five or six quayside pubs. But the rain stalled our plans. We stayed put for an hour and a half. Two “San Miguels” and a lighter “Coors” went down well. More and more Chelsea arrived; Pauline, Mick, Paul, Rob, Dave, Alex, Chay, Dave, Rich, Donna and Rachel.

Then Andy, from our area, with his mate Russ, who we have met a few times. Russ is from Newcastle and a fan of his home town team. Like many, he was relieved to see the back of Mike Ashley. We didn’t talk too much about the Saudi takeover. It’s too much of a moral minefield in my opinion. I am just glad that my club isn’t now owned by a group from Saudi Arabia. Shudder.

This would be my twelfth visit to St. James’ Park with Chelsea. For many years, I just couldn’t afford these trips. Thankfully, my financial situation has improved over the past twenty years and I try to make it each season. As everyone knows, our recent record up there is rather wobbly. But this game never felt like a potential banana skin to me.

On that visit in 2000 to Newcastle, I travelled up with Mark, a former work colleague who went to university in the city in the late ‘eighties. He was, and is, a Blackburn Rovers fan, and just fancied revisiting his old stomping ground for the first time in a while. Memories of that weekend got me thinking.

I haven’t seen too many non-Chelsea games in my life. I have seen half a dozen at Stoke City, plus a handful at Fulham, Swindon Town, Derby County, Brentford, Portsmouth, York City, Port Vale, Bristol City, Bristol Rovers, Yeovil Town and Blackburn Rovers within the English league structure. A grand total of around twenty games, as opposed to over 1,300 Chelsea matches.

However, in 1992/93 I actually saw Newcastle United at three away venues during their Second Division promotion campaign. Around that time, I wasn’t in a particularly well-paid job and in the seasons 1990/91 to 1993/94 I only averaged around twelve Chelsea games per season.

I think a little explanation is required, don’t you?

My good friend Pete – a college friend living nearby in Bristol then and just outside Bristol now – and a lifelong Newcastle United fan coerced me into the away game at Brentford when I was visiting mates in London. He also asked me to attend the more local matches at Bristol City and Swindon Town.

I am sure it’s not too uncommon for fans of one club to watch other teams, though I definitely haven’t made a habit of it.

“Chelsea one week, Fulham the next” as the saying went in days of yore.

Pete is from Scunthorpe, and he memorably went to see us win the Second Division Championship on the final day of 1983/84 with our game at nearby Grimsby Town. He was also present, of course, at that game in Newcastle in 1984.

At the game against Brentford at Griffin Park in October 1992, Pete watched in the away end, but I watched the match with two other college mates in the home end. Memorably, we bumped into Kevin Keegan and Terry McDermott hours before the game began outside the stadium. Newcastle won that 2-1. In January 1993, I was in the wet away end with Pete to see Newcastle beat Bristol City 2-1, with Andy Cole playing for City. In March, I watched with Pete in the packed away end at Swindon Town as Andy Cole made his Toon debut, but Swindon won 2-1.

I also saw Chelsea beat Newcastle United 2-1 in the League Cup at Stamford Bridge in the October of that season – 30,000 and a good 5,000 Geordies – so I actually saw them play four times that season.

I enjoyed the experience of watching them in 1992/93. It was something different. Under Keegan, they were a very entertaining outfit.

In fact, in around 1996/97, I’d hazard a guess that Chelsea and Newcastle vied for being most fans’ “second favourite team.”

Strange but true.

The rain abated slightly, so we moved on down the river. I had discovered a new pub – or at least one not previously visited by us – and on the way to the “Head Of Steam” we bumped into Kimmy and Andy. Three pints in there – “Angelo Poretti”, a relatively new kid on the block – and we were joined by Jack and Andy too.

I was feeling a little light-headed, but oddly after one pint of the tried and trusted “Peroni” in “The Slug And Lettuce” I was feeling fine again.

Outside “The Akenside Traders” we were so lucky to catch a cab up to the stadium at around 2.30pm.

Unbelievably, despite leaving home at 2am, I reached the seats in the upper tier a mere few seconds before 3pm.

“Just in time” logistics at your service.

My first view of the pitch way down below me allowed me to see the two teams standing silently in the centre-circle in memory of the fallen.

I soon located Alan and Gal. Parky and I took our seats (*we obviously stood) alongside them.

The game started and I had to play “catch up” to take everything in. A full house, but not much immediate noise from the home fans. I was expecting more. The team?

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Christensen

James – Kante – Jorginho – Chilwell

Ziyech – Havertz – Huson-Odoi

But then.

Those hours of driving through the night, the time spent down on The Quayside and then the rushed cab ride seemed to be pointless. The first-half was a damp squib. What a let-down. Newcastle, no surprises, sat back and let us attack and grimly hoped that their defence would hold out. This was their Plan A, but there was no hint of a Plan B. They did occasionally offer a rare attack, but for most of that first forty-five minutes their team were so deep that every punted or hoofed clearance did allow support to Wilson nor Saint Maximin, their undoubted two stars.

Chelsea, of course, dominated the game yet there was little to admire. I have mentioned before how dull modern football can be at times, especially when one team is so defence-orientated. With players’ fitness levels so good these days, space in the final third was at an absolute premium. However, what space there was, we didn’t really exploit.

Many Chelsea fans hate being so high up at Newcastle. I don’t mind it at all. It only happens once per season. This time, as with many others, I usually get a very central viewing position. It does, undoubtedly, offer a very unique perspective on the positioning and placement of the attacking and defending teams.

I also love that it allows a view of the outside world, squeezed between The Gallowgate and the horizon. In days gone by, this was often the case. The Thames at Fulham, the church at Goodison, the tower blocks at Upton Park, Earls Court at Stamford Bridge. The stadium as a part of the city.

It’s lovely that so many of the city’s landmarks can be seen from inside St. James’ Park.

Our first real chance of note came on around the half-hour mark, but Hakim Ziyech’s goal after a lovely Jorginho pass was called back for off-side. I saw the flag early so wasn’t guilty of premature jokulation.

The same player then skied a shot wildly over the bar.

Fackinell.

I pleaded with Hudson-Odoi to stretch the defence, to get past his marker. I found him particularly frustrating.

Our only other notable effort was again from Ziyech. It looked like Reece James was shaping to take a centrally-placed free-kick just outside the “D” but it ended up in The Gallowgate. Maybe Reece should have demanded the ball.

I sent this message to a few friends in the US at the break.

“No intensity. No passion. No invention. No nuffing.”

Into the second-half, and somewhat surprising for someone who certainly hasn’t really impressed too much at Chelsea thus far, it was Ziyech who again threatened Darlow in the Newcastle goal down below us. A couple of shots, with a save and the post saving the home team. Shots from Havertz and James stirred the crowd.

The manager had obviously said a few things at the break.

A new chant was aired at a game for the first time and, although I wasn’t too happy that the Frank Lampard chant had been re-jigged, it certainly gathered momentum in that second-half.

“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel. He knows exactly what we need. Thiago at the back. Timo in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”

Funny, when we sang it about Frank winning the Champions League, it did seem somewhat preposterous. But Tommy has already won the bastard.

Crazy, right?

On sixty-four minutes, a double-swap.

Barkley for Ziyech.

Loftus-Cheek for Kante.

Within a minute, at last a devilish wriggle down the left from Callum and a cross into the box. The ball eventually fell to James. A touch with his right foot, a smash with his left. The ball flew into the net from an angle. What a clean strike.

GET IN.

