Tag Archives: Salomon Kalou

Tales From The Birds And The Bees

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Brentford vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2026.

Game number seven out of eight on the spin in London was a Friday evening set-to with neighbours Brentford at their compact Gtech Community Stadium. I drove up to West London from work at 2pm and deposited Messrs. Daniels and Parkins outside the Bell & Crown near Kew Bridge at 4.10pm. This plethora of trips to London were on one hand monotonous but on the other hand straightforward. In the case of Brentford, quick too.

On the easy drive to The Smoke, we mentioned that it felt odd to heap praise on the Premier League for once, but their decision to announce changes to the busy Christmas programme a few months in advance was very well received by everyone. Some changes were especially fortuitous for me. By moving our away game at Coventry City to Sunday 27 December, it meant that I could attend the Frome Town vs. Poole Town match on Boxing Day and by shunting our home match against Newcastle United to Sunday 3 January it will allow me to travel to Bath City the day before.

It’s a win-win for me, or hopefully a win-win-win-win.

I had arranged pre-parking further west at Ferry Quays and I slotted into a space there at 4.30pm. I had not had a great deal to eat at work all day, so I was famished. Within a few yards of the car park, there were Thai, Ukrainian and Georgian restaurants but I liked the look of a Turkish one called “Galata Pera.” It had opened at 4pm, so my timing was perfect. I spotted a couple at an adjacent table, and I recognised the woman from Chelsea. She didn’t seem to recognise me, but the man did. We got there in the end. They were from West Sussex. It was typical for me to bump into Chelsea folk at an away game.

What with this restaurant being new to me, its exotic food – I wolfed down some tiger prawns with wholesome Turkish bread and then a stuffed aubergine – and the Turkish music playing, this almost – almost! – seemed like an away game in Europe. It brought back memories of that time in Istanbul in 2014 when I sat outside a café, relatively close to Galata Tower (which this restaurant close to the Thames was surely named) before a titanic match with Galatasaray.

My mind took a flight of fancy as I was immediately transplanted to that exotic city on the banks of the Bosphorus. Overhead, however, the groan and grumble of aircraft descending towards Heathrow through a blanket of dull grey clouds brought me back down to Earth, or at least Hounslow.

Tonight was all about a domestic battle and points in the Premier League.

Knowing that there are severe searches at the away end, I had jettisoned my SLR for this game. Instead, I was having to rely on my far-from-top-quality camera ‘phone.

On the walk back to the pub, I attempted to take a few shots of the river, but everything was too dreary for words; the grey sky, the brown of the river, the gloominess of the trees.

Instead, I decided to point my camera at a tower that is the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam – doesn’t that sound as dull as Thames water? – but just before I took the photo a mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead. I was instantly reminded of that Alfred Hitchcock film. Was this a foretaste of doom? An indication of a nightmare ahead? Perhaps, then, at that exact moment I should have returned to the restaurant for some baklava and strong coffees and given the game a miss. However, I pressed on.

I joined up with PD, Parky and a bunch of friends from all over the Chelsea kingdom. I met up with Jimmy the Greek from North London, Salisbury Steve from Wiltshire, the brothers Dave and Glenn from Putney, BJ and two of his mates from Texas, the returning Nat and Sujin from Kansas and California, plus Matt and Rachel from Virginia.

“The Bell and Crown” became busy during my stay of over an hour. There was chit-chat, laughter and a few “hellos” to other Chelsea supporters we recognised.

The spikey issue of ticket availability was a main topic of conversation. I suspect that many Chelsea fans believe that foreign supporters are gifted an easier path to obtaining tickets at Stamford Bridge and at away venues than those from more local areas, but my friends from the US told me that it is getting increasingly difficult, rather than easier.

It always saddens me to read on various US / CFC pages on “Facebook” that supporters asking for advice on acquiring tickets to Stamford Bridge are often told to go down the hospitality route. I always felt this was a shame, especially for first-time visitors. First visits should aim to be among the rank-and-file in areas where – until recently anyway – there is more singing and more atmosphere.

For an avid Chelsea supporter to be watching a first game at Stamford Bridge in West View fills me with utter sadness, yet this is the route that the suits at the club crave. For many seasons, I was able to use my network of friends at Chelsea to source spares for visitors – face value, always face value – as did others. It was part of the fabric of our club. It was the way fans operated.

These days, it has changed.

I spoke to Matt and Rachel about this.

“Rather than doing the hard work, making connections with local fans, getting to know them, getting access to a seat via them, newbies feel like they have to use a fast-track system involving huge prices and the high-end hospitality areas of Stamford Bridge.”

I mentioned that my view of this can be compared to my view of AI. Rather than create content using individual skills, people are fast-tracked into getting AI to create God-knows-what, and at God-knows-what cost to the world. Everyone seems to love a short cut, a cheat, a line of least resistance.

I hate modern life.

We stopped by the colourful entrance to the pub on Thames Road for photos and then walked off towards the stadium. There was another photo on Lionel Road as we went our separate ways. Sujin and Nat had been unable to meet the criteria for US fans to get away tickets, so had – through a lucky contact of Nat’s – been able to get two tickets together in the home area.