Would the single goal be enough? I suspected so. However, around ten minutes later, the ball ricocheted back off a Newcastle defender after a shot from Loftus-Cheek. It ended up, rather quickly, at the feet of James again. No time for thought, he smashed it in with his right foot this time. Two amazing goals. Euphoria in the top tier of The Leazes.

“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel. He knows exactly what we need. Thiago at the back. Timo in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”

“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel. He knows exactly what we need. Thiago at the back. Timo in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”

“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel. He knows exactly what we need. Thiago at the back. Timo in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”

Frank’s version had Tomori and Tammy. The new song kept the theme going.

The Teutonic technician Thomas Tuchel – plus Thiago and Timo – at the top in The Toon.

Phew, I need a drink.

Maybe a tea.

Not long after, a clear foul on Havertz gave Paul Tierny no option.

Penalty.

“Give it to Reece!”

No, Jorginho claimed the ball.

Alan : “A skip or no skip?”

Chris : “A skip.”

No skip, but a goal.

Newcastle United 0 Chelsea 3.

Love it.

Saul came on for Callum, but by then the vast majority of the home fans were heading, er, home.

The final whistle blew.

And Newcastle was blue.

Superb.

With Manchester City, incredibly, losing 2-0 at home to Crystal Palace and with Liverpool letting a 2-0 lead slip with a draw at home to Brighton, this was a magnificent day. We were, unbelievably, three points clear at the top.

The three of us slowly walked back to our digs and then reconvened at “The Bridge Hotel” at just after 7.30pm. A relaxing few drinks with Gillian and Kev was then followed by a curry. It topped off a perfect day in The Loony Toon, which was clearly living up to its reputation as the UK capital of alcoholic excess, debauchery and hedonism. I am not quite sure what the Saudis would make of it.

We set off for home as early as 9am on the Sunday. Despite some truly horrific driving conditions during the first two hours or so – so much spray, so much rain, but then when blinding sun arrived it was like driving through snow – I made it home at 4pm.

Seven hours up, seven hours down, three points in the bag.

See you, I hope, next season Newcastle.

My next game is at home to Burnley on Saturday.

See you there.

Under The Tyne Bridge.

Autumn In The Toon.

The Gallowgate.

Sir Bobby.

The Baltic Art Centre, Grey’s Monument And The Millennium Bridge.

All Saint’s Church, Sage Gateshead, Autumn Colours And Wind Turbines.

Windscreen.

Hakim Ziyech.

The Tyne Bridge.

In The Air.

The High Ground At Gateshead.

Swipe.

Second-Half Panorama.

Crowded Out.

Jorginho.

A Goal One Celebration.

A Goal Two Leap.

A Goal Three Certainty.

Let’s Gan, Like.

Tales From Glenn’s Return

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 26 October 2021.

Another midweek home game, another two-hundred-mile return trip to London, and another League Cup tie against opposition that we had recently played at Stamford Bridge in the league. But most importantly of all, this was Glenn’s first game at Chelsea since the Everton match in March 2020. He has seen action at Arsenal, Liverpool and Brentford this season, but this would be his first game at HQ in nineteen months.

After two games against Aston Villa in League and League Cup, here was the second of two games against Southampton in the same competitions.

As I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, altered to allow me an early finish, I thought a little about my motivation for the evening’s game. I soon realised that despite the chance to see the league leaders play again, it was all about sharing Glenn’s excitement of being back at Chelsea and – equally important – being back in his former season-ticket seat in The Sleepy Hollow alongside PD, Al and little old me.

PD collected me outside work and I sat in the back seat alongside Glenn, with Parky riding shotgun in the front.

While the lads visited “The Goose”, I was feeling peckish and so dived into the adjacent pizzeria for sustenance, a rare treat on a midweek game. I joined up with them all at “Simmon’s” along with Daryl, Simon, Alan, Gary, Pete, Andy, Luke and Doreen. On the walk down the North End Road, I remembered that it was forty years ago – almost exactly – since we played Southampton in a two-legged League Cup tie, and I mentioned this to a few people throughout the night.

On the face of it, there was nothing too special about the 1981/82 season. We were solidly entrenched in the Second Division, our third of five seasons in the second tier, and we would finish it twelfth out of twenty-two. Our highest gate was for an early-season game with Watford of 20,036 while the lowest was an end-of-season date with Orient which drew 6,009. Importantly for me, it marked the first season of independent travel to Chelsea, including my first-ever game in The Shed for the season opener against Bolton.

We had tied the first leg at The Dell 1-1, notable for the debut of seventeen-year-old ‘keeper Steve Francis’, and this was against a formidable Southampton team that included Kevin Keegan. The second leg at Stamford Bridge – on 28 October 1981 – drew 27,370 and we defeated the First Division team 2-1. I attended neither game, but I can easily remember the buzz of victory in the sixth-form the next day. In typical Chelsea fashion, three days later at Rotherham United we lost 0-6, probably the most infamous result of them all. PD attended both the Southampton games and the match at Rotherham.

Forty years ago. Bloody hell. Although we were playing some average football in the league, the League Cup victory against Southampton would be a taster for an even bigger upset in that season’s FA Cup, when we defeated the European Champions Liverpool 2-0 at Stamford Bridge.

1981/82 – with a huge dose of hindsight, to say nothing of a yearning to be that young once again – was one of my favourite seasons. It marked me starting to find my way in the world, partly through going to a few Chelsea games by myself, but also by attending the local youth club in Frome on Friday evenings which helped me overcome my shyness, baby step by baby step. By the summer, there was a few blissful moments with my first girlfriend.

As I said, forty years ago. Fackinell.

The bar seemed quiet. Apart from our merry band of a dozen, there were very few of the regulars in the bar. The talk was of Newcastle at the weekend more than Southampton that night. I know that a fair few Chelsea that are still going to Tyneside despite not having a match ticket. The lure of a night out in the Loony Toon is hard to resist.

The crowds were milling around the forecourt outside the West Stand though, and – as is often the case on midweek games – there were the usual gaggle of perplexed folk, clutching tickets, unsure of which entrance to use.

Just outside the steps to the Matthew Harding, I spotted a sallow youth wearing not only Chelsea tracky bottoms, but a hideous long sleeved training shirt – the one with yellow and blue geometric shapes that are likely to induce fits – with the equally horrific short-sleeved home jersey – ditto – on top.

I fear for the future of humanity.

Just as I was about to scan my ticket, after queuing for around ten minutes, a gentleman was turned away with “you need the lower tier turnstiles” ringing in his head.

I hoped that our false nine, tens and elevens would reach the goal easier than his quest for his seat.

Inside, a decent away turnout of three-thousand and another splendid near-capacity gate of around 40,000.

I mentioned the 1981 Southampton game to Alan.

“In those days, it was a massive competition for us.”

“Yeah. The only one we had a realistic chance of doing well in, to be honest.”

There was no Tino Livramento in the Saints team. We guessed that Armando Broja was unable to play against us.

Chelsea’s team?

Arrizabalaga

James – Chalobah – Saar

Hudson-Odoi – Kovacic – Saul – Alonso

Ziyech – Havertz – Barkley

I wondered what was going through Our Callum’s mind. From an attacking outside left position in one game to a right wing-back role the next.

Typically, the stadium was full of parents with young kids, making good use of the half-term holiday. The atmosphere was never great, but there were outbreaks of support throughout.

We began the brighter team and I joked “anything less than a 12-0 win and I’ll want my money back”. After 4-0 and 7-0 home triumphs, there was a very real hope for more goals. An early header from Saul was well saved by Fraser Forster.

“Look at his kit, Al. Virtually red stripes. Brian Moore must be turning in his grave.”

We remembered how the erstwhile presenter of “The Big Match” seemed obsessed with kit colour clashes back in the ‘seventies.

We created a few more attacks, with Ross Barkley looking keen to impress with some neat touches and a few encouraging passes. A shot from Kai Havertz went close. But Southampton were proving a far sterner test than Malmo and Norwich City. After they found their feet, they began attacking themselves and managed a few shots at Kepa in our goal. There was a nice moment when Saul controlled the ball with ease and neatly passed. He hasn’t had the best of starts to a career with us, but the applause that followed must have warmed him. It felt that the home crowd were going out of their way to try to encourage him. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

On the stroke of half-time, even better was to follow. A magnificent ball from Saul out to Marcos Alonso on the left was a joy. The subsequent cross was knocked behind for a corner. Subsequently, Ziyech aimed at the six-yard box and the leap from Havertz was well timed. The ball flew into the goal.

Chelsea 1 Southampton 0.

Excellent.

At half-time, there were updates from the other cup ties.

“Bloody hell, Al, that QPR versus Sunderland game throws up some League Cup horror stories from the mid-’eighties.”

1985 : a loss to Sunderland in the League Cup semis.

1986 : a loss to QPR in the League Cup quarters.

Shudder.

I had barely settled in my seat at the start of the second-half when a surge from Kyle Walker-Peters was followed by a low shot from an angle. Kepa lost it and Che Adams tapped it in from under the bar.

Bollocks.

The roar from the 3,000 away fans was horrible.

Two goals either side of the half and “game on.”

Although not rich in quality, the game opened up and chances began to accumulate at both ends. Havertz squirmed inside his marker on a run towards goal but Forster saved well. The German then over-ran the ball when he was clean through.

Well, that was far from silky.

No matter about making a silk purse from a sow’s ear.

He had made a pig’s ear of that.

Kepa was occasionally called into action down at The Shed End.

Forster then saved well from Barkley, then from a Saul header and then from a fine James free-kick.

I was surprised that Barkley was substituted, but not that Ziyech was replaced. On came Mason Mount and Ben Chilwell, who played out on the right with Our Callum now back to the outside left position that he surely prefers.

A fine effort from Saul, curling in on goal from a distance, forced another agile save from Forster.

Then, schoolboy humour as Southampton made a substitution.

Enter the marvelously named William Smallbone.

“Bloody hell. If your surname is Smallbone, you ain’t gonna call yer son Willie, are you? Is his middle name Richard?”

But the sub was soon causing Kepa to save from a close-in header.

Southampton made a total of five late substitutions. Tino Livramento received a warm reception, as did the Munich man Oriol Romeu. Old warhorses Theo Walcott and Shane Long appeared too.

With tensions rising a little, Big John in the front row stood up, yelled some support – or otherwise – and the onlooking bobble-hatted young lad, no older then four, looked on in awe.

The last ten minutes sped past. Callum hit the side-netting, with Glenn getting wildly excited a few seats away, but Kepa stole the show with two fantastic saves, both stretching cat-like to his left, to deny Southampton a possibly deserved win. Real quality at the death. Phew.

With the game finished at 1-1, it was another case of penalties in front of the Matthew Harding to decide the tie.

With Theo Walcott hitting the post – Kepa with a slight touch – and Young Willie skying his effort (“Smallbone, big foot” – Alan) it did not matter that Forster brilliantly saved from Mount because James struck the last penalty coolly home.

Into the quarters we went.

Back at the car, all of us having raided a nearby shop for late-night Scooby snacks, we were relieved.

We hadn’t played well. Southampton must have felt aggrieved not to have won the tie themselves. Our intensity wasn’t great, and it all felt rather loose and disjointed. Both ‘keepers had enjoyed fine games, which probably says a lot. For every good pass, there seemed an equally poor pass a few seconds later. In the first-half, Hudson-Odoi seemed to spend half his time running towards our half with the ball. I am going to resist calling him “Wrong Way Callum” for now. Apart from Kepa, our team were 6/10.

But we won, and that can only breed confidence.

Glenn had enjoyed seeing everyone in the pubs again. And it was lovely to have him back in The Sleepy Hollow.

On Saturday, the most enjoyable domestic away game of the season awaits.

See you on Tyneside.

Tales From Three Seasons In One Day

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 1 February 2020.

We were parked up on Shakespeare Street, a red-bricked terrace street about half a mile from the King Power Stadium, at about 10.15am. I have been parking here for all the visits to Leicester City ever since my first visit to their new stadium in 2015. For many years, I never made it to Leicester. My first visit was during 1984/85 – more of that later – but for the next thirty years I didn’t make it, for various reasons. Before I was a season ticket holder, I was never sure of a ticket. Since I became a season ticket holder, I wasn’t always able to attend due to financial constraints, circumstances and then personal choice. I was on holiday in the US for our FA Cup game in 2004, I was trapped in my village after a sudden snowfall for our FA Cup game in 2018. For our League Cup game a few seasons back, I simply chose not to go.

But Shakespeare Street serves us well. It is to the south of King Power Stadium, so after the game it affords relatively quick access onto the city’s ring road and then further escape routes. I was tipped off about it by my friend Tim, who I have known – through work – since 2003. Tim and I had arranged to meet at “The Counting House” pub before the game and I quickly texted him to let him know I was already parked up.

We had set off from Frome at 7am. It was a fine trip up from the south-west of England. It was great to have Parky with us again. From Mells to Frome to collect PD, to Bradford-on-Avon, to Holt for Parky, through Melksham, past Chippenham, past Malmesbury, past Cirencester, past Bourton-on-the-Water, past Stow-on-the-Wold, through Moreton-in-Marsh, through Wellesbourne, past Warwick, past Coventry, to Hinckley.

And Leicester.

A straight line.

Along the Fosse Way, the Roman road, to see Roman’s legions in the heart of England.

It is one of my favourite roads.

Under the familiar railway bridge, PD and Parky strode slowly on. The sun caught the iron of the bridge against the rich blue of the sky above. It was cold, but not bitterly so. We reached “The Counting House” at 10.45am and it was already open. It was packed, predominantly with Chelsea. We sat outside.

One single pint of lager apiece, not much time nor need for anything else.

Tim and his son Oliver soon arrived, last featured in these reports for the 2015 game. We chatted a little about football, a little about work, a little about football again.

Tim’s company has recently taken some office furniture for us down to Geneva which would eventually end up at the UEFA HQ in Nyon.

Oliver was trusted with taking the photographs.

“You’re not charging me are you? I know what your father is like.”

Another work acquaintance – a fellow P&O work colleague – Sally then arrived and it was lovely to see her once again. Sally covered me while I was on holiday to see Chelsea in the US in 2009 and although we have both left P&O we have kept in touch. I have not seen her since 2009. Where does the time go? And who could possibly have predicted that both of our teams would have become league champions in the ensuing years.

After Chelsea’s twin successes in 2004/5 and 2005/6, success was in no way guaranteed. That we have won the league on three further occasions is magical. For Leicester City to have won it in 2015/16 is beyond words.

I gave Sal a hug.

At just before midday, Tim, Oliver and I set off.

There was talk of the old ground, Filbert Street, just a few hundred yards to the north. In the 2015 match report, I mentioned the 1985 visit.

“I spotted the large electricity pylons and associated electricity sub-station that I had recognised from my visit to Filbert Street in February 1985. The station was just to the south of Filbert Street. It is just to the north of the King Power Stadium; the two sites are very close. I also spotted the new stand roof at Leicester’s Welford Road rugby union stadium too. I remember being escorted past that stadium, a very thin police escort at that, after the game at Filbert Street all those years ago.”