I told them to sit on their hands should we score. Jumping to their feet should Brentford score would be a trickier operation, as I have found out at various locations such as Arsenal, Leeds United and Blackburn. I also told Nat not to get a selfie with Barry the Bee (“or whatever the fucking Brentford mascot is called”) unlike the div at Arsenal a few weeks ago.

Nat had replied, “good job I am allergic to bees.”

Quite.

Bloody typical, I waltzed through two security checks and wasn’t searched once. I could easily have wrapped my SLR in my rain jacket and smuggled it in. Bollocks.

For some reason, Brentford still went with paper tickets. A quick scan and I was in.

It was 7.35pm, just twenty minutes after we left the pub.

PD very kindly swapped seats with me as I said that taking photos so near the front – row 6 – would have been useless. He gave me his ticket for row 31, just four from the rear.

I spotted BJ a few rows in front; he had to get duplicate tickets from the home box office before the game so was happy that it went smoothly.

I also spotted Matt and Rachel, close by.

With ten minutes to go, the theme from “The Great Escape” was played in its entirety. Is that their song, now? OK.

Then, the lights dimmed and were followed by the usual technicolour barrage of spotlights and flashes. Thankfully no fireworks.

“Hey Jude” and both sets of fans joined in.

The excitable PA went through the teams.

For Jordan Henderson there were predictable boos (from the home fans, I might add) as he made his Chelsea debut. We surmised that Joao Pedro had been left out of the Brazil squad because of injury so his absence here was expected.

But Jordan Henderson and Danny Welbeck starting? Blimey.

Emilio Martinez

Wesley Fofana – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill

Pedro Neto – Jordan Henderson – Valentin Barco – Pep Chavarria

Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Danny Welbeck

I am always flabbergasted when I see the folly of wearing a predominantly black kit at a night game. Surely, I am not the only one.

We attacked the home end in the first half, and there was a loud succession of Chelsea songs from the choir all around me. A very noisy “One Man Went To Mow” was followed by an angry rendition of “Zigger Zagger” and I was pleased that I was joining in. What is it they say about football allowing us to get rid of pent-up frustrations from the working week? On the pitch we started very brightly and moved the ball around – but mainly forward – as quickly and as economically as most of us would wish.

This was promising to see.

There was the usual ode to someone called Solomon Kalou, and as soon as I heard it, I knew what I had to do. I sent a message via WhatsApp at 8.09pm to Jimmy the Greek ten yards or so to my right.

“It’s Salomon!”

At 8.09pm, Jimmy the Greek sent a message to me via Messenger.

“It’s Salomon!”

I then spotted him in the crowd, alongside Parky, and we smiled and then took it in turns, at breaks in the chant, to shout the same thing.

“It’s Salomon!”

Valentin Barco was impressing me with his neat give-and-go, and the passing was crisp. Pep Chavarria was an oft-used outlet down the left, and Pedro Neto on the right was often given the ball to run at his defender. On ten minutes, a cross from Chavarria, a neat set up by Danny Welbeck, but a shot from Neto was saved by Kelleher.

Brentford, despite looking a threat on breaks and at set pieces, did not really trouble the Chelsea defence that seemed, for once, to be on top of things.

The away support mocked the home club.

“You’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”

But for all our possession, we created so little.

On twenty-nine minutes, a free kick fizzed at the ‘keeper, but there had not been much else. Just after, the best ball of the game from Cole Palmer dissected the space between two defenders but Neto wasted the opportunity.

There were two chances in quick succession at our end; Emilio Martinez got down well to save, and then a shot was sent over the bar.

With five minutes to go to the break, Chavarria set up Morgan Rogers but there was a block by Jannik Schuster and the shot went wide.

The last chance of the half fell to Brentford, but another shot was aimed at Martinez.

The Chelsea crowd, so noisy at the beginning, were very quiet in the last few minutes of the half.

I sent a WhatsApp message out : “the steam has gone out of us, hasn’t it?”

The second half began, and the action was still up the other end. After five minutes, Brentford clipped the bar following a Martinez save but offside had been called anyway. Worryingly, the home team seemed to have more belief.

The away support wakened from our slumbers and raucously got behind the players.

“COME ON CHELSEA. COME ON CHELSEA. COME ON CHELSEA. COME ON CHELSEA.”

Just after, a quick break, but a shot from Chavarria flew wide.

At this stage, it felt like a 0-0 game.

But what do I know?

On the hour, a Brentford corner away to our left. Again, there was an unhindered leap at the far post, by Schuster, but unlike the Hull City game, a looping header did not go straight in but sat up nicely for Jaidon Anthony to head home.

Bloody hell.

We tried to rally.

For a while, it seemed that it was going to be Private Sponge’s big day as Jordan Henderson took corner after corner. One delivery caused panic for the home guard, but the chance came and went.

On seventy minutes, a cross from the right from Neto was aimed at Welbeck. Our veteran’s response was to blatantly push his marker. What a load of nonsense.

Just after he was replaced by Geovany Quenda and Josh Acheampong took over from Wesley Fofana.

The three centre-backs had not performed at anything like the level we hope for and Fofana was the worst by a long chalk.

The Chelsea fans were quiet now. Our fight had disappeared too.

Our chances piled up, but virtually every effort was blocked by the legion of red and white shirted jerseys. Henderson continued as the corner-taker down below us, but annoyingly this often involved playing the ball short to Rogers. Surely his presence would have been better served in the penalty area? It baffled me.