By some odd quirk, the game in 1985 was on Saturday 2 February. The two games almost exactly collided.

Yes, I have strong memories of that match in 1985. In fact, I always have vivid and intense memories of those first one-hundred Chelsea games that I attended.

I travelled alone, by train, from Stoke to Derby and then a change of trains to Leicester. A solitary walk to Filbert Street and its gorgeously lopsided stands; two huge, two miniscule. I had plenty of time on my hands. I circumnavigated the ground, nestled alongside terraced streets. I met Glenn inside, in the seats alongside the pitch; he had travelled up from Frome with a Crystal Palace fan, though in the subsequent years neither of us can remember his name. We had loads there. It kicked-off in the top tier of the double-decker behind the goal. There were pockets of Chelsea inside the home areas, no doubt intending to “mix it.” Chelsea in the yellow Le Coq Sportif. Eddie Niedzwiecki in a red jersey. We drew 1-1, an early Gary Lineker goal but David Speedie equalised with a penalty. After the game, there was indeed a minimal police escort, but a lot of Chelsea kept peeling off to front up with mobs of locals. Those narrow terraced streets, like at so many old grounds, were so difficult to police. Passing a park, now Nelson Mandela Park, I looked back to see fights breaking out everywhere. I remember standing on a platform at the station, saying “goodbye” to Glenn as he headed back to Frome, while I waited for a train back to Derby. The atmosphere in the train station was still feral a good hour after the game. There was still a huge malevolent buzz in the air.

A different era.

Outside the King Power, I bumped into the two Neils from Nuneaton. Thoughts of the 1984/85 era came to our minds again. On the previous day, I was stunned and saddened to hear that Dale Jasper – a Chelsea player in 1983/84 and 1984/85 – had passed away at the early age of just fifty-six.

It was a shocking piece of news.

Because Dale Jasper only played a few games, around fifteen, and because he was so young at the time, he will always remain encapsulated in my memory as “young Dale Jasper”, even though he was eighteen months older than me.

A few close friends were choked when we heard the news on Friday.

One of the 1983/84 team – my dream team, my dream season, my favourite ever year – was no longer with us. And it seemed impossible that young Dale Jasper was the first of the gang to die.

There was a lovely eulogy to Dale Jasper by Pat Nevin on the official CFC website. Pat, like me, likened him to Glenn Hoddle. In an era of rough and tumble, the lithe Jasper could certainly control a ball and “ping” a pass. I saw his debut, the iconic and infamous 3-3 at Ninian Park in 1984, and he was also present at the equally iconic and equally infamous game at Highbury later that year. He played in the “Canoville” game at Hillsborough, the 4-4, in 1985, but also gave away two penalties in the League Cup semi-final at Roker Park in the same League Cup campaign.

Dale Jasper certainly packed a lot into his short Chelsea career.

He later played for Brighton & Hove Albion and Crewe Alexandra.

He was on the same Facebook group as myself. I occasionally “liked” one or two of his comments, though we were not Facebook friends. I just wanted to share the love for a player that I admired, albeit briefly.

The two Neils and I spoke about Dale Jasper.

RIP.

These photos from inside and outside Filbert Street show the double-decker, shared between home and away fans, and Wee Pat racing over to sign an autograph for some lucky Chelsea fan.

In 2015, I sat away from the rest of the Chelsea support.

“Due to the club’s cock-eyed decision to let tickets for this potentially key fixture to be sold with no loyalty points system in operation, Parky unfortunately missed out. I therefore needed to ask for a favour from Tim for an extra ticket. Within ten minutes of my call, Tim sorted me out a ticket in the home stand. On the basis that I could trust myself among the home fans rather than Parky, we agreed that it would be circumspect for him to have my ticket alongside Alan and Gary in the away corner. And I was in Tim’s seat, incognito. Everyone was happy.”

That was a great game – remembered for an incredible sunset – and I was, fortuitously at the right end to capture celebrations of our three second-half goals. It was a fantastic night. That fifth title was within touching distance.

Back to 2020, I made it inside the stadium – no more than fifteen yards away from my seat in May, but behind the corner flag this time – with about fifteen minutes to go.

I approached Alan and Gary.

“Alright lads? Been a tough week.”

For not only had the Chelsea family lost Dale Jasper on Friday, we also lost Chris Vassallo on Wednesday. I only knew Chris over the past five years; I seem to remember chatting to him in Tel Aviv in 2015 for the very first time. But every time we brushed past each other, he would offer his hand and say “alright, Chris” and I would do the same. He seemed a lovely bloke. Always there. As kick-off approached, I looked hard to see if I could spot his close friends Ali and Nick. I spotted them, quite a few rows back, and patted my chest.

The teams arrived.

I took a photo and posted it on “Facebook.”

“Remembering Chris and Dale. Let’s go to work, Chelsea.”

The big news was that Kepa was no longer our ‘keeper. In came Willy Caballero. I was quite surprised that Tammy Abraham had been declared to be match-fit. Pedro retained his place ahead of Willian. Another slight surprise.

Caballero

James – Rudiger – Christensen – Azpilicueta

Jorginho

Kante – Mount

Pedo – Abraham – Hudson-Odoi

What a fine first-half. In fact, very soon into it, I commented to Alan “much better than last season’s game” which was truly, truly horrific.

The low winter sun was causing Kasper Schmeichel a few problems as Chelsea dominated the game from the off. We passed well, and used the flanks. The away crowd were right in to the game from the off, with plenty of noise booming around the north-east corner. There was the usual expected “bants” between both sets of fans, though the geezer in the adjacent Leicester section with the drum needed to be constantly reminded of his “hobbies”.

Frustratingly, there was an “air shot” from Callum Hudson-Odoi and this drew moans and groans from all. This seemed to affect his confidence a little, and his play was a little within himself. A cross from our left from Dave then just evaded Tammy Abraham. More groans. But then, lovely, an immediate chant of support.

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

Top marks.

Despite Callum’s troubles on our right, Reece James took up the gauntlet. He was soon attacking at will down that flank after being released by various team mates. One sumptuous cross into the danger area was just perfection but Tammy read it slightly late.

A ball was played in, by Pedro I think, and Tammy twisted inside the box. There was a slight hint of a trip. He was certainly sprawled on the turf.

After a while, the Chelsea crowd – not Alan, not Gary, not me, not Parky – screamed.

“VAR. VAR. VAR. VAR.”

Give me strength.

After the usual lengthy delay, the call did not go our way.

The Chelsea crowd changed their tune.

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

Alan looked at me and I looked at Alan.

“They can’t have it both ways, Al.”

Sigh.

“Fuck me, how do these morons find their way to work in the mornings?”

I can only hope that these people, if they voted on the European Union referendum in 2016, voted with a little more conviction and a little less fickleness than with which they now vote for VAR.

Midway through the half, the Chelsea noise diminished slightly, there was a classic Leicester City chance for Jamie Vardy but Caballero saved brilliantly well. It was their sole chance thus far. Pedro was involved often in this period, and one halting run ended up with a subtle lob towards goal, but Schmeichel back-peddled well and tipped over. Callum was trying to get into the groove. But one step forward, two steps back. The diagonal from Rudiger, and from others, to Reece and Callum was a common occurrence.

There was a hint of rain, but mainly the sun shone.

We kept driving at the Leicester defence. Reece James was solid, he had focus, and he was our finest player of the half. Another cross from Reece, right on the money, and another whisker away from Tammy. A rushed shot from Callum ballooned over the bar. More groans.