Palmer twisted and turned and managed a stab at goal, but the ball spun wide. At times I thought our playmaker was too indulgent.

Lo and behold, on the eighty-third minute, a rapid break from Brentford and the ball was punched into space for Schade. I, of course, immediately feared the worst.

“Fackinell here we go.”

Schade approached and shot at goal. Martinez saved, but I still sensed danger. I brought my hands up and clasped my head as I watched the follow up from Igor Thiago go in.

Sigh.

I was sad to see many among the away support leave the stadium at this point.

What are we? Tottenham?

It was now the turn of the Brentford supporters to cheer with self-deprecation.

“We’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”

On eighty-seven minutes, Xabi Alonso made more changes.

Estevao Willian for Neto.

Mahdi Nicoll-Jazuli for Barco, a debut for him.

On ninety-two minutes, we conjured up a fancy free-kick routine – too little too late – and Maxence Lacroix headed over.

Two minutes later, while I was trying desperately to unlock my phone – so I could phone The Samaritans – I heard the deep burr of a Northern Irish supporter behind me gravely exclaim “three-null”.

I looked up to see Fabio Carvalho smash the ball in from close-range.

Good God.

Brentford 3 Chelsea 0.

By the time of the final whistle, there were virtually no Chelsea supporters around me. The photo of the empty seats was taken just after the final whistle. Only a few fans were left in my section by this stage.

I had noticed two American women in front of me during the game and I had enjoyed their reactions to the ribald singing in the opening minutes. I wondered if they were two of the many foreigners that had chosen this game as a “bucket list” assignment and if this was their first Chelsea match. As I made my way out, I made polite conversation with one, and she told me that she had been a Chelsea fan for years, and this immediately impressed me. She added that she would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.

Sigh.

I made my way out, hands in pockets, bewildered.

I met up with PD and Parky, whose faces were as long as mine.

Showing predictable gallows humour, I turned to three policemen out on the main road and said, “can you arrest me, so I don’t have to watch Chelsea over the next few weeks?”

Of course, that joke backfired on me as I soon realised that there would be no Chelsea, now, for three long weeks anyway.

What a horrible night. Were there any positives? Hardly. Although, looking back, many supporters thought that we had looked tighter defensively in that first-half. In the car, I singled out Pep Chavarria who showed some hearty endeavour before we all slumped together. But apart from him, and maybe Valentin Barco at times, what a lack-lustre performance. What on Earth did Xabi Alonso say to the team at the break? Whatever it was, let’s hope he doesn’t say it again.

Despite a 4am alarm call, thankfully I didn’t feel too tired as I drove west. I eventually reached home at 1.15am.

It had indeed been an evening of birds and bees.

And Chelsea had been well-and-truly fucked.

“A mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead.”

Brentford vs. Chelsea

“She would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.“

Tales From Hertfordshire

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Watford vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2016.

We were parked up at just before 6pm. There was a chill to the air and I was expecting the night to get colder still. The pedestrianised Watford High Street was eerily quiet, and the many large pubs which lined the wide street seemed to be largely devoid of punters. On Facebook, it seemed that the Chelsea faithful were located in just two pubs; “The Flag” near the town’s train station, and the central “Moon Under Water.” We aimed for the latter.

It was full of Chelsea. On walking to the packed bar, I was able to spot many friends and acquaintances. Pints in hand, Parky, PD and I headed over to meet up with the other members of the Away Club. The ever-present Alan and Gary were joined by Dave, back visiting us again from his home in the South of France. Beers were sunk, stories told, plans were forged for upcoming games.

I chatted to Noel, who lives so close to Milton Keynes Dons’ stadium that he was able to walk to and from the game on Sunday. I’ve only ever been able to do that once in my life, back in 1985, when I lived ten minutes away from Stoke City’s old ground. We both agreed that it is a very strange sensation.

“All these Chelsea fans were in my local, I couldn’t get to the bar.”

Noel’s “Bletchley Blues” flag is seen everywhere. I can even remember photographing it in Kuala Lumpur in 2011.

The pub did house a few odd looking locals, but Chelsea were in the ascendency. A few songs rung out.

The furore following John Terry’s frankly surprising statement, seemingly unprovoked, about the club’s reluctance to offer him a deal for 2016/2017 has obviously been one of the hot talking points since Sunday. We briefly touched on it. Was it a bargaining tool for John Terry to shame the club in to action, or just the stark admittance that this was the beginning of the end for him in Chelsea colours? A few of us thought that Terry, in the interests of team harmony, should have kept quiet. The last thing that the team wants is a John Terry sideshow between now and May. Of course, the crux of the matter is that on form and leadership alone, he should be offered a new deal. Replacing him, our heartbeat since 2004, will be almost impossible. However, it is everything else that is murky and unclear. His motives. His character. His misdemeanours. Not everything is black and white. Nor blue and white. Let us not forget how he was sorely tempted to become a Manchester City player in the summer of 2009. John Terry has always been a surprisingly complex character for someone who is, on the surface, a fundamentally old-fashioned blocker and tackler and an unreconstructed leader of men. I have a feeling that this story will run for a while yet.

However, if this is his last few months as a Chelsea player, the difference between his send-off and that of Frank Lampard’s could not be more marked.

Thankfully, Watford’s Vicarage Road is only a twenty minute walk away from the town centre. The difference in the feel to the surroundings between our last game, in Buckinghamshire, and this one, in neighbouring Hertfordshire – just thirty miles away as the crow flies – could not be greater. On Sunday afternoon, there were wide roads, a modern stadium, purpose built restaurants, wide open spaces. On this Wednesday evening, there were narrow terraced streets, with a stadium nestled in among the fabric of a town, with hardly an inch to spare.

But I enjoyed the contrast.

Dave and I laughed at the ridiculously long lines at each and every fish and chip shop en route to the stadium.

“Oh, they love their battered haddock in deepest Watford.”

We were soon outside the away entrance, which had evidently had a lick of paint since my last visit in 2009. The whole place looked a lot smarter. There were more familiar faces everywhere I looked. The concourse inside the away stand was still ridiculously cramped, but that had been freshened up too. I suppose Vicarage Road is like a smaller version of Selhurst Park, cramped and intimate, with the turnstiles at street level high above the pitch below, in some sort of natural dip in the land. Vicarage Road holds just over 20,000 now, and is a neat enough stadium. The three rather odd structures to the left of the away end were demolished and replaced by a new structure in 2014.

It is named after Watford’s former chairman and most famous fan Sir Elton John.

Along the black rear wall, running the entire length of the stand, there are words to one of Reg Dwight’s most famous songs.

“You can tell everybody this is your song. It may be quite simple but now that it’s done. I hope you don’t mind. I hope you don’t mind. That I put down in words. How wonderful life is while you’re in the world.”

It is not known if Watford thought about stenciling in “Saturday night’s alright for fighting” above the away seats.

There were plenty of moans from myself and others regarding our seats. There are around seven hundred people in Chelsea’s away season ticket scheme, of which Parky, Alan, Gary and I are all members. This is my tenth such season. In our annual application process, we indicate to Chelsea whether or not we would prefer seats in the front, rear or middle of the respective away allocations. Generally, we get our seats in the desired area; the middle. On this occasion, not only were we around eight rows from the front, but we were way beyond the touchline in the bottom corner. What a bloody joke.

Oh well, at least I’d get a good view of Willian hitting the defender on the near post at every corner.

As the teams entered the pitch, the opposite end, the home Rookery Stand, was awash with yellow and black flags. I presume this is a Watford “thing” insomuch that fans are encouraged to bring them to games, rather than Watford giving them out for free at each home game. Watford seem to have jettisoned the colour red in their kit these days, which is a bit odd since over half the seats at Vicarage Road are coloured red.

There was surprisingly no place for Eden Hazard.

Courtois – Ivanovic, Terry, Zouma, Azpilicueta – Mikel, Matic – Willian, Fabregas, Oscar – Diego Costa.

Although we looked comfortable on the ball in the opening moments, chances were not forthcoming. We moved the ball around, but Watford were proving to be a tough nut to crack. Like so many teams these days, they were working hard for each other, and tackling hard. Watford suddenly looked the more likely to score, with several good passages of play, and our defenders looked nervous and edgy, with the twin threat of Ighalo and Deeney causing us concern. From such close quarters, I was impressed with how John Terry is able to twist and move to block his attacker. Only rarely was he embarrassed on the floor.

We were drifting, though, with no real urgency in anyone’s play. Courtois did well to keep out a strong header from Prodl and then saved again from Capoue. The mood inside the away end, or at least the bottom corner, was of growing concern. It seemed to some that it would be a case of damage limitation from Hiddink.

Then, our best chance. The ball was played up to a snarling Diego Costa, who controlled the ball well, and sun away, in that devilish way of his, before dragging a low shot wide.

This seemed to inspire the Chelsea faithful. And although, there was noticeable support for John Terry from within our ranks, we chose to sing a song in praise of our other modern day legend as the first-half drew to a close. For many a minute, we sang and sang and sang.

“Frankie Lampard.

Frankie Lampard.

Frankie Lampard.

[PAUSE]

Oh Frankie Lampard scored two hundred against the Pikeys.”

At half-time, my phone quickly alerted me to the fact that Frank, watching in New York City, had commented on social media about this, thanking us for the support. I was also informed that one of the 2,200 had been texting Frank throughout the chanting too.

At times like that, it really does seem that we are all in it together.

I noted an immediate increase in intensity in our play in the second-half. Apart from a fine block tackle, Fabregas had been largely missing in the first period. However, he set up Oscar, whose shot was saved. Mikel thundered in from the rebound but his shot was blocked too. Watford countered with a couple of attacks, but I wondered where a goal was coming from. I kept thinking of a last minute Salomon Kalou winner in 2007. I wondered if we would have to wait as long as that.

I was very frustrated when Diego Costa broke down the left, but only Oscar was in a dangerous position. Many yards behind, three midfielders were hardly busting a gut to join the attack. It seemed to be a perfect metaphor for the evening.

The frustration grew.

Watford’s home support was pretty tame.

“Watford FC” soon segued in to “Fuck PSG.”

Oscar shot wide from a Costa pass. A clean strike from the otherwise unimpressive Matic was hit straight at Gomes. Another shot from Oscar. Our chances were slowly piling up, but nobody seemed to be too impressed.