But the home team were now coming into the game. Efforts from them caused a little worry for our defence.

There was a classic chance for Vardy just before the break.

“Here we go.”

Amazingly, he fluffed his lines.

Just after, a Leicester City corner was met by a strong unchallenged leap by Hamza Choudury, but his equally strong header was down but wide.

Phew.

In the first minute of the second-half, a corner to Chelsea from the same side of the ground as the Leicester effort before the break. Mason Mount hit it deep, and the ball fell at virtually the same place as the Leicester cross. Rudiger rose, repeated the Choudhury downward header, but this time the ball ended up in the goal.

GET IN.

Alan : “Thay’ll ‘ave ta come at us nah.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

There was a magical reflex save from close in by Caballero from Ben Chilwell – arms and legs at all angles – but Leicester were back in this game.

As Harvey Barnes l approached, I yelled.

“Don’t let him come inside ya.”

With that, he did. The shot took a deflection and it curled and spun past the dive of Oor Wullie.

Bollocks.

Barnes’ little pirouette in front of us made me ill.

I turned to Al.

“Game of two halves.”

We were letting our hold slip in this half and our attacking play quickly slowed.

On 56 minutes, Dale Jasper’s age, I hoped for a chant in his honour.

There was nothing, nothing at all. There had been nothing all game.

No words.

Ten minutes later, a cross from the Leicester City rose high, and I watched Caballero react to it. He watched the ball fall and he raced, unsure of himself, towards it, but it fell way in front of him. I watched as he raced back. The ball was recycled – is that the buzz word these days? – and it fell at Ben Chilwell’s feet. He slammed it home. Caballero was close to it, but not close enough. I am, if I am honest, not sure if he had not carried out his wild sortie he would still have saved it.

I certainly felt sorry for Willy, who until then had been more than fine.

But I did turn to Alan and say :

“I am sure Kepa would have stayed in his six-yard box.”

And I absolutely felt sorry for Frank, his gamble – which is what it certainly was – had backfired.

Oh these defensive lapses, Chelsea.

Fucksake.

There was another fine Caballero save. This drew some praise.

[Inside my head] : “We seem to have run out of ideas. Maybe we need to lump it to Rudi again.”

Seven minutes after we went behind, Dave was fouled on our left. Mason Mount floated it in. This was another long, deep cross, and Toni Rudiger rose again. Unlike the first goal, a sudden downward stab, this was a lofted floating lob that dropped wonderfully into the yawning goal, with Schmiechel nowhere.

We celebrated that one truly, madly, deeply.

Get in.

Frank Lampard rang some changes.

Kovacic for Jorginho.

Willian for Pedro.

Then, very oddly.

Barkley for Abraham.

Well, answers on a postcard.

Gary and I quickly discussed false nines and we didn’t like it.

“Regardless of the formation, every team still needs a goal scorer.”

Then, I felt dirty for even thinking it…

[Inside my head] : “Surely this isn’t a Mourinho-esque swipe by Frank at the board for not backing him in his search for an elastoplast striker in the January window?”

“Nah.”

Our play ran out of ideas. Willian did well at first then dipped. Barkley struggled. In the last few minutes, the home team were gifted two golden chances.

A Johnny Evans header, wide.

Phew.

A shot from Harvey Barnes, wide.

Phew.

Then, the ball was played in to our box and Rudiger seemed to turn and flick his hand towards the ball. Everyone around me feared the absolute worst, we honestly did.

No penalty.

Phew.

At the final whistle, some positives surely.

A good game, a point apiece was a fair result. Leicester City are no mugs, a fine team. Drawing at the team in third place is absolutely alright.

On the way out, I chatted to a few mates. Our first-ever Winter break is upon us. Mark is off to Las Vegas, Scott is off to Australia. I am not honestly sure where Chelsea are ending up – a place in the sun surely? – but I am off too.

I am off to Buenos Aires on Tuesday for some sun and some football.

We reconvene in over two weeks for the visit of Manchester United.

See you there.

Postscript : 1985 / 2015 / 2020 Updated.

Attendances.

1985 – 15,657.

2015 – 32,021.

2020 – 32, 186.

Capacities.

1985 – 29,000.

2015 – 32,500.

2020 – 32,312.

Away Fans.

1985 – 4,000.

2015 – 3,000.

2020 – 3,000.

Seat Tickets.

1985 – £4.50 on day of game.

2015 – £40 in advance.

2020 – £30 in advance.

Club Owners.

1985 – English.

2015 – Thai and Russian.

2020 – Thai and Russian.

The Chelsea Players.

1985 – English, Welsh, Scottish.

2015 – Czech, Serbian, Spanish, English, Belgian, Brazilian and Ivorian.

2020 – Argentinian, English, Danish, German, Spanish, French and Italian.

Heroes.

1985 – Dixon, Speedie, Nevin.

2015 – Hazard, Terry, Diego Costa.

2020 – Kante and two others to be decided upon on a weekly basis.

Chelsea Kits.

1985 – all yellow.

2015 – all yellow.

2020 – black and orange.

Chelsea Songs.

1985 – “You’re gonna get your fucking heads kicked in.”

2015 – “Champions of England, you’ll never sing that.”

2020 – “Champions of Europe, you’ll never sing that.”

After The Game.

1985 – Police escort, scuffles everywhere.

2015 – Normality.

2020 – Normality and a cheeseburger with onions.

1985

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUMHLnVJLpg

2015

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrSivwfgFnc

2020

Parky, Gary, Alan and myself featured after our first goal.

https://www.chelseafc.com/en/videos/v/2020/02/01/_-antonio-rudiger-brace-earns-chelsea-a-point-on-his-100th-blues-Zxa2w0ajE6xzyOKeMoOqaZEbI7CrShWt?fbclid=IwAR0-UYXfbmQWYffN3oyCA_Jej4c_llJAMztwJ8_ak-cCf6CH8_76MA9Iijg

 

Tales From The Cosy Corner

Chelsea vs. Burnley : 11 January 2020.

The home game with Burnley was our tenth match in thirty-seven days, a very intensive period for players and supporters alike. To continue a theme of recent weeks, by the time I would drop off Parky, PD and his son Scott at the end of the day, these ten games would equate to eight trips to London, one trip to Liverpool and one trip to Brighton.

Sixty-five hours of travelling by car to see Chelsea in just thirty-seven days.

Did someone say “gulp”?

I thought I heard it.

But as we have said so many times before :

“It’s what we do.”

This was a typical Chelsea Saturday in many ways.

Another early start for sure. I collected the lads by 7.30am, we Greggsed a breakfast en route, and I was parked up at just after 10am.

I was soon walking down the North End Road with the main intention of grabbing hold of a pair of those magnificent 1970 shorts. Once in the “Megastore” – my fist steps inside for maybe two years – I spotted many shirts, linked T-shirts and tops, but not one single pair of shorts.

“All the shorts have gone.”

Bollocks. Obviously many others of the same demographic group were of the same opinion as me vis a vis Majorca, Bodrum, Ko Samui and Orlando. I guess I will have to wait. And wait I will. I dislike the notion of having to spend £100 for an online order to facilitate a free delivery when I can pick the shorts up in the shop – “call me old fashioned” – for nothing.

In my never-ending quest to capture every nook and cranny of Stamford Bridge, at least I was able to devote myself to a little camera work. At about 10.30am, the forecourt was virtually devoid of supporters. I could pick my moments. Those Peter Osgood boots have scored a few goals, eh?