Watford’s players were wilting at the merest hint of a challenge from the Chelsea players. Alan was not impressed.

“You lot go down quicker than Elton John’s chauffeur.”

With twenty minutes to go, at last a substitution, with Eden Hazard replacing Matic. A lovely passing move ended up with a firm strike from Ivanovic testing Gomes, who saved well. Then, we had a great view of Willian teasing his marker, and getting an extra yard to play in Hazard, but his touch was heavy and the chance passed us by.

Then, with time marching on, the best chance of the entire game. John Terry ran at the defence – memories of a winner at Burnley just after the Vanessa Perroncel story broke, could he do it again? – but rather than shoot, he passed to Hazard. His cross was met well by Diego Costa. His header appeared destined to make the net ripple. Memories of Salomon Kalou in 2007. We gulped, we stretched on our tiptoes. Gomes clawed it away.

“What a save. Fackinell.”

And it was. It was a stunning save.

I turned in disbelief.

Ugh.

The game offered no more chances, no more drama. It was an off night for us. Many had felt unfulfilled. For large parts of the game, I suspect that many had hoped for a little bout of narcolepsy to kick in. It hadn’t been exciting. It was a disappointing let down.

“Three points tonight would have got us up to eleventh. Bollocks.”

There was quite a wait for us in the lower section of the away end. With only a very small exit, it took ages for the 2,200 away fans to disperse. Parky and I soon met up with PD, and we then joined the thousands heading back in to town. It seemed everyone was making the same trip, through the tight terraced streets, with cars squeezed together on the pavements, and past several fish and chip shops, fried chicken shops, many Indian restaurants, kebab shops, Chinese takeaways and pubs. Everything for a night out, it seemed. There was even a seedy sauna. In fact, just before we were back on the High Street, there was a Gentlemen’s Club called “Diamonds And Strings”, with several girls poised outside. As the three of us brushed past, one thrust a flier into my hand, advertising a Wednesday event called “Fantasy Night.”

Fantasy night?

“How about Chelsea finishing in the top half of the table this season?”

That’ll do me. Where do I sign up? How much to get in? How much will that cost?

In PD’s car, there was the briefest of summaries of the players’ performances.

“I think Mikel was as good as any to be honest. Zouma and Terry solid, Dave too. Ivanovic a little bit off tonight. Courtois didn’t have much to do. Fabregas bloody rubbish. Matic too slow. Willian off the pace a bit. Diego Costa tried his best to be fair. Oscar OK. Played better when Hazard came on.”

Just as PD made had made great time on the drive up to Watford – barely over two hours covered the 111 miles from a pub car park outside Melksham to a car park just north of the Watford High Street – he did even better on the return drive. I was home by 12.30am.

It hadn’t been the best of evenings following the team, but it never feels like a waste of time nor money. If or when it does, a part of me will be lost forever.

Manchester United at home on Sunday.

See you there.

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Tales From The Debutants

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Chelsea vs. Birmingham City : 20 April 2011.

We are in the middle of a busy period. It seems as if the season is in some sort of rush to get itself finished. With just six games of Chelsea’s 2010-2011 campaign remaining, I was well aware of the need to relish every second, every minute, and every kick of every last game of this season.

On the Tuesday, Manchester United dropped points at St. James’ Park. Maybe this crazy season wasn’t finished just yet. During another busy morning at work, I found just enough time to daydream of a Chelsea win over a struggling Birmingham City, allied with a favourable result between our North London “friends”. I told anyone who would listen –

“We could be second tonight.”

Thankfully, I had booked myself another half-day holiday and I left the delights of work at 12.30pm. Easter week is always notoriously busy and we always struggle to fit five days’ work into four. It was with guilty pleasure that I left the rest of my workmates to it. For this midweek game against Birmingham, it was the same scenario as against Manchester United a mere fortnight ago; pick up Parky, home to change, then up on the A303 and M3. A lot has happened in two weeks; too much, to be honest. Out of Europe, for sure, adrift in the league, maybe.

The sky was hazy, but the temperature warm as we headed east. By 4.15pm, I had parked up. I left Parky to head into the pub and I briskly walked down to The Bridge as I had people to meet. My goodness, it was muggy. It felt like the warmest day of the year. As I took a left outside The So Bar, I headed towards the West Stand and passed a chap in his late forties wearing both replica shirt and shorts. This isn’t a good look, mate. Take a look at yourself.

Inside the Megastore, I met Chelsea debutants Mike, Ashley and Brandon. Mike had contacted me a while back on the off-chance of getting tickets for the game. Luckily, tickets became available and “Bob’s your uncle,” as we say. This was Mike and Ashley’s first ever visit to the UK and they arrived via a quick tour of Europe, involving a few days in Barcelona, Madrid and Dublin. Seven hours after landing at Heathrow, they were at Stamford Bridge and clearly excited by the prospect of their first ever Chelsea home game. Brandon now lives In Madrid and was accompanying them on this trip. They were only town for a few days and had an itinerary all sorted.

Chelsea was obviously the centre-piece.

I briskly took the three Americans up to the hotel foyer to quickly meet – you all know where this is going, right? – Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti. We posed for photos with these two affable Chelsea legends and it was all very friendly and relaxed. Peter spoke about his time in America in the mid-‘seventies, including a season spent in the heat of a Missouri summer with St. Louis Stars in the NASL. Brandon thought it odd that The Cat called football “soccer” but I think he was just being friendly, bridging the gap between our great two nations, separated by the same language, as the saying goes. Peter Bonetti once played against Pele in The States and knew him from their time at the 1970 World Cup.

Then, decision time. As this was the three Americans’ first ever visit to The Bridge, I didn’t want to force their hands. I was heading back to The Goose, but was well aware that the three guests may want to stay closer to the stadium and get wrapped up in the pre-match buzz there. I was happy with their decision to join me back at the pub. On the walk back down the Fulham Road and up the North End Road, I did my tourist-guide bit with tales of the old Shed, the Osgood statue, The So Bar, the Hammersmith & Fulham Town Hall and the tube station. All Chelsea landmarks. Our bricks and mortar. Our history.

As I handed over the two season ticket cards to Ashley and Mike, I joked that they had left America single, but they were now newly arrived in England and passing themselves off as a married couple, Karen and Dave Lambert, from Frome in Somerset. How very murky. Their friends will be shocked. They would be sitting in the Shed Upper. Brandon would be alongside me in the MHU.

We made it back to The Goose at about 5.30pm and it was again nice to be able to relax a little before a midweek game. In addition to my little tour party, there was a sizeable gathering of the US clans taking place in the pub and beer garden. Beth was in mid-conversation with Cathy, a rare visitor to The Goose, and the New York Blues were represented by some Neat folk, plus Linda and Napoli Frank (who I had inadvertently bumped into in The Megastore, much to our amusement.)

The pints of lager and lime were going down well and Parky was flitting around like the socialite that he is. My boys – Alan, Gary, Rob, Andy, The Youth, Ed, Daryl, Russ – were in another corner. Busy, busy, busy. Conversations were flowing and it was great. I reconvened with Ashley, Mike and Brandon and we reignited some football-related conversations. We briefly touched on the strange phenomenon, at least in my eyes, of the franchise aspect of American sport teams and specifically the movement of a team from one city to another. The loathed MK Dons aside, this simply doesn’t happen in the UK. We specifically spoke about how Ashley and Mike’s home town of Seattle has reacted to the demise of the Sonics NBA team. They believe that the upsurge in support of the Seattle Sounders MLS team is linked to the flight of the Sonics a few years back. Ashley spoke of a friend who was a lifetime Sonics fan, whose dream was to work for the club in some way. He studied hard and eventually got an internship with the Sonics and loved it. He was heartbroken when the owner sold the club and moved the franchise to Oklahoma City. He was offered a job at the new city and reluctantly took it. I commented that it must be like marrying your school sweetheart, raising a family, but then getting a divorce and having to work for her new husband.

I hope that the franchise system never comes into our sporting landscape in the UK.

We also briefly touched on football hooliganism, but that’s a story for another day.

I took a few photos of Linda and Frank with two lovely trophies which they were due to present to Didier Drogba before the game. I believe Beth’s crew have a similar presentation against West Ham United.

The First-Ever Transatlantic Lacoste Watch.

London.

Andy – racing green

Chris – pink

Philadelphia.

Steve – lime

Just before we all set off for the walk to the ground, Rich from the Philly Blues popped in. Even more American visitors are planned for Saturday, when we will be hoping to celebrate a St. George’s Day victory over West Ham. I walked down the North End Road, past the pubs and fast-food cafes, with Rob and he said that some West Ham are taking a River Thames boat down the river for the game on Saturday.

“Yeah, which bridges are they going under?”

We both had the same thought.

There is new signage on the West Stand wall now – the tagline is “All Blues” and there are photos of the new 2011-2012 Chelsea kit. In fact, the new kit featured on the cover of the programme too. I loathe this premature arrival of new kits before the current season is finished. I don’t doubt we will wear it against The Geordies on Sunday 15th. May. Pathetic.

Brandon was already chatting to Alan when I arrived in my seat with about five minutes to go before kick-off. I had my cursory look around. Like me, many fans were in short-sleeved shirts. The clouds were still hugging the stadium in a claustrophobic clasp. Still very muggy. Birmingham City had about 700 fans and just four flags. I pointed out all of the US flags to Brandon. Despite a gate of over 40,000, there were many empty seats dotted around. I suspect we were 3,000 down on capacity. I got my lens out and quickly spotted “The Lamberts” in the Shed Upper.

So, the same team as against West Brom, apart from Paolo in for Ivanovic. I hope Ramires quickly returns. Birmingham were in a white–white–blue reverse of our kit.

We only had to wait two minutes for a goal. Alan had just commented to me about it being a long time since Chelsea scored a first-half goal at home in the league, when Paolo Ferreira sent over a perfect cross for the leaping Didier Drogba to get the feintest of flicks (snap!) and Florent Malouda to sweep the ball home.

Get in.

Mike, Ashley and Brandon – Welcome To Chelsea!