I took a District Line train down to Putney Bridge and met up with Parky, PD and Scott in “The Eight Bells” at 11.30am. We were in our usual spot, the cosy corner. During the week, a clip of the much-loved BBC comedy “Steptoe & Son” from the late sixties was aired on a Chelsea-related Facebook group and it showed the two protagonists exiting “The Eight Bells”, rather Brahms & Liszt, and getting collared for being drunk and in possession of a horse and cart.

We were sat right next to the same double-doors that Wilfred Bramble had stepped through fifty years ago.

No lager for me. I wanted to stay fresh. I was up at 6am, I would not be home until around 8.30pm. The procession of ice-cold Diet Cokes began.

I have to say that at times, in the now familiar confines of this little pub, it often feels that we are hosting a chat show. After guests this season from Perth in Australia, Edinburgh, Brighton, Chicago and Germany, we were joined by my good friend Russ from Melbourne in Australia.

“I’d like you to put your hands together and give a good Chucklevision welcome to Russ Saunders everyone.”

“Hi.”

“Russ, welcome. Take a seat. You look well, have you been ill”?

“Thanks Chris. It’s great to be back in London.”

Russ is originally from Wokingham and was with his brother Nick. Both would be watching in the rear rows of The Shed Upper. The Reading / Bracknell / Wokingham axis is a particularly strong Chelsea heartland. I first met Russ in Perth in 2018, but our paths must have unknowingly crossed out in Tokyo in 2012 too. I was with him on several memorable nights in Baku in May.

Russ heads up the Melbourne Supporters Group and for many a minute we discussed the very complex ticketing policies that the club has in place for the overseas groups. It seems that many of the club’s relatively new fans in Australia mirror those of many in the US; some have no real grasp of reality.

“This one fan comes up to me and asks for ten tickets for Manchester United at home.”

I smiled and groaned. Then groaned and smiled.

And then we got on to the very contentious and emotive subject of tickets for Chelsea away games.

A lot more groaning this time. And not so much smiling.

Nick wondered how we would fare against Burnley.

I summed things up.

“We’ll begin well. They will defend deep. But the crowd will get frustrated when we don’t score and we’ll try to nick a goal.”

The pub was getting packed now. Thoughts turned to the next two away games. PD, Parky and I are flying up to Newcastle next Friday for the Saturday evening game. Please note that I will not be on Diet Cokes. The Edinburgh and Dundee connection will be with us. The following weekend brings us the FA Cup game at Hull City. I seized while the iron was hot and booked a ridiculously cheap set of rooms to enable PD, Scott, Parky and little old me to stay the Saturday night.

We have around 4,200 tickets for this game. And they are competitively priced at just £12.

Hotel : £7.50.

Ticket : £12.

Superb.

We played against Hull City in the FA Cup in 1982. These prices echo that era.

“I can get used to this retro-themed FA Cup run this season.”

However – there always seems to be a however these days – the choice of 5.30pm on a Saturday night was a poor one, and certainly backs up the commonly-held view that the FA do not give a flying fuck about match-going fans.

On the wall on the forecourt, I had photographed these soundbites for modern football.

“Back at The Bridge. All fans coming together in blue. We’re here for the season-ticket holders and first timers. Without fans football wouldn’tt be the Beautiful Game.”

Maybe there should be an asterisk stating “*kick-off times permitting.”

The Chelsea Supporters Trust quickly issued a statement.

“The FA Cup is the oldest association football competition in the world. It is a competition attended and enjoyed by many. Chelsea’s (CFC) 4th round tie has been selected to be shown on television. Subsequently, the KO time for the game is 17:30. The CST is frustrated by the continued disregard towards match-going supporters. Over two back-to-back Saturdays, CFC KO in the North-East at 17:30 (18th vs. Newcastle United & 25th vs. Hull City). The CST would like to place on record with how disappointed it is. A 17:30 KO for games over 250 miles away from London continues to be widely opposed by supporters.

This has been exacerbated by no trains running back to London after the Hull City game. This is unacceptable. The train timetable was in place when deciding the KO time and as a result, has left many CFC supporters in a challenging position.

The Chelsea Supporters Trust would urge the FA to select more appropriate ties to be shown on television in future. Managers have been widely criticised for “not taking the FA Cup seriously.” The board believe that if unnecessarily difficult KO times are being chosen, supporters may follow in the same manner.

The CST would also like to thank Chelsea Football Club for its continued subsidised coach travel. For many supporters, it continues to be the only realistic option to attend away matches. The CST hopes that this will continue in its current format.

The team news came through.

“Barkley is starting.”

Arrizabalaga

James – Christensen – Rudiger – Azpilicueta

Jorginho

Barkley – Mount

Willian – Abraham – Hudson-Odoi

The Crystal Palace versus Arsenal game was on TV behind us. A David Luiz own-goal resulted in a 1-1 draw, more dropped points, lovely. The time absolutely flew past. It was soon time to draw stumps and head north two stops on the District Line.

Fifteen minutes later we were at Stamford Bridge. Perfect.

I walked through the West Stand forecourt – much more crowded now – with Kim, who had been with us in the pub. Kim would me meeting up with me at the Peter Osgood statue after the game to sort out his Newcastle United ticket which I had sorted out with a friend.

“Does it get busy here after the game, Chris?”

“Too right it does. We need another meeting point. They should erect a Trevor Aylott statue too. It would be a lot quieter.”

I looked again at the words on display to my left.

“Without fans football wouldn’t be the Beautiful Game.”

Quite right. It would be rugby.

Inside our home, I soon spotted a yawning gap of around four hundred spare seats in the Burnley section. Everywhere else seemed at capacity.

No pristine 1970s kit this week, rather the children’s geometric stencil set aberration of the regular league shirt.

The game began.

A shot at Kepa was well wide in the opening move of the match but we began to get hold of the ball.

I spotted that within the first few minutes, in which we were treated to a couple of Willian bursts, much of our play seemed to be concentrated within a very congestion area down our left, Burnley’s right. Often play would run itself into a cul-de-sac and would have to be played out and then back in again. Meanwhile, often standing alone in lots of unguarded territory on the other wing stood Reece James waiting to run at the Burnley left flank.

“Let’s use him more, Al.”

Frank must have heard me. We began using him more, and a couple of crosses caused worry in the Burnley defence.

A Burnley goal was flagged as offside and – how dull – VAR upheld the decision.

“Move on, nothing to see here” as they say on the internet.

Tammy hesitated when seemingly clean through, but our play was drawing appreciation from the home stands. The first stadium-wide chant came within just fifteen minutes this time.

Good work everyone.

(He said sarcastically.)

On twenty-five minutes, a ball was played into Willian. He entered the penalty box. From one hundred yards away, I saw him touch the ball, then go down. It looked like the ball had got away from him and the defender’s touch – if there was one – was of no consequence. But the referee soon pointed at the spot.

Alan and I looked at each other.

Old fashioned looks.

Really?

Jorginho, like a dressage horse, all choreographed, skipped and hopped, then unseated Pope.

We were 1-0 up.

The race down to Parkyville and smiles from Ludo, Rachel, Donna, Parky and the two Daves.

GET IN.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

Burnley, to their credit, had a go at us. The game opened up a little. A great spawling save from Kepa, a hack off the line from Ross Barkley.

We grew in confidence. I liked Barkley’s involvement.

On thirty-seven minutes, a ball was played forward with pace to catch an overlap from Our Reece. It looked a tall order. With defenders closing him, and the ball hurtling towards the by-line, I yelled “dig it out Reece.”

Dig it out he did. He sent over a long cross – and Tammy was perfectly placed.

I have to be honest, it reminded me of a cross that I dug out on the right wing, stretching to reach it, in football training for my village team on a dusky summer evening in 1979 for Nige Ashman to head home. This was probably my favourite ever cross from my playing days and undoubtedly the best remembered. The comments of appreciation from the senior players in the team really meant a lot. I was never a confident player, especially for my school, and I remember thinking “bollocks, if only Mr. Freeman had seen that.”

Tammy’s downward header seemed to surprise Pope, who seemed flat-footed, and it fell into the goal.

“Super goal.”

How often have we seen headers fly off the top of our players’ heads in recent weeks?

“Head like a fifty pence piece.”

This one was right on the money.

Ker-ching.

We were treated to a rasper from Reece James, after twisting and turning nicely in the area – almost shades of Gianfranco Zola and Juian Dicks on the same piece of terra firma in 1996 – but Pope was no dope and saved it.

We were 2-0 up at the break and all was well with the world.

The second-half began and we were soon rewarded with some fine attacking play.

Down below us, Mason Mount was strong and held off some challenges and fed the ball to Dave. His cross was aimed towards a rising Tammy, who appeared to get a glance. The ball fell at the feet of Tammy who slip it home.

I did not celebrate. And this was not solely because of VAR. Let us not forget that there were times in the pre-VAR world when goals would be scored and I would choose not to celebrate too much because, well, the goal either looked like being offside or for some other reason, a nudge or a foul maybe. Alan wasn’t celebrating either. Everyone else was. I captured Tammy’s slide for his first league goal. And then came VAR. And the predictable wait. I wondered if the photographs for the goal celebrations would need to be deleted.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Goal.

More old-fashioned looks twixt Al and me.

“How was that not offside?”

(On “MOTD” later, I would learn that Tammy did not get a touch.)

Hey ho.

Three-up, great stuff.

The cosy corner in the boozer had now been transplanted to a corner of the Matthew Harding Upper. All certainly was cosy in our little world. It was a sudden joy to be able to relax a bit and enjoy an easy win.

The rest of the second-half really should have resulted in more goals. We were utterly dominant. I loved the way that Callum – Our Callum – grew in confidence after his goal, and some of our touch play, movement, and spirit – for the want of a better word – was excellent.

Bloody hell, there was even some audible chanting.

Steady on, everyone.

Pope saved from Tammy and then Tammy was frustrated as he saw a relatively easy header drop wide. Shots rained in from Willian, from Mount. Barkley continued his confident play. But I was so impressed with Reece James, supplying quality cross after quality cross to order. Let’s see how he develops over the next twelve months. He looks mustard.

Once all fit, our young Lions could form a new group to lead us forward.

Reece, Callum, Mason, Tammy maybe, Ruben maybe.

A wild shot from Mason drew some sarcasm from the MHL.

“What the fackinell was that?”

Knowing that we let a 4-0 lead slip at Turf Moor in late October, I joked “it’ll soon be 3-2.”

But we held on. Wink.

A fine game. I enjoyed it.

Positivity!

Waiting at the base of the Peter Osgood statue, I waited for Kim. I picked up two other Newcastle tickets for the Edinburgh connection from another mate and I observed that two other sets of Newcastle United away tickets found new homes as strangers met to pass on to fellow fans. After a short wait, Kim was sorted too.

Job done.

Right. Newcastle away it is, then. We are flying up on Friday evening from Bristol. A quayside pub crawl is planned.

Bring your wallets. See you there.

Tales From A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Match

Chelsea vs. Ajax : 5 November 2019.

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

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

Jan Joengblood – FC Amsterdam

Wim Suurbier – Ajax

Wim Rijsbergen – Feyenoord

Arie Haan – Ajax

Ruud Krol – Ajax

Wim Jansen – Feyenoord

Johan Neeskens – Ajax

Wim Van Hanegem – Feyenoord

Johnny Rep – Ajax

Rob Rensenbrink – Anderlecht

Johan Cruyff – Ajax

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

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

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

No wonder they wiped the floor with most teams.

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

I could not wait.

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

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

Anyway, I was in.

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

Kick-off was approaching.

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

Arrizabalaga

Apilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Alonso

Jorginho – Mount – Kovacic

Pulisic – Abraham – Willian

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

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

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

Just before kick-off, I spoke to PD.

“Part two, mate.”

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

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

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

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

Bollocks.

We’ll have to go at them now.

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

It was.

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

We waited.

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

It was 1-1 after just five minutes.

…little did we know.

In the Matthew Harding, an attempt at humour.

“Your support is fucking shit.”

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

Good old Parky.

Highly intelligent. Highly mobile.

Cough, cough.

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

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

Bollocks.

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

He was met with some abuse.

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

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

Fuck.

Chelsea 1 Ajax 3.

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

But the madness was starting.

Two Chelsea own goals.

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

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

“Yep. Agreed.”

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

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

But the madness had started.

And the noise too,

The volume kept going up and up and up.

I was rightly proud.

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

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

Chelsea 1 Ajax 4.

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

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

This was going pear-shaped.

But we kept going and the crowd too.

Frank made another positive change.

Callum Hudson-Odoi replaced Mason Mount.

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

There was a slight delay for a VAR moment.

Offside? Surely not.

The goal stood.

Was the comeback on?

The crowd seemed to think so.

We roared the boys on.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

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

By now the place was electric.

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

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

Fackinell.

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

We waited.

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

Chelsea 3 Ajax 4.

GET IN.

“Fasten your seat belts, lads.”

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

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

Chelsea 4 Ajax 4.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

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

Stamford Bridge had rarely seen a night like it.

I leaned forward and spoke to Albert.

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

I spoke to the bloke beside me.

“My 5-5 might still might happen.”

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

It was just beautiful.

Heaven knows what was going through Dennis’ mind.

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

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

FUCKING PANDEMONUM IN SOUTH-WEST LONDON.

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

The photographs tell the story

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

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

The minutes, sadly, raced past.

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

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

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

How? Why? What? Who? When?

This was plainly wrong.

If we have to endure VAR…sigh…OK.

But don’t fucking short-change us.

I hate modern football.

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

This game had it all.

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

“I got a few tonight.”

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

Sigh.

Some people are never bloody happy, eh?

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

Does my nut.

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

Seems not.

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

Next up Crystal Palace.

See you there.

 

Tales From Boys Against Men

Chelsea vs. Grimsby Town : 25 September 2019.

Our League Cup game at home to Grimsby Town would be our second home game in a run of three within seven days. I completed an early-shift at work at 3pm ahead of yet another midweek flit to the capital. PD drove up, and Sir Les came with us too.

I was brutally frank as I settled alongside PD in the passenger seat.

“Chelsea vs. Grimsby Town. What the fuck am I doing?”

It wasn’t so much that I was totally underwhelmed by the prospect of the game, more the knowledge that I would be cream-crackered at work the next day.

PD responded early.

“It’s what we do, innit?”

Indeed it is.

Talk in the car and in the pubs before the game centered on which youngsters might play, what the attendance might be, and if Grimsby Town, as rumoured, had brought a full six thousand down. If the latter was to be true, we were all happy to lavish praise on the away support.  Admittedly, the ticket prices had been slashed to just a tenner, but – even so – this level of away support was to be commended. Many of the away fans would not be home until 3am.

In “The Goose” and in “Simmons” we met with the usual suspects, plus a few new additions.