I’ll be honest; I was enjoying chatting to Brandon during the first-half about all sorts of things and found myself drifting away from the game. We spoke mainly about football but various other topics found their way into our chat. It was fun talking to an avid fan with a different perspective to mine. I hoped that having a Madrid resident next to me might somehow jolt Torres into goal scoring action later in the game. The atmosphere, despite our early goal, was quite subdued and there seemed to be a strange air throughout the evening. It didn’t seem like a game at the business end of the season.

On 26 minutes, what a lovely goal from Salomon Kalou. It was most unlike him, wasn’t it? A forceful run and an even better early strike. I could hardly believe my eyes as the ball hit the back of the net before the ‘keeper Ben Foster was even able to move.

Not so Kalou-less.

On 35 minutes, Didier cut in from the left and hit a daisy-cutter which the Birmingham City ‘keeper did well to turn around the far post.

Birmingham had a few sporadic attacks, but Cech was mainly untroubled.

The main problem for me was that for the second time in about a month, an over officious steward warned me not to take any photographs. It was a case of “cat and mouse” with him for the rest of the game. A similar fate befell Cathy against Wigan.

Vince – a former season-ticket holder – was sat in front of the three of us and I explained to Brandon that he lives out in East London, deep in West Ham territory. Sadly, his young son is a West Ham fan. Vince’s son could become the secretary general of the United Nations, find a cure for cancer, become CEO of a company which outsold Microsoft, beat Stephen Hawking at chess, record a platinum selling album, win five gold medals at a future Olympics and bring the warring factions in the Middle East together in peace; Vince would still feel that he had failed as a father.

West Ham. I ask you.

At the break, Tommy Baldwin was walked around the pitch by Neil Barnett. I explained to Brandon that he was known as “The Sponge” by fans and players alike in his time at Chelsea. Just as I had finished talking, the automatic sprayers came to life and the two of them had to sprint away from the water. With typical quick-witted gusto, Alan remarked “go on, soak it up, Tommy.”

Soon into the second-half, from a Drogba corner, a David Luiz header went wide.

The highlight of the second period was the introduction of debutant Ryan Bertrand for Ashley Cole on 56 minutes. He fitted in well and, after just five minutes in a first team shirt, sent over a cross from down below me by the north-west corner post. His pinpoint cross was headed down and in by Florent Malouda.

3-0 and coasting. The Malouda and Kalou Show.

Malou and Kalouda.

A strange old night in SW6.

To be honest, after our ridiculous bad luck at St. Andrews in November, it was only right that there would be Chelsea goals in this game.

On 66 minutes, a double substitution; Fernando Torres and Nicolas Anelka came on for the two goalscorers.

On 74 minutes, we conceded a very silly penalty when David Luiz uncharacteristically chopped at a Brum attacker – going away from the goal – and the referee had no choice but to award the penalty. It was easily despatched.

3-1.

Not to worry – we conceded just as we heard that Tottenham had recovered from being 1-3 down at home to Arsenal to get it back to 3-3. This cheered us up!

Anelka, playing deep, lost possession on the halfway line and Larsonn had the whole half at his mercy. Thankfully, he was short on confidence and chose to shoot early and his tame effort skidded well wide.

The last action of the match took place after Birmingham were penalised for a back-pass inside their box and the free-kick was only eight yards out. The crowd bellowed for Torres, but Drogba – enjoying a fine game – blasted high over the bar.

3-1 to The Champions – job done!

Brandon and I watched as the team left the pitch, but noted that yet again JT was the last man off, stripped to the waist, beating his chest.

Outside, we met up with “The Lamberts” and they were very contented. Thankfully, they didn’t use the word “awesome”, but I was in no doubt of their happiness.

The four of us soon said our goodbyes – but I made sure that Mike does his match report once he has time.

We dropped into The Goose to catch a glimpse of the Real vs. Barca game from Valencia and to let the traffic subside. Another pint for Parky and a refreshing Coke for me.

We left London at 10.30pm and I was home by 12.45pm.

Yep – up to second place now and who knows? Despite the doom-mongering of a few weeks ago, we’re still in contention.

Current Form.

Chelsea : 5 – 1 – 0

Manchester United : 3 – 1 – 2

Arsenal : 1 – 5 – 0

Five games to play. Let’s go.

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Tales From The European Trail

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Chelsea vs. Atletico Madrid : 21 October 2009.

I generally think that my work / play balance is in pretty good shape. I enjoy my job and thankfully I have been able to attend lots and lots ( too many! ) of Chelsea games since I began working in Chippenham in March 2003. I’m lucky in that the town is only ten minutes from the M4 and my Chelsea parking spot is “only” 97 miles away. I’ve been able to go on a ridiculous run of home games going back to January 2004. The last one I missed was an F.A.Cup replay against Watford ( I was in America, ironically ) and I remember flying back into England on the morning of a Sunday game against Birmingham City. Since then, I have stacked up a run of 162 games (mmm – a baseball season! ), but I have been very busy this week and I did wonder if I would be able to get out early for the Atletico game. I usually drive up with Parky but warned him of my predicament. As a precaution, he decided to play safe and go up by train.

On Monday, I finished work at 7pm, on Tuesday at 5.15pm ( getting better! ) and I thankfully got my last bit of work completed at 4.30pm…this is realistically the time I had set myself. As I pulled onto the M4, I heaved a sigh of relief.