I met up with Alex – originally from Dallas –  again, who I vaguely remembered from a game in 2013 when I met up with some fellow Texans down at “The Rose” off the King’s Road. He now lives in Kingston-on-Thames and was looking forward to a rare chance to see us play.

Gary also popped in. He is originally from Swindon but moved out to Perth in Australia in 1987 and was at our friendly against Perth Glory in 2018 and in Baku in May for the Arsenal game. I don’t remember meeting him at either game, even though he spent a lot of the time in the Chelsea pub in Baku. We must’ve just missed each other, despite having mutual friends.

Gary was at the most famous Grimsby game of all – as was PD and Les – in May 1984 when around 10,000 Chelsea invaded Blundell Park to see a Kerry Dixon goal win us the Second Division Championship. I didn’t go to that game, but I have heard so much about it from others that it almost feels as if I was there.

Another lad – Rob – who is a friend of a friend, an old college mate, also popped in to say “hi.” All three have made positive noises about this blog and I thank them for their patronage.

The team news came through on ‘phones. I ran through the team and realised that I would be seeing a couple of new faces. This gave me a nice little buzz ahead of the kick-off.

This would only be the second sighting of Grimsby Town for me. I never saw us play against them in the old Second Division. We last played against each other in an FA Cup replay in February 1996 – we won 4-1 – and my memories of that game are scant. We had a pre-match drink in “The Beer Engine” on the King’s Road, it was a wet old night, we won easily. A quick glance at a YouTube clip of the match reveals an away following of around 1,000 in a gate of 28,000, a near full house in those days. Kenny Swain – I saw his Chelsea debut during my first game in 1974 – was the Grimsby Town assistant manager, a fact that I had long since forgotten. Commentator John Motson could hardly contain himself at times.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHckXyxZesk

I remember my parents taking me up to Grimsby – Cleethorpes to be precise, where Grimsby Town play, a bit like Chelsea playing in Fulham – in the autumn of 1973 to visit friends. As was the way in that era, it was fashionable to festoon parkas or school bags with sew-on badges of towns and cities visited. To my annoyance, our hosts made the grave mistake of getting me a Grimsby Town Football Club badge rather than a city badge. I never forgave them, the fools.

We made our way inside Stamford Bridge. I had predicted that not all those that had purchased tickets would be in attendance and I had expected a “real” gate of around 32,000. At about 7.30pm, there were a lot of empty seats.

I soon spotted that Grimsby did indeed take up the entire Shed. It was a far better showing than in 1996. Around twenty or thirty of them, in their distinctive black and white stripes, had been drinking in “The Goose.” By kick-off, the crowd has swelled. In our little section virtually every seat was being used. It was by far a greater attendance than I had expected, probably topping out at around 36,000 despite a “sell-out” no doubt being declared.

So, our team.

Caballero

James – Zouma – Guehi – Alonso

Pedro – Gilmour – Barkley

Hudson-Odoi – Batshuayi – Pulisic

This would be my first sightings of Reece James and Mark Guehi.

It almost seemed that we had too many attacking players, not that this is a crime. I like the idea of playing with three wingers. Why not play with four? Let’s re-write the rule books. The line-up seemed to be fluid during the evening. The wide men sometimes swapped positions.

Before I had time to settle, we were 2-0 up. On just four minutes, Ross Barkley received the ball some twenty-five yards out, began a solo run and powered through the penalty box before smashing a strong and low strike in at the near post.

1-0.

It was too quick for my camera. I was still fannying around in an attempt to upload a photo for “Facebook” on my ‘phone.

Three minutes later, a run from Reece James was followed by a cross to the feet of Michy Batshuayi, who swiveled and struck.

2-0.

Coasting.

Neither of the game’s two goals on film though.

I was clearly slacking.

There was a trademark Marcos Alonso effort from a free-kick but the ball soared over. Then, a rare attack saw Grimsby Town attack their fans in The Shed. A long ball took us all by surprise. It dropped into space and Matt Green – more a paint colour than a footballer – smashed the ball home off the underside of the crossbar.

2-1.

The six thousand Mariners went doolally.

PD chirped : “Told we won’t keep a clean sheet this season.”

It was virtually the away team’s only shot on goal. While their main tactic seemed to be for ‘keeper McKeown to continually time waste, our tactic was to try to split defenders with crisp passing and good movement off the ball. There was a Batshuayi header, and a couple of crosses into danger areas from Pulisic.

I had spoken to Alan how it is almost taken as a given that diminutive Scottish players will hug touchlines and go on mazy dribbles. But Billy Gilmour was playing centrally, and at times quite deep, and was at the epicentre of many of our best moves. One pass inside a floundering full-back, perfectly timed for Callum Hudson-Odoi, was so sweet.

“What a pass, Al.”

We continued to attack. Just before the break, and as a corner was played in, I caught Kurt Zouma being held back, but yards away from the flight of the ball. It was a cheap penalty.

Pedro, the captain, grabbed the ball. There was none of the nonsense of last week.

He rolled it home with ease. And I photographed it with ease too.

3-1.

It hadn’t been a particularly noisy first-half. The main songs were in support of Frank Lampard. But it was lovely to see and hear a few kids, dotted around, joining in with a few chants. The appearance of a few youngsters in the MHU brought the average age of our section down to fifty-nine years and eleven months.

On fifty-six minutes, a free-kick was played out to Reece James. He clipped a cross in using the outside of his right foot, the ball spinning into the space in front of the ‘keeper, and the long legs of Kurt Zouma poked the ball in. I managed to get the touch on film. I was improving fast.

4-1.

We kept attacking. Grimsby hardly breached the half-way line. On the one occasion that they did, the six thousand away fans screamed as if they were at a Beatles concert in 1964.

Bless’em.

On sixty-six minutes, two more debutants.

Ian Maatsen for Marcos Alonso, Faustino Anjorin for Pedro.

On eighty-two minutes, the ball was knocked out of a packed penalty box to the feet of Reece James. He wasted no time in deciding to shoot. His effort was perfectly placed. Into the net it flew, nestling in at the base of the far post.

5-1.

What a debut.

The Matthew Harding turned their attention from Frank to his assistant.

“One Jody Morris.”

It was all us. We totally dominated.

The Grimsby ‘keeper, in the second-half especially, became their one star, blocking many Chelsea efforts on goal. However, on eighty-two minutes, we worked the ball well inside the box, and Batshuayi slotted the ball past the advancing ‘keeper from a position where Pulisic had been less successful on a couple of occasions. I caught that on film too.

6-1.

In the last minute of normal time, a ball found Hudson-Odoi in the inside-left position. He advanced, shimmied and put his marker off balance, before rifling home at the near post.

7-1.

It had become a slightly frustrating evening for Our Callum so his leap of joy was certainly understood. I caught that one on film too.

I was 5/7 for the night after a miserable start.

I turned to Alan.

“Must be depressing for Grimsby, a team full of seasoned professionals, of men, being turned over by a team of kids.”

This had turned out to be a lovely game of football. The spectre of being sleep-deficient at work the next day diminished with each goal. It was a fine time. I loved seeing Billy Gilmour. He was constantly involved. His future – possibly, it is ridiculously early to be sure – looks bright. Maybe because of his size, he reminded me of a young Jody Morris, a deep-lying schemer, a “prodder” of balls into the feet of others.

I like him most, though, because we are the same height.

The mood was certainly buoyant as we marched down the Fulham Road. There was even time for the first “cheeseburger with onions please love” at “Chubby’s Grill.

Perfect.

On the way back west, we heard that we drew Manchester United at home in the next round.

Tasty.

Next up, Brighton on Saturday.

See you in “The Eight Bells.”