I slapped on a Buzzcocks CD, sipped at a coffee and tried to relax. Thankfully, there were no work phone-calls ( my official finish time is 5.30pm ) and as the sun set behind me, it felt good to be free from the worries of work. I reached Reading in double-quick time, then sped past Windsor. Things were looking good. However, from 6pm to 7.15pm, I travelled just nine miles and I did wonder if I would make the kick-off. The lads were in The Goose, but I had no chance of reaching them. As I tried to find a parking space in Chesson Road at 7.15pm, I was listening to the United vs. CSKA game on the radio ( Pat Nevin was over in Russia – he has a good life, eh? ) and as I parked up, United scored.

Oh great.

I sped past The Goose and headed down the North End Road. I was well aware that there would be the usual queues at the turnstiles. I peered into a few fast food restaurants and simply could not believe the amount of fans chomping away oblivious to the fact that they would be late for the kick-off.

I purchased a programme and cut through the crowds like Wee Pat on a mazy run – “get out of my way!” – and joined the line for the MHU. Two things stuck out. One guy next to me was wearing his work shirt, but had put a Chelsea replica shirt over it.

Ouch. Very stylish, mate!

Then, one fan placed his ticket into the scanner and was met with a red light…he was in the wrong queue ( he needed the MHL ), but began blaming the stewards. Unbelievable.

Thankfully, I reached my seat with two minutes to spare. You beauty! However, I hate this kind of rush, but it is more and more common with every mid-week game these days. Why do I put myself through it? There’s a question. I guess the unbeaten home run has a lot to answer for. Nobody would think anything less of me if I missed the odd game – I have nothing to prove – but I just need to be there. Watching at home on the TV would feel so very strange. The last home game I watched live on TV must be ages and ages ago.

Alan handed me my Madrid away ticket – we chatted excitedly about our plans for the return leg in two weeks. Six of us are going…can’t wait.

As the game began, I received a text from Danny ( Blue Celery ) in LA…

“Kalou for a hat-trick.”

Yeah, right mate – no chance of that.

Let’s not kid ourselves, we began slowly and Atletico had the better of the early exchanges, forcing saves out of Petr Cech in our goal. Diego Forlan, a bit of a flop at United, was lively and involved in most of their forward thrusts. They were making good patterns, moving the ball well. We, by comparison, seemed laboured and slow. The midfield did not seem to be working. We were giving Atletico too much space and, in possession, were unable to create. I noted to Alan that Anelka, when he receives the ball, often takes a touch and slows to a standstill, ensuring that the move loses its impetus. If I am honest, I do the same when I play five-a-side. We then had a goal from that long-distance free-kick ( not sure why ) and Ballack set up Kalou who shot wide.

Danny – are you watching?

Just before the break, we took the lead after great work down the left from Ashley who is in a great run of form at the moment. His cross found Salomon and he couldn’t miss. Alan and myself hugged and I thought of Danny’s pre-match prediction.

The half-time stats told the story of the half…we had more possession, but Madrid had eight shots compared to our five. It was great to see Tom at the game again after his recent sad loss and he seemed chirpy enough. Zac is off to the NFL game at Wembley on Sunday and we discussed this. He is a Miami fan ( he was wearing a Dolphins sweatshirt ) but is not really in favour of regular season NFL games being played outside the US. I made the point that, with only eight ( ? ) home games each season, as a fan of either New England or Tampa Bay, I would be gutted at missing out on a game. I am sure that the FA look at NFL’s colonialism as a shining example of new ways to grow sporting brands. Much more of this from American sport and they will look again at the “39th Game” which so infuriated me a year ago. Danny Granville ( remember him? Stockholm 1998! ) was presented to us at the break. In the programme, Mark Stein was featured in a piece about the Bruges ECWC game in 1995. That was a night when the full house of 28,000 absolutely rocked Stamford Bridge to its foundations. That was a great night and only our third European game since 1971. Since then, European nights have become part of the modern Chelsea story and I do wonder if the group phase games have helped soften the excitement of European games for some. Those early knock-out games against Zizkov, Austria Memphis and Bruges were phenomenal.

We played a lot better in the second period and the Spanish support soon fell quiet. I snapped Frank taking the corner which lead to our second goal. After the first goal, I had texted Danny to say that if Kalou got two more, I would be buying him beer all day when he comes over for the Wolves game.

I texted him again – “Now I’m worried.”

We began playing the ball around better and Madrid tired. After a move down in front of me, the ball zipped across the box and Kalou couldn’t quite reach it. Oh Danny – so near and yet so far. He was surprisingly subbed soon after and got a good reception. Two late goals rather flattered us I thought. The most noise from us was when Joe began warming up on the touchline, but he didn’t enter the fray. In the last quarter of the game, The Bridge fell eerily silent at times.

Oh well.

So, another home game came to an end…number 163 on the trot for me. It wasn’t that great. I have seen us play more expansive and pleasing football, but a 4-0 win mustn’t be sniffed at. I slowly left the seats and left the stadium. Outside, I noted quite a few Spanish fans exiting the pricier parts of the West Stand. It surprised me for some reason. I stopped for a pizza at an Italian near The Goose and drove home through the West London streets and then the Wessex countryside.

The loneliness of a long-distance football follower.

I reached home at 12.45am with thoughts of Blackburn Rovers, game 164, and beyond.

